Illegal Contact (The Barons) Page 5

  Noah caught up in two long strides. “I’m confused, are you in charge of hiring me or is he?”

  I came to an abrupt stop and wheeled around, finding myself less than a hand’s span away from Noah. I was suddenly very acquainted with the smell of his soap. Citrus.

  “Let’s get one thing straight now. You’re my employee. For the next six months, you work for me. I’m in control.”

  “So you’ll be there while I talk to him?”

  Did he want me there? The relief on his face when I said yes answered the question. Noah Monroe was definitely one weird cat.

  We walked through the house and let Joe inside. He was blatantly displeased that I’d arranged this without his approval, and that only made it sweeter. Call it childish. Call it passive-aggressive. Whatever the case, nothing got me going faster than the look on Joe’s face when he realized I’d done something without asking his advice.

  We settled in the living room, and I watched Noah during Joe’s spiel about what he’d be doing for me. Which was, essentially, everything. Running my life. Making payments, phone calls, appointments, going places I was supposed to go but couldn’t even if he just had to sit there and take notes, vetting my phone calls and emails, my shopping, arranging services around the property—basically managing me and my house in a way that was so personal I could already feel my skin crawling. It was embarrassing. He had to make sure I took my meds? For fuck’s sake. Was I a toddler? But I didn’t say anything, because if Joe disagreed with me in front of Noah, I’d flip my lid. Boundaries could be set without my manager around to piss me off.

  It was a relief when they started talking about rules and money.

  I said nothing when Noah refused to have his cell phone confiscated every day, and hid a smile when the kid started haggling about his wages like a true hustler. I could relate. It reminded me of my teenage days when I’d done odd jobs for cash. No matter how good an initial offer had been, I’d always pushed for more.

  They went back and forth before settling on a figure that was commensurate with Noah’s lack of experience. I said he wouldn’t have access to my credit cards until the probationary period ended, but that I’d provide money for gas and food. Noah’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull when I mentioned he could use one of my cars during the week.

  For the first time, a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and his eyes brightened. Too bad that soft look was all over a fucking car. He was probably a gold digger.

  I left them to finish signing the paperwork and returned to my barely furnished office.

  I’d preemptively had a security system installed. Each room had a roaming camera, with audio, and allowed me to see what was happening at every moment. Call it paranoia, or call it caution, but I wanted to know what was going on under my roof. And this would be the first test.

  The second monitor flickered on to several panels of surveillance video, and I selected the one focused on the living room.

  “—don’t feel comfortable with that.”

  “You don’t feel comfortable because you’ve never travelled from Elmhurst to the Hamptons at four o’clock in the morning.” Joe gave Noah one of his overly patient stares. “But if you don’t want to sleep here, by all means, commute. You’ll regret it after your first day.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t feel comfortable agreeing to sleep in this house until I know how we’re going to get along.”

  Joe sat back in his chair and twined his fingers together. “Are you afraid of Gavin?”

  “What? No. I don’t even know him.”

  “Nobody really knows him, and yet everyone makes judgments about him based on what they see online.”

  “Luckily for me I don’t pay attention to sports coverage, and I don’t believe everything I read.” Noah tapped his fingers against the table and said, “It’s not just about him. It’s for my peace of mind. I don’t want to put myself in a potentially hostile environment. You said yourself he doesn’t want a PA.”

  “Fair enough, but your performance will suffer.”

  “How difficult do you expect this job to be?” Noah’s voice was heavy with skepticism. “I’m running his errands, not building another wing of this mansion.”

  “You’ll see.” Joe sounded amused. He was likely hoping for Noah to fail. “And besides your day-to-day responsibilities, dealing with Gavin is no cakewalk. He’s spontaneous, abrasive, contrary, and he doesn’t always act based on reason. He isn’t dangerous, but as you said, he’s hostile about this entire idea. And it’s your job to put up with it.”

  “I can do this.”

  “You’re very confident.” Joe collected the papers from the table and stood. “But I think you underestimate what it takes to run the life of a celebrity. There’s a reason why people make careers out of being PAs. And there’s a reason why some PAs live with their employers even when said employers are not under house arrest.”

  Noah shrugged. “It will be fine. As long as Gavin tells me what to do and leaves me alone to focus on football and working out, I’ll be good.”

  I flicked off the monitor without waiting for Joe to respond.

  So he thought I was some dumb jock who needed to stay out of the way of his coasting through an easy job, huh?

  We’d see about that.

  Chapter Four

  Noah

  The first morning of my new job started with me agonizing over an outfit. Did I go the biz-casual route or the college-student route? The main difference was that one involved a white button-down Oxford shirt and a blazer while the other included a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and sneakers instead of loafers. Both outfits were miserably boring, but I was convinced each one conveyed subtle nuances about my level of commitment to this job.

  Screw it.

  I’d go with the Oxford.

  “Noah!”

  “What, Pop? I’m getting dressed!”

  The walls were paper-thin and the rooms all squished together, so the shouting was more because we were both naturally loud than an actual necessity. It was weird how habits came back just as soon as I was in my old apartment in my shoebox of a bedroom with shelves and bookcases still packed with ratty journals and fantasy novels. My college-boy good manners were gone, and I was back to shouting up to my dad’s bedroom window from the sidewalk if I forgot what he’d wanted from the store.

  “I got the directions all written down,” Dad said, limping into the room. “You’re gonna catch the E train to Sutphin—for Chrissakes, Noah. Don’t wear that.”

  I glanced at his reflection in the full-length mirror. Despite being in his fifties, my father had always looked about a decade younger than he was with his full head of thick, dark hair, but the recent stress had aged him. There were lines on his forehead that hadn’t been there before, and it seemed like his knee problems returned the more inactive he became. Even my mother was concerned about him, and they’d been divorced for years.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I asked, pulling on my blazer. “It’s business casual.”

  Dad made a face. “You look like an asshole. You’re working from the guy’s house, not going to a desk job at Business Insider.”

  “I want to make a good impression for the first time since I’ve encountered his ridiculous face. Show him I’m taking it seriously.”

  “C’mon, kiddo. It’s Gavin Brawley.” Everyone kept saying that as if it meant absolutely anything to me. “Guys like Brawley don’t care about button-downs and slacks.”

  “These are Dickies, dad. I have one pair of slacks, and I save it for interviews and funerals.”

  Dad frowned deeply at that, but all he said was, “Change your clothes.” At my firm headshake, he heaved a big sigh and held up a piece of lined paper. “I wrote down the directions for you. Once you get to the railroad, you’re gonna catch two different trains to get to Westhampton. Once there, you’re gonna have to find a taxi.”

  Cringing, I grabbed the paper and shoved it in my pocket. “I could have
looked it up myself, but thanks, Dad.”

  “You’re welcome.” He patted my shoulder. “Thanks for letting an old man feel useful.”

  The words tightened my chest, and I pulled him into a hug. The morning was starting off on a seriously depressing note.

  I left the house bummed out and wishing I could do something to help my father. My preoccupation helped to distract me from wondering what awaited me on my first day at the Brawley mansion, but it didn’t distract from the disaster of my new commute. I got to the Long Island Railroad without any delays but, once there, I realized my father had left out some key details in his trip planning.

  The train heading to Babylon didn’t start running until eight o’clock, which meant I was going to be an hour and a half late on my first day.

  “Fuck.”

  I dialed Gavin, got no answer, and sent him a text. In the time I spent sitting on a bench and sweating through my shirt, he didn’t respond. Even to mock me. Either he’d already written me off or he was dead. Those were the only two reasons why he wouldn’t be ripping my head off right now.

  Pacing the station didn’t make time go by quicker, and neither did buying an unsatisfying breakfast of a lukewarm buttered roll from the bodega on the corner. By the time I was slumped on the train, I was a similar breed of hot sweaty mess that I’d been on the day of my first interview with him.

  Things wouldn’t end well.

  Obsessively checking my phone didn’t cause a response to appear in my messages. And he still wasn’t picking up his phone. What the hell? He could at least ream me for being late and being irresponsible instead of totally icing me out. That was when it hit me—he was probably waiting for me to show up in a rushed panic so he could fire me in person.

  I became convinced of this on the cab ride to his estate, and was boiling with pent-up frustration and anger as I rang the doorbell. It took nearly ten minutes for him to answer.

  Gavin appeared in the massive doorway sweaty and wearing nothing but Under Armour compression shorts. I was treated to every line of his body, every muscle, every mark and scar, and a bulge that magnetized my eyeballs. It wasn’t fair for him to look this good and to have a dick that big. Life was ridiculous.

  Setting my jaw, I lifted my chin and stared into his angry golden gaze.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. The trains don’t run until after eight o’clock.”

  Gavin leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, okay, so why didn’t you check the schedule?”

  “My—” I could not tell him my father had done it for me. If there was one thing I couldn’t handle, it was someone being disparaging about my dad today. Especially not when he’d been so happy to help. “I just looked up the route. I’d assumed the trains run regularly during rush hour. It’s my fault and I understand if—”

  Gavin turned and walked into the house without a word.

  Was he done talking to me and wanted me to fuck off for eternity, or was he done hearing my excuses? I couldn’t tell whether either meant I still had a job, but he’d left the door open. Living on the edge of optimism, I hurried in after him and shut it.

  I bypassed beautiful empty room after beautiful empty room until I was trailing to the state-of-the-art kitchen. It was the kind of kitchen that made me want to cook a full meal and entertain guests, which was amazing since I hated dinner parties, and the only person I liked cooking for was my father.

  “It won’t happen again. I swear. I tried to call—”

  “I was working out and had the music up,” he said shortly. “My phone isn’t my priority. I actually hate it.”

  “You were working out at six in the morning?”

  “How do you think I maintain the body you were just checking out?”

  Heat rose to my face. “I was not checking you out. Get over yourself.”

  Gavin ripped open the refrigerator and removed a bottle of Kefir. I half expected him to guzzle it down, which was gross, but he poured it into an open blender. There were already a bunch of other ingredients inside the fancy-looking appliance. It probably cost a full month’s rent of my apartment. Or one month of my student loan payments. This was the reason why people stole things.

  “I was just shocked that you’d open the door like that,” I babbled. “I’m pretty sure those shorts are meant to be worn under . . . other shorts.”

  “Why would I care about being modest in my own house?”

  “Well, because I’ll be here with you.”

  Gavin cocked a brow. “If you think I’m going to try to spare your delicate baby eyes, I suggest you readjust your expectations. FYI—after showering, I air dry.” That said, he slapped the top onto the blender and turned it on. It sounded like a fucking airplane taking off.

  Whirring filled the kitchen as we stared at each other over the counter. It was like a Wild West stare down, except in Westhampton, and he was armed with a protein shake and way nicer guns than John Wayne’s six-shooters.

  Oh God, I needed to stop.

  Clearing my throat, I moved closer to him to be heard over the noise. “Listen, I’m sorry I messed up. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with the schedule but I’ll figure something out. I swear.”

  Gavin stopped blending his foul-looking concoction. “This is why it’s a live-in position. Did you think I was just dying to play house with some pain-in-the-ass personal assistant?”

  “No. I assumed rich people just like having staff at their beck and call.”

  “Yeah,” Gavin said sarcastically. “Because this place is stacked with staff waiting on me.”

  I had no response to that, so I watched him remove the lid from the blender and drink straight from the pitcher. Watching a man guzzle a protein shake shouldn’t have been erotic, but seeing his sweaty throat bob with each gulp was sort of a turn-on. I was such an awful thirsty cliché. If there ever came a time when I stopped lusting after men who were bad for me, I was going to buy myself a serious prize. Actually, I wouldn’t. Whatever prize money I won would be going to loans.

  “Okay, we’re getting off on the wrong foot again. Let’s start over.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes. Let’s start over from our last meeting. First off—your schedule is seven A.M. to five P.M. You negotiated to have other duties added into your salary such as providing me meals, so I expect you to be here around my daily schedule.” Gavin held up a finger. “I get up at six and have my pre-workout protein shake. If you’re still here in two weeks, you’ll have your own keys to let yourself in. When you get here, you can start by getting my breakfast.”

  “Oka—”

  “Second.” He held up another finger. “Food. And this is important. I eat six times a day, and I follow a specific diet. As in, at least six thousand calories a day. I make my own shakes, so don’t worry about that.”

  “Holy shit!”

  Gavin crossed his massive arms over his chest as if to use them to illustrate his need for enormous amounts of food. “Lots of lean protein, complex carbs, good fats only. I don’t eat fried food except on cheat days, and I pound avocados. I don’t eat white bread or anything processed. And I expect my breakfast finished by the time I’m done with my morning workout. I have it with my post-workout shake. I skipped breakfast today because I have no food. Since someone wasn’t here to go to the store.”

  I’d caused the man to starve. I was definitely going to get fired.

  “Third.” Another thick finger went in the air. “During breakfast, I’ll give you a list of things I need you to do each day. Usually starting with returning phone calls, canceling appointments Joe or my agent made that I don’t want to deal with, sorting the fan mail and answering emails, although that can wait until I trust you enough to let you into my shit. I get a few hundred letters a week so it takes time. I don’t give a fuck about fan mail but Mel Hawkins—my agent—has a cow. She thinks it makes me look worse than usual if I blow off the peop
le who actually have interest in talking to me.”

  “Is there a standard template for—”

  “Fourth. Since I can’t leave this stupid fucking house, you’re gonna need to run all my errands. At the top of that list is grocery shopping and then getting my cars serviced. I’m pretty sure I haven’t had an oil change since the end of last season.”

  “How many cars . . . do you have?”

  “Six. A Phantom, Maybach 57, Range Rover, Wrangler, an Altima—”

  “An Altima? That’s really breaking the trend you had going.”

  Gavin shot me a death glare over the interruption. “That’s the car I actually drive. The others just exist in my garage. I also have a Triumph that I can’t ride.”

  “Why not?”

  “My contract forbids me from riding a motorcycle. I’m saving it for when I finally tear my fucking ACL and have to live off the insurance policy I got for my knees.”

  I did not understand the life of athletes. Like at all.

  Gavin jutted a fifth finger in the air. “Fifth—lunch. Same dietary restrictions as breakfast but I expect more protein. Sixth—screening my phone calls and going through voice mails. Seventh—dealing with my schedule. You can get with Joe on that one. He’ll be happy to get some of my shit off his hands, even though he’ll probably act like you’re too stupid to handle it.”

  Getting with Joe sounded about as good as rolling around naked in waxing oil. “Do you have a planner or anything?”

  “No. Feel free to make me one, except I won’t look at it, so it will be for you.”

  I nodded, but at this point felt like I was sweating just as much as him. “Okay, not to be . . . a bigger pain in the ass, but I have a small problem with the hours we talked about.”

  “Tough shit. They’re not changing.”

  My teeth clenched. “The train stops running at five on the dot. There’s no way I can cab it from here to the station in time to catch it, which would leave me stranded until the next time it runs at eleven at night! I have no idea why the schedules out here are so jacked-up but—”