He’s twenty-eight and despite having worldly maturity about him, he looks younger than his age when you see pictures straight on and caught off guard. I can’t deny that I see the appeal. He seems to have the body of someone who is graced with a good strong, tall physique, and he takes care of it. There are enough topless shots of him in the media to confirm that, and he’s not shy about showing it off. He also seems to have a weakness for tribal and Aztec tattoos, which litter his body in a rather complimentary way. He looks like a typical brainless model; too good-looking to be a nice guy and far too muscular to have a decent IQ.
There’s no doubt he’s been blessed with more sex appeal than necessary for one man, and this is the root of my nausea. He’s someone who charms and strings along women effortlessly. Unlike all the men I’ve ever known, and that makes me distrust him.
I can handle men who leech and grope, whose intent is written on their faces and have cowardly natures. I’ve never been faced with someone with the capabilities Jacob Carrero seems famed for. The effortless ability to make women swoon at his feet and follow him around doe-eyed and lust sick. The man seems to just click his fingers to find dates and they all scramble to get a go at him. It’s pathetic really.
I know it’s a huge honor to get this position. I know that I’m good at my job, and I’ve pleased the right people downstairs to even get here at such an early age, but I feel sick and scared for the hundredth time. I’m doubting myself, despite my achievements; the curse of my self-doubts.
The old Emma still hidden in the shadows, shaking her head at me, and trying to convince me that I am a fraud. I don’t know if I’ve overstepped my worth. I don’t know if I’m capable of the task ahead of me. Capable of working with someone so young and as all-encompassing as Jacob Carrero, the celebrity hotel tycoon and New York’s most eligible bachelor.
I pull my focus back to task, putting my mind onto doing something manual always helps me get myself together. I do as Margo asked and ready the large expensive espresso machine in the white kitchen. It’s small, modern and sleek, if a little clinical, and seems to only be used to supply tea and coffee despite the huge refrigerators. I wipe down the surfaces of the machine and surrounding worktops, removing the dust from the coffee grounds and ready his tray with iced water. Taking some comfort in this calming task. My nerves still rattled, and this irritates me. I thought I had gained more control than this.
I arrange everything she has requested neatly on his desk, straightening things as I go and checking the room to make sure everything is in its place. I like neatness, it makes me calm and feel more in control, as though somehow by everything being orderly, my life is more so.
I smooth down my blouse, now that I’ve removed my jacket, savoring the silky feel of the expensive pale gray fabric and return with the pile of mail and messages I took for him yesterday. They’re only the ones that require his attention and place them on his desk in line with the leather seat sitting neatly behind it.
The office is spacious and airy. One wall of glass and through it, the view of New York at its finest, hindered only by vertical blinds that sit open. Large abstract prints fill the sea of gray expanse to the left. I can’t help but let my eyes skim over the silver framed pictures to the left corner of the wooden desk, with various people in black and white stills. Beautiful women, celebrities, and one of his father, Mr. Carrero Sr. Someone I’ve seen from a distance before, during a huge function last year that required extra staff. They look only vaguely alike in that Italian way, although I know Jacob must look more like his mother, as the resemblance ends there.
beautiful, and the resemblance is striking. Same dark hair, gorgeous face, cool tan.
harsh face, etched with lines as though his skin is weather beaten. In the picture of father and son, there’s a coldness between them, despite the fact they’re standing close,
nothing else that requires my obsessive attention to detail and
nerves are so taut I may actually
pen in my fingers back at my desk, and it gives me a huge surge of anger—at myself. Stilling the pen sharply and laying it down with a smack and scowling at it as though it’s the cause. Another habit from childhood that I’m permanently trying to overcome, and just one of the subtle
I fidget.
life I once knew. A stark reminder of how far I’ve come from my childhood in Chicago, and a habit that annoys
adjust, reminding myself to take steadying breaths as I do so. To
me at my glass desk near the entrance to our offices, indicating his arrival. My heart stops. She
Maybe I am.
Swallow. Deep
emailing him back and forth, but this verbal being brought up to speed is something she told
my eyes on my
The kind of voice you would recognize anywhere, even