The Intern: The Billionaire's Successor

The perpetual lump in my throat subsides, mostly because we’re finally having a lighthearted conversation about something other than work or Davis paying to sleep with me. “You know, I respect you eating whatever you choose, but I do want you to know that you looked great when you were…”

He stares at me in expectation, waiting for me to finish. I’m toying with a few words though, and I finally settle on:

“…bigger.”

Davis cants his head to the side. “Bigger?”

“You look great now, too,” I assure him as quickly as I can. “I’m sure people tell you that all the time. But back then when we first met, I thought you were—”

“Like a squishy teddy bear?” The displeasure is so apparent in his question that I could harvest it like honey and sell it to millennials that hate their bosses.

“Sexy as hell, actually,” I reply before I take a bite of my pancake. “God, this is so good, Davis. Here’s an idea: Why don’t you act like a normal, psychopathic rich guy and commission a portrait of yourself that gets fatter and older and scarier every day so that you can eat pancakes with me?”

His expression quickly shifts from surprise to a smile, and even to a small chuckle. But just as quickly, he settles his expression once more. “I hate that you make me laugh.”

“That’s literally the first time anyone has ever said that to another person.”

Feigning indignation, Davis reaches forward and pulls a piece of French toast over to his plate. “Fine. Just this once.”

“Just this once.”

“Under one condition.”

Typical. As usual, Davis has some rule or stipulation in store for me. “Yes?” I inquire, biting back the faint annoyance in my tone.

“You get naked.”

I pause to attempt to take stock of the seriousness of this instruction. At this point, I should know better: Davis is rarely kidding around. “You want me to eat breakfast naked? I’d rather pay ten thousand dollars to avoid doing that.”

“Feel free to send the money back then,” he replies as he lowers his eyes down to my chest. “But if this is where you break our contract, I’ll be expecting my shirt back immediately. That means you’re going to be naked in my kitchen one way or another.”

I breathe out through my nostrils as I stare him down. “Pass. I don’t care about you eating French toast that much. Eat papaya and blueberries for the rest of your life for all I care.”

“I’ll join you,” he surprises me by saying. Without waiting for my agreement, he tugs his t-shirt over his head.

Dumfounded, I watch as Davis drops his shirt onto one of the empty, adjacent dining chairs before sliding his sweats down his legs. His boxer briefs follow, and even though I can’t see under the table, I assume it’s all real.

The man is butt naked at the breakfast table.

“Well?” From his expression alone, I can’t tell if he’s smug because he caught me off guard or because he knows that his body sends me into a tailspin. Either way, my lips part, but no sound comes out. All I can do is gawk across the table at the gorgeous, naked man who is now cutting into a piece of French toast with a haughty look on his face.

“These chairs are antiques,” he continues as he reaches out and dips his knife into the butter bell. “They cost me a fortune. The fact that I want your bare ass on them is a testament to what a great idea I think this is.”

“How much were these chairs?” My voice comes out soft, much to my annoyance.

“Altogether, more than I’m paying you this summer,” he says with the most infuriating nonchalance that I’ve heard in years. Davis tips his chin. “Come on. It’s surprisingly liberating.”

I run some quick math and determine that each of these chairs costs at least twenty-three thousand dollars, give or take. I’ve never even owned a car worth that much. Hell, all of the cars I’ve ever owned combined weren’t worth twenty-three thousand dollars.

“You mean it?”

“I never say things that I don’t mean,” is his response.

Shifting in my obscenely expensive seat, I finally begin to undo the buttons on the shirt that I’m wearing, taking my time with each one. Davis watches the subtle motions of my fingers, his brown eyes locked on my hands as I work from bottom to top.

When I undo the last button, I hold the sides of the shirt in my hands, drawing Davis’s gaze back up to my face before I gradually push the shirt off of my shoulders. It pools behind me, leaving me entirely exposed to him.

Breakfast of champions.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs softly before he stakes a piece of his French toast. He chews it, swallows, and says, “I’m going to be honest with you: I only thought as far as asking you to get naked. I didn’t get to the part where you’re actually naked at my kitchen table. So, don’t mind me if we just sit here and eat in the nude.”

“You plan everything?”

Davis opts for his cup of coffee instead of speaking. After a long drink, he clears his throat. “Can I touch you?”

“I thought the whole point of paying me was that you didn’t have to ask.”

“I’m asking because I put an honesty clause into your contract, not because I want to know what I can and can’t do. I’ll ask it a different way: Would you like it if I touched you right now?”

“I wouldn’t hate it,” I admit.

To my surprise, he shakes his head at my response. “But would you like it?”

Nod. “I would.”

He hides an obvious smile into his napkin before he moves into the chair adjacent to me and slides it over so that it’s closer to mine. After he pulls his plate over, he rests his left hand on my bare thigh and continues to eat his breakfast like nothing is out of the ordinary—like neither of us is nude.

We continue the meal in relative silence. Occasionally, Davis checks his phone and lets out a sigh before rattling off an email one-handed. His phone basically never stops buzzing—it’s like this hornet’s nest sitting at the breakfast table, constantly reminding us of its presence.

My stepfather Albie could never hold down a job. Eventually, he was able to do the mental gymnastics required to make this sound like a good thing for the family. He would crack open a beer at the dinner table, usually his third or fourth of the day, and would say, “Your mama’s lucky that I can be here for her. Some of these men are out there, working all day and night, humping their secretaries and doing god knows what else when they’re pretending to be at the office.” Then he would point at Charlie and say, “Remember that for when you’re grown, kid. You can be one of those men whose ass is never around, or you can be a real family man.” Ah yes: Albie, the seminal family man. Nothing quite like a man who stays home all day, watching Springer on the couch while chain smoking and flicking the ashes into the tiny succulent cactus that his stepdaughter got as a present from her seventh-grade teacher. A real family man—a real selfless son of a bitch—forgoing a thriving career at the grocery store checkout so that he could knock around his waif of a stepson.