Page 25 of The Way I Hate Him
“Experience in patience, yes.”
“So you want me to fuck you then?”
“No!” she shouts. “I just . . .”
“You want the satisfaction of knowing that you’re desirable, right? You want to know that Hayes Farrow finds you attractive. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Best to put her in her place now because even though I do find her attractive, and I could easily get lost in her eyes, I won’t allow myself to explore those internal desires. She has a job to do, and that’s it.
From her expression, I can see she probably wants to murder me right about now, but I don’t care. She’s not here to be my friend. I need help with my office, and she happened to be in the right place at the right time—not to mention, she possibly needs even more help than I do.
So I continue down the hallway toward the other side of the house, and she silently follows. When I reach the kitchen, I snag my cup of coffee and move toward the office.
“Don’t you want me to make your smoothie, your majesty?” she asks.
“I’d rather you get started on the office. We’ve already wasted enough time with your late arrival.”
“By one minute, not sure that makes a difference.”
“Makes a difference on the opinion I have of you,” I reply when we reach my office.
“Well, good thing HR isn’t involved, right? Can’t get reprimanded if there’s no official employment.”
Such a smart-ass.
I push the office door open and gesture for her to enter. She glances up at me, and I catch the irritation in her eyes before she moves past me and into the room.
“Leave it to men to make a woman clean up the mess they created.” She toes a few boxes. “Seriously, how does someone accumulate this much crap and do nothing with it?”
“Someone who is never home.”
“Clearly.” She turns toward me, hands on her hips. “How do you want me to handle this? I’m not into trashing things. Our landfills are full enough.”
“I wouldn’t want you to trash anything either,” I reply before taking a sip of my coffee. “I need you to go through every piece of mail and set aside the most important letters I need to respond to.”
“Wouldn’t you think every letter is important? I mean, your fans are the reason you are where you are as stated by you yesterday.”
“I don’t have time to respond to every letter.”
“Then what would you qualify as important?”
“Like if a kid wrote to me, or if someone was going through a rough time while listening to my music, something like that.”
“I see.” She reaches down and picks up a partially opened envelope. She pulls out a piece of paper, and her eyes widen before she turns it toward me. “And these naked selfies, what should I do with those?”
I glance at the picture of a woman in front of a mirror, completely naked.
“Is there a scrapbook you have of these, a little collection?”
“Shred it,” I say, unamused.
“Are you sure? I’m pretty good at scrapbooking.”
“The shredder is in the corner. Shred anything that’s not important. Keep the clippings, I drop them off at the composting center. But if the picture is photo material, keep that separate from the paper clippings, as those can’t go to the compost.”
“Do you really drop clippings off at the compost center?” she asks, surprised.
“Yes. Now start with the mail. There are more bags in the garage. I can carry them in here when you’re ready for them.”
