Count to three. Do not kill your boss.
And do not fall in love with him.
That's a good start, especially when you work for New York's most eligible bachelor with millions in one pocket and half of Manhattan's panties in the other. Not to mention tho...
"It can't be bargained with, it can't be reasoned with, it doesn't feel pity or remorse or fear, and it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead."
Kyle Reese, The Terminator (1984)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
My heels are clicking loudly on the shiny marble floor as I make my final walk-through of the apartment. I round the massive dining table in the kitchen, traveling over the place with my eyes, and then do the same in the living room, checking that everything is in its place.
"Twenty-six years and I still find myself arguing about the color of a damn carpet." The deep raspy voice of Matilda Laurier echoes across the room as the almost sixty years old angered lady walks in.
Matilda is one of the greatest interior designer and home decorator you could ask for in New York, which is why we so often cooperate with her. She is a short corpulent woman that never smiles, which makes her look constantly deadly serious and down-to-the-bone terrifying. One has to know her to understand that she is actually very kind and good-humored person.
I have to remind myself of that as we meet at the anchor grey couch. If the Terminator was to be played by an elderly woman, Matilda would surely get the part.
"You know what people are like," I try to cheer her up. Mr. Riley, the condo owner, really is a donkey ass. I had the pleasure several times.
"I know." She jerks her head in a nod and looks around, hands on her hips. "I'm done here, the kingdom is all Knox's. My greetings to that joyful king of yours."
I can't but chuckle. "I'll give him your regards. Thank you, Matilda," I say as we shake hands. Then she's gone, mumbling something about regards and where to stick them. I can't even blame her.
I finish my walk-through and soon end up in the ridiculously big foyer, where one of our newest interns is organizing brochures on a round table in the middle. When she notices me, her yet untouched enthusiasm makes her almost glow. "Miss Hart!"
I smile at her. Have I ever been so lively? "Camryn is fine, Olive."
That just levels up the dose of whatever she's on. "Oh, great! Camryn." A giggle follows. "Everything is ready! The waiters and waitresses are all here. The decorative squad just left. Just Mr. Peterson is still in the master bathroom." Her pretty heart-shaped face distorts with a cringe.
I light up the screen of my phone and sigh. It's almost 9:30. He's been here for almost two hours. How long can it take to replace a few light bulbs? I understand this ceiling lamp has a bad access to them, but still.
"Alright," I sigh. "I'll go check on Mr. Peterson. Stay here and tell me when Mr. Knox arrives. He should be here any minute."
I cross the master bedroom with a view that makes my head spin and enter the en-suite bathroom, where I find the older white-haired man balancing on top of a high rickety stepladder with his arms outstretched to the ceiling.
