Page 4 of Stained Protector

“My work studio is down the street.”

Nodding, I scratch the back of my head sheepishly. “I thought you worked from home.”

“I prefer separating it from my personal life.” A ray of sunlight spears through the window, smashing apart the cluster of dark blue in his eyes.

A cozy sunny day, but the sapphire glow shines the brightest.

As interested as I am in his work, some artists are under pseudonyms for privacy. His work must be selling great if he can live in one of the most expensive zip codes in Phoenix without a second job.

Maybe he has an inheritance.

I’m considering moving once I get a better job. Bills and the terrifying incidents in my apartment are wearing me down.

“Sounds fun,” I mutter as I chuckle under my breath. “Art, I mean.”

“It’s therapeutic,” he says and stops the pile of sketchbooks from toppling.

A piece of paper flies out from the cover and lands in front of me. I pick it up and return it to him, but the words jump into my eyes.

“Hiring an assistant?” I read slowly.

And, lord, the hourly rate. I have dollar signs in my eyes. I didn’t see the qualifications, but part of me knows it says to have a Ph.D. and ten years of experience for an entry-level position.

I swear those job postings use the same template.

“I am,” he confirms and hands it to me. “I don’t mix business and personal matters, but I can make an exception. I haven’t heard bad things about you from our neighbors.”

Nervously, I risk a glance up. He studies my face with genuine consideration, just like I’m searching for a joke among his sharp features and alluring eyes.

These are pennies from heaven. The hours are similar to my day job with double the salary, but the expectations are similar without the absurd criteria.

An accounting manager’s assistant to a freelance artist’s assistant. So tempting.

“We can have a trial week if you’re interested.”

I throttle a happy squeak and nod enthusiastically. I’m entitled to two weeks of leave with one paid week. This is a fantastic opportunity, and I ignore the nagging worry about the timing.

“Think about it and call me when you’re ready,” he says, chuckling at my flushed cheeks.

He shows me to the door with the paper in my hand. I thank him again for the opportunity and say I’ll call him soon. He watches from his door, waving a big hand as I key open the lock and step inside.

The lady from unit 301 opens her door at the same time, and outrage strikes her face faster than a diving meteor. Her infamous gossip mouth opens and gasps so loud it draws the attention of her friends in the room.

I hurriedly shut the door and lean against it. I pick up the chatter, hushed shouting about me snagging the man she’s been eyeing since he moved in, andhow dare I just come in like that.

For one, I moved into the building first.

Sighing, I groan loudly. I can’t wait to hear what they thought happened in his apartment. Why can’t they pretend we were having a tea party? A man and woman can be knitting friends.

My phone buzzes with his message:Have a wonderful day at work.

Two simultaneous emotions—deep-seated stress and humming serenity—dissipate in a split millisecond. The moment falters, pausing my rumbling heartbeats, and fades out around me.

I can breathe.

Anxiety has been crashing down on me for a long time, and I've almost forgotten how to function normally.

I set a reminder to buy baking supplies so that I can give him something as a thank-you gift. He unintentionally provided me with one of the nicest nights of sleep, even though it was on a couch, and an opportunity to break free from this never-ending cycle of no savings.

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