Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)

“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.