I get up, go to the bathroom, and then take a look at myself in the mirror. My hair is wild. My hot, smoky makeup from last night now looks like a half dead racoon. I look like road kill.
Oh, dear God, my breath.
I squeeze toothpaste on my toothbrush and begin to brush my teeth while I feel sorry for myself, staring at my reflection. And now I have to babysit today while Mr. Masters plays golf.
A fleeting image of myself dancing in the kitchen crosses my mind.
Wait, when was that?
Did I?
I close my eyes as I try to remember what happened last night.
Was he already awake? Did I wake him up?
Oh no.
Fuck.
I spit out the toothpaste with force and quickly wash my face. Then I run into the bedroom and start climbing out of my dress.
Oh my God. Oh my fucking God.
What did I do? What did I do?
I nearly rip the dress as I tear it down, throwing my dressing gown over my underwear before I run out into the hall. I race up the stairs into the main house and find Willow sitting at the breakfast table eating her porridge.
“H-hi, Willow,” I stammer.
She looks up and frowns. “What happened to you?’
“Good question,” I mutter as I look around the house in a panic. “Where’s your father?”
“He’s just about to go golfing, I think he’s in the garage.”
I bite my bottom lip. “Okay, thanks. I need to see him about something.” I run out and down the back steps to the garage. I find Mr. Masters in there cleaning his golf clubs with a rag and what looks like a bottle of oil. He’s looking down and concentrating on the task at hand.
“Good morning.” I smile. Please let this all be a figment of my warped imagination.
His eyes flicker up to me, and then back to his golf clubs.
Shit. He’s pissed.
I twist my fingers together as I watch him, not knowing what to say.
“Is everything okay? I whisper.
His cold eyes rise to meet mine. “No, everything is not alright,” he says coldly.
My eyes widen. “What’s wrong?”
“You can’t be that obtuse, Miss Brielle.”
My heart starts to beat faster.
He goes back to cleaning his golf clubs.
“Did I wake you last night?” I whisper.
His furious eyes rise to meet mine. “Among other things.”
I scratch my head in confusion. “What does that mean?”
“It means your sexual advances are superfluous.” He sneers.
My eyes widen in horror. What the fuck? “S-sexual advances?” I stammer. “Why…what? What do you mean, sir?”
He slams the golf clubs down on the ground with a thud. “You know exactly what I mean.”
I ring my hands together in front of me. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Masters, but I don’t even remember getting home last night. Please tell me what happened.”
He shakes his head in disgust, opens his car, and walks around the side of it. I run after him like a puppy. “What happened? What did I do?” I plead.
Oh God. What did I do?
He throws his clubs into the trunk and slams it shut. “And this incongruous behavior is unacceptable,” he growls.
“I don’t understand.”
“This…” He gestures to my dressing gown. “This has got to stop.”
“What has?”
“You walking around my house in a state of undress. Coming home in the middle of the night and dancing half naked in my kitchen, while being all flirty and suggestive.” He steps closer to me and narrows his eyes. “I can assure you, Miss Brielle, that I am not the kind of man who has sexual relations with his staff.”
My face falls.
“What?” I whisper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about? What happened last night?”
“You arrived home, called me, and when I came downstairs you got all excited when you saw me in my…” He air quotes to accentuate his point. “Cutie patootie pajamas.”
My eyes widen. Oh fuck. I didn’t call his pajamas cutie patootie. Surely not?
They are anything but cutie patootie. They are smoking hot.
“Then you preceded to dry hump my refrigerator, all while wearing next to nothing.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. This just keeps getting worse. Kill me now.
“You practically went down on a glass of scotch before you started licking your arm in some kind of porn display, and then you insisted on talking about me being a nanny virgin.”
My hands go over my mouth in disbelief. “I came onto you?” I whisper.
He gets into his car, slams the door shut, and winds down the window. “Your impropriety is alarming and will not be tolerated in this house under any watch.”
I drop my head in shame. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, if it isn’t too much trouble, Miss Brielle… do your job and go look after my children. If you are uninterested in performing the position you applied for, go find something else, because I can assure you that the position of being a hooker, on your back, in my bed is unavailable.”
My eyes fill with tears.
He starts the car and I step back, out of his way. I quickly swipe a tear from my eye as it tries to escape, but he doesn’t miss it, and he hesitates as he watches me, as if he’s going to say something more.
Finally, without another hurtful word, he chooses to leave.
I stand alone in the garage and look around at the spotless space as I hear his sports car roar down the driveway. My heart is racing, and my face is hot, flushed with embarrassment.
A heavy sense of regret sits in the pit of my stomach. I’m so ashamed.
I’m a prude; I don’t come onto people. I get annoyed and disgusted when people come onto me.
And he’s my boss.
I put my hands on top of my head as the tears burst through the dam and roll down my face. What must he think of me?
Fuck, this is the worst hangover ever.
I’m slumped on my bed half an hour later, completely defeated.
This job is harder than I thought, but I never imagined that my sense of character would be under scrutiny.
Why the hell didn’t I just stay over at Emerson’s last night? None of this would have happened. It’s a complete disaster, and to be honest, one that I don’t think I can work through. That’s if he even wanted me to.
I’m mortified at my behavior and I want to run to him and tell him he’s got it all wrong, but who am I kidding? He saw it with his own eyes, and he wouldn’t just make this stuff up for fun on a Sunday morning.
His disappointed voice echoes in my mind.
You were dry humping my refrigerator.
Oh, the horror.
I pinch the bridge of my nose in disgust. I’m going to leave. He thinks I’m a skanky hoe. Why wouldn’t he? I am. I can’t believe I acted that way. I have no idea what came over me. What in the world would possess me to come home and start dirty dancing in the kitchen?
I dry humped his fridge.
That’s it,-the decision has been taken out of my hands. I have to leave. I want Emerson to come over and get me tonight. I can’t pack up all my stuff and do this alone, so I dial her number.
“Oh, hell, I’m dying over here,” she answers roughly.
“Yeah, well, you and me both. Great idea drinking cocktails, Einstein. I need you to come over here tonight and help me move my stuff. I’m resigning.”
She sighs. “What now? I’m too ill for dramatics today.”
“Apparently, I dry humped Mr. Masters fucking refrigerator last night when I got home, and I was dancing around like a hooker and coming onto him. The worst part is that I can’t even remember it.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I had a slut brain snap and…” I throw my hands in the air in exasperation. “I don’t know what the hell was going through my thick head.”