Debt

So yeah... my lady genes were just having a knee-jerk reaction to his close proximity.

That was all there was.

"At my six at all times, understood?" he asked, finally releasing my skirt, but not moving away.

I watched as my hands fell from his chest, taking a step back from him, and nodding tightly. He watched me for a long moment before turning and heading out his door. Taking him at his word that I needed to be 'at his six' at all times, I scurried to follow behind him as he made his way downstairs onto the main floor of his ridiculously lavish home.

I bit into my cheek as I tried to ignore the gazes falling on me, looking at my absurd uniform and, therefore, my very bare body as I followed behind their boss like a little lost puppy.

"Coffee," he barked as he moved into his office doorway, stopping suddenly and making me crash into him.

"What?" I asked, stepping back as I held the door jamb.

"Coffee, Miss. Marlow. Is that too difficult an order for your brain to understand?"

A mix of rage and embarrassment flooded my system, giving me an almost overwhelming urge to both scream at him and cry... at the same time. I sucked in a deep breath, lifted my chin, and glared at him instead. "Gee. I don't know. I really am quite simple-minded."

"Must be a family trait," he said, stepping back and slamming the door, making me have to snatch my hand back quickly before it got caught.

"A family trait," I raged as I stomped toward the kitchen that should have filled me with the same awe as the day before, but I was too enraged to even pay it any mind save for the stainless steel coffee carafe I walked over to, reaching for one of the mugs in the cabinet above it and pouring his coffee, wishing for once that I actually had it in me to do something as foul as spit in it. But I didn't. So I poured the coffee and stomped my ass back toward his office, ripping open the door without knocking because, well, I was a servant. We were invisible and all that crap.

I could tell it was a move that surprised St. James because his head snapped up, a brow raising as he watched me storm across his room and slam his mug down on the surface of his desk, taking a small amount of pleasure in seeing some of the contents splash over the sides and pool on his, what I could only assume was, insanely expensive desk. Then I turned on my heel and made my way toward the door, knowing my instructions were to be 'on his six' when he was moving, I imagined, and outside whatever room he was at other times.

"Miss. Marlow," he called and I stiffened as I turned back to see him watching me. "Next time you spill it on my desk, you'll be taking your shirt off to clean it up."

I bit my tongue to keep the snippy retort I had in and went with instead, "Good to know." With that, I slammed the door a little too hard behind me and moved to the side, leaning against the wall.

Three hours later, I was pissed.

I was pissed because I was bored.

And my feet felt like they were throbbing and burning at the same time. I kept lifting one up and out of its shoe, flexing it around for a moment, before putting it back in and repeating the process with the other foot. It didn't help. But I kept doing it anyway.

All I had done with my day was fetch five cups of black coffee and stand in the hallway to be gawked at.

It was humiliating and a waste of freaking time.

After St. James finally emerged from his office that evening, doing so because he had company of the female variety for dinner, I got to serve them three courses and stand by the wall and watch them eat meanwhile I had nothing in my system save for the muffin I'd forced myself to eat that morning.

His woman/ girlfriend/ fuck buddy/ whatever the hell she was looked exactly what a woman a man like Byron St. James would date. Meaning first and foremost, that she was stunning to the point of it being obnoxious with long creamy legs that she showed off in a short black dress, a thin waist, an impressive and bouncy and, therefore likely real, chest, long silky blond hair, and sultry deep green eyes. Standing there, even in my sexy uniform undies, I felt very much like the dumpy band girl standing next to the hot cheerleader in high school.

By nature, I wasn't insecure. With a father who never stopped telling you that you were pretty and smart and perfect all the time, it was hard to develop any serious self-esteem issues. But that being said, I had no delusions. I had that girl-next-door thing. Some guys dug it, some didn't. Either way, I was pretty comfortable with my appearance.