by Emma Quinn
I butted in. “If there’d been other traffic, you’d be dead. You were on the wrong side of the road, and you ran a red light as you whizzed past me and then you did a U-turn and came back acting like you were all concerned until I called you out on all of it. Then you were just a brat and talked to me like…like…”
“Like you were crazy. Which I thought you were the way you brandished that computer at me as if you were gonna start swinging it at my head!”
Daddy tried to restrain me again, but I shrugged his hand from my shoulder and advanced on the man another step. I yelled, “Maybe I should have. I’m sure it wouldn’t have hurt that cinderblock you call a head! And my laptop would have been broken for a good reason!”
Daddy stepped between us then. “All right! That’s enough.” He turned to Dylan, holding up a hand to shut him up before he got started again. “That’s enough, you two.” He turned to me. “What’s done is done, Em. Let it go.” Seeing my astonished expression, he added, “Trust me, honey. Let. It. Go.” He turned to Dylan. “You might as well let it go, too, because you two are going to be seeing a lot of each other. You’re both working here with me in the same department, five nights a week for you, Dylan, four for her.”
Throwing his hands up in exasperation, Dylan looked toward the thirty-foot high ceiling. “You have got to be kidding me!” He looked back to Daddy. “Come on man, do me a solid, put me in another department. This is the chick who caused all this. She’s why my father’s making me work here and in the office. Come on.” He looked pleadingly at Daddy.
He looked far too old for his father to be making him work anywhere. I seriously doubted he was in college to be indebted to his father, too.
Daddy shook his head and tapped the paper on the clipboard. “Sorry, Dylan. No can do. Your father gave me explicit orders to keep you right here and to keep an eye on your progress. If you miss a shift, I’m supposed to report it to him the following morning when he gets in his office.” He grinned and shook his head. “You know, I wondered why your father was setting such strict rules for his only son. Now I know.” He turned to me. “Emily, I would like for you to meet Dylan Rochester. Dylan, my daughter, Emily Shandon. Shake hands and play nice, you two. Seriously. I don’t want to have any conflicts here.” He raised an eyebrow at Dylan. “I don’t want to have to report to your father that you’ve been fighting with Emily while you’re supposed to be working, either.”
Dylan shoved his hand toward me, but I refused to shake with him as it sank in exactly who he was.
“You gonna shake, or just stand there looking mean?” He rolled his eyes at me.
“Oh, my god!” I turned to Daddy. “Well, at least that explains why Mr. Rochester left a check for the price of a replacement computer.” I turned back to Dylan, looked scathingly at his outstretched hand and shook my head before crossing my arms over my chest.
“Really? It took you that long to figure out who I am?” He chortled. “And, she’s not just slow on her feet, she’s slow in the head, too.” He withdrew his hand and turned away.
“At least I’m not a spoiled brat who so painfully and obviously lives on her father’s hard-earned money, so I think I’m a few steps ahead of you, pal.” I spun on my heel to head in the opposite direction.
“At least I know not to play in traffic,” He yelled over his shoulder without turning around.
“Maybe you should take a refresher class on rules of the road!” I kept walking even though Daddy tried to stop me. My insides quivered with anger. I was going to have to walk it off or risk falling even farther to Dylan’s level.
Dylan turned and yelled, “Maybe we should both go; I hear they can teach stubborn, slow learners like you, too.”
“Oh!” I spun, but Daddy was blocking my way.
He held a finger up in front of me. “Emily! Stop it. It’s no use. That is Mr. Rochester’s son and you are going to be working with him indefinitely. If this is going to be a problem, you could always allow me to—”
“No! I’m not going to let a spoiled…punk like him run me off my job, Daddy.” I took a deep breath, immediately regretting raising my voice to my father. “I’m sorry, Daddy, but no. I’ll be fine. Are you sure you can’t put one of us in a different department, though?”
“No, honey. And you don’t need to be doing any of the manual labor anyway. We have to think of your future. You’re not going to be slaving away in some warehouse for the rest of your life. I’m not going to risk an accident ruining your hands.”
Nodding, I thanked him and apologized again for the whole scene. If Dylan couldn’t be the adult in the situation, I should have been. I resolved at that very moment to refrain from getting into any more childish arguments with him. Daddy was right. The incident was in the past, and it had all been made right by Dylan’s father.
Now, all I had to do was keep from getting into any more spats with the boss’s son.
6
Dylan
A
t first, I seriously wished she would just do something stupid and get fired. She was irritating at best. At worst, she infuriated me. I had no choice but to continue working with her, though. My stubborn father refused to let me work in another department, saying it would be a good, character-building situation for me. I asked him what kind of character he hoped it would build, because I could think of no good reason for being subjected to Emily daily. His answer was to shake his head in disappointment and wave me toward the door of his office. Conversation over. There was no getting out of my punishment.
I’m not going to lie. That first week was pure hell, and I was furious at everybody for having to work with Emily. I thought that if she had only kept her mouth shut, none of it would have been happening. I would have been living my posh, pampered, rich kid life, and she would have been going about her normal schedule, and we wouldn’t have met.
Emily and I were forced to take our lunch breaks together. After a week of this, I began to see her in a different light. No matter how hard I tried, I could find no flaw in her work. I had thought her father was showing her favor just because she was his daughter, but I had been wrong. She was just that good at her job.
By the end of lunch on Friday, I had noted that Emily was more than just pretty. She was radiant and sexy without even trying. After the break, I goofed up on my job several times and she had to come help me straighten up the mess every time. And, still her work was perfect. How could she keep her work perfect even when she was helping me with my work? I was truly amazed at how adept and down-to-earth she was. Working closely with her father, I could see where she got it, though. He was the same way.
The second week wasn’t as trying as the first. I had learned my job well enough that I didn’t make as many mistakes and had to ask for less help. Emily really tried to be nicer that second week, too. I couldn’t tell if it was just because she was afraid of losing her job and jeopardizing her father’s as well, or if she genuinely wanted to put the past behind us and move on.
We walked to the employee breakroom together in silence. She had to walk past me to get there, so, it wasn’t like she was making an out-of-the-way effort to walk with me or anything, but I thought it was nice not to have to walk there alone.
The breakroom was at the back of the warehouse, which was quite a long walk. We had an hour for lunch. That first week, I couldn’t get used to eating anything so late in the evening; my body had been used to subsisting on alcohol from five in the evening until early the next morning for years. The second week, however, I brought my first meal from home. That was a totally new concept for me. Emily always brought a sandwich or soup, or something else small for her meal. I had made fun of it to start with, but I soon realized that it was the only way to eat lunch on the job. The cars were too far away, as were any restaurants, to be able to eat during that one-hour slot.
We walked into the room and sat across from each other at the table. She brought out her half a six-inch sub sandwich and her little plastic bowl of s
oup. She popped the soup bowl into the microwave and waited for it to warm. I set out my ham sandwich—I had even put it in a plastic sandwich bag as I had seen hers were in similar bags. I had absolutely no experience in packing a lunch, so, that first meal wasn’t great.
She sat and started on her soup, eyeing my sandwich suspiciously as I fought with the soggy, dripping mess. Finally, she giggled and pushed her sandwich toward me.
“Here. Why don’t you have this. The soup is plenty for me.” She opened her bag and slid a plastic container toward me, too. “There are the veggies for it, if you want them.” She grinned wide.
Looking between her offering and my own meal, my gut rumbled loudly. It had been a long time since I had actually felt hunger pangs. My pride got the better of me.
“No, you keep it. This is…” half the bottom bread of my sandwich plopped to the table. “…fine,” I finished, disgustedly.
She outright laughed and covered her mouth quickly, shaking her head and pushing the sandwich closer to me. Through giggles, she said, “Seriously, stop with that train wreck. It’s just sad. Let that sandwich die in peace and have this one.”
I looked at mine and then at hers, so pristine in its plastic bag, so inviting with the crisp, chilled lettuce and the pretty slices of tomato on the side. Stubbornly, more to show her that it was still a good sandwich, just not as pretty as hers, I took a bite of mine and mayonnaise, thinned down by the juice from the tomato, ran down my chin, and another clump of soggy bread broke off and landed on top of the first.
That really set her laughing; it was contagious. I laughed too, even though I felt like a toddler with food on my face. She had no idea how bright her eyes turned when she laughed, or how her face could light up anyone’s heart when it was filled with joy. Hell, until then, I hadn’t really noticed it either. After seeing it close up, though, I can tell you in all honesty that I wanted to see it more often.
“Fine.” I dropped my mess into the trashcan and pulled her sandwich toward me. “I swear it didn’t look that bad when I fixed it today.”
“It was the tomato. They’ll do it almost every time if you put them on the sandwich. Leave them separate.” She tapped the side of the veggie container. “Like that.”
And that’s all it took to set us on our first hour-long conversation about something other than work.
On the walk back to our stations, we chatted easily about different foods we liked and laughed about ones we thought were gross. I thought about her the rest of the night.
Emily worked hard, but she seemed to enjoy her life. She was going to college, working in the warehouse, and had very little free time. She was a mystery to me. If I had to accomplish all that on a daily, I would have been crazy by the end of the first month. Just being out of my usual lifestyle for a week had worn me down.
Her close relationship with her father was a constant reminder that me and my father mixed like oil and water. For the first time ever, I felt bad for not trying harder with my own dad. Still, I had no idea how to repair the relationship that had been so damaged for so long.
She impressed me with her computer and technological knowledge nearly every day. It didn’t matter what problems arose in the system she could handle it within a few minutes. She gave all the credit to her father, though, stating that he had taught her everything she knew about the system.
Watching her work, her concentration strictly on the computer in front of her as she bent at the waist to type commands, I was rewarded with a good view of her from head to toe. Let me tell you, it was tempting to comment on her body at that point. I didn’t, however. I kept reminding myself that she was the enemy. She had caused all this trouble for me. As the second week wore on, though, I started to let that old crap go.
I knew whose fault the accident had been. I knew she wasn’t at fault. With the alcohol and other substances finally clearing out of my body, I was ready to face what I had done more and more each day. I couldn’t let it completely go just yet, but I was working on it.
Emily
D
ylan was handsome. There was no denying that. The first week I had to work with him, I seriously thought I was going to pull my hair out. He was so frustrating. It was like babysitting a toddler with a bad temper. Every time something didn’t go right, or god forbid, he messed something up, I had to go fix it. I could have let my father, but he was having enough trouble at the backend of the warehouse, where a sorting machine had failed, and the work was being done by hand. In good conscience, I couldn’t call him back up front every time something went wrong with Dylan’s end of the work.
I was just thankful that his job wasn’t too physically demanding, or I would have been exhausted the entire week.
I didn’t know what cologne he wore, but it smelled delicious. I had a hard time concentrating around him sometimes. His chiseled jawline, piercing green eyes, and beautifully cut, mid-length black hair were only complemented by the smell of his cologne, which I was certain was far too expensive for my blood.
I had to keep reminding myself of how much trouble he had caused me. I did that to keep from dwelling on how sexy he was. The only time I thought he looked less than sexy was when he was in the throes of a temper tantrum. And, boy-o, could he throw a tantrum.
I marveled at how differently we viewed the world and our places in it. He was a rich, spoiled, privileged guy who had entitlement issues. I preferred being thankful for every day and every opportunity to spread goodness, kindness, and even cheer.
And yes, this eventually bled over into my interactions with the big boss’ little boy.
By the second week, I had grown accustomed to his outbursts and reluctance to ask for help and I kept a closer eye on him and his work. Maybe it was only because of work, but I suspect I didn’t mind staring at him all that much.
I began to experience odd flutterings in my gut every time I had to be near him. And, if he accidentally caught me staring at him, my face heated up and my stomach knotted.
By week three, we had formed some sort of weird bond and took lunch together, chatting easily, almost as if we were old friends. He seemed more comfortable in his job, and he made less mistakes. I hardly had to go to his rescue at all during the third week.
My father voiced his thankfulness that we were finally getting along. He would always give me a grin with a twinkle in his eyes when he mentioned me and Dylan getting along. I ignored it entirely. Whatever he was thinking, it was surely wrong. Besides, Dylan would never be interested in someone like me. I didn’t have money to burn; I knew nothing of the celebrity party scene; and I definitely never drank alcohol to excess. I couldn’t afford to. I had my schoolwork to think of, and my career to prepare for.
He chuckled when I told him things like that. Not like he was being mean or making fun of me, he just thought it was cute that I was already making habits that I thought would carry me through into a career that was still years away. He said he had enough trouble planning one day at a time, let alone years ahead.
Sadly, I had no trouble believing that. It was obvious that he had never had to work. It was obvious from the stories he sometimes told that he knew little of the real world, he plainly preferred the fantasy life he had been living before.
I almost felt sorry for him. It seemed as if all his relationships had been superficial and shallow as a puddle of rain in the parking lot. I didn’t pry even though I desperately wanted to some days. If he wanted me to know more about him, he would initiate that conversation.
Once in a while, his new persona would crack, and I would get a glimpse of the spoiled, hateful man who had thrown insults at me on the street just before climbing back on his motorcycle and speeding away.
Those moments grew rarer as the month wore on, and I was left trying to remember why I had despised him so badly in the first place. I mean, everybody makes mistakes. You can’t hold one mistake against somebody forever. If you did, you’d be miserable, I suspect.
The worst I could say a
bout Dylan at the end of the first month was that he could still be a trifle lazy. I blamed that on his spoiled upbringing, though it still irritated me on some days. He would have his phone out, doing whatever it was he did on there, and let his work pile up. That kinda drove me crazy, but he always seemed to get caught up with little trouble.
Me? I can’t work that way. Always, I strive to keep my workload at an even pace throughout the shift. As close to even as I can manage, given the nature of the business, anyway.
I was still unsure if he genuinely liked me, or if it was all an air to keep his father out of the picture. My dad hadn’t given me details about the situation, but he had told me that to keep from losing his access to his father’s money, Dylan had to train at the family company, learning it from the bottom-up. His father had also said that Dylan must comply with company policies at every point, and he had to get along with the other employees, or there would be even more restrictions put on him.
Therefore, I proceeded cautiously as Dylan and I seemed to form a tenuous friendship throughout the first month. I enjoyed his company, and he had started being nice, even gentlemanly toward me.
Time would tell if he was being genuine.
7
Dylan
D
o you have any idea how much someone’s life can change in six weeks? I didn’t either. Had anyone told me that I would stop drinking and partying—and wouldn’t even miss it—in the span of six weeks, I would have told that person they were absolutely insane.
But my life did change. Drastically. Not only did I not miss the partying and drinking and taking expensive trips with my celebrity pals, I was also working a full-time job at the warehouse and doing a few hours’ work every morning in the office. I didn’t even mind tagging along with Evan to learn new duties.