Page 12 of A Mutually Beneficial Proposal

Owen

My room ison the twentieth floor and three doors down from my boss, which I’m not terribly excited about, but at least the view of the rolling ocean and white beaches is something right out of a magazine.

I have a balcony outside my bedroom, and I’ve decided it just might be my favorite spot—as long as I don’t get too close to the edge.

The sound of waves below lulls me into the beginning stages of relaxation, and I try not to think about all the things I’m going to be forced to do while I’m here. The mixer tonight to officially welcome everyone to the island, the outdoor activities tomorrow, bullshit team-building events later on, and whatever else will undoubtedly come up.

I wish Jack would call this what it is: a trip to make his dick feel bigger. Every senior employee will be throwing themselves at our CEO and begging to be noticed. If only they knew what working too closely to Jack really entails.

A knock on my door has me turning around to head back inside. My assigned concierge Robert is on the other side and enters with the drink cart I ordered. If I’m expected to survive the coming days, it’s not likely I’ll be able to do it completely sober.

“Here are the items you requested, Mr. Porter. Is there anything else I can get you?” he asks. Robert’s older, maybe in his fifties with charcoal-gray hair and dark-blue eyes that wrinkle at the sides when he smiles.

I shake my head. “I’ll call if I need anything else.”

Robert exits the room quietly, and I make myself a whiskey sour. Just when the glass touches my lips, my phone vibrates.

I glance at the screen and groan before I answer. “Hello, Mr. Harrington.”

“Quit with that bullshit, Owen. We’re not in the boardroom. You know to call me Jack.” His voice booms, and I have to pull the phone away from my ear before putting it on speaker and setting it down.

“Right. Jack. What can I do for you?” I ask, annoyed he hasn’t even let me unpack before needing something else. He might want me to address him by his first name, but he’s not calling to chat like old friends.

“I need you to go downstairs and grab the paperwork that just came through for me,” he demands.

I shake my head. The hotel staff could just as easily complete this task. Some days, I swear he gets off on seeing how much he can annoy me with the most menial of requests.

“Of course. I’ll head down right now,” I reply instead of saying what I really want to.

“That’s my boy. I’ll see you soon.”

Jack hangs up without another word and I chug my whiskey sour, glaring at the phone that I wish I could throw into the ocean. The drink burns as it travels down my throat and helps calm my rising emotions. I need to figure out what I’m willing to continue sacrificing, because my disdain for this job only continues to grow.

I’ve already taken off my tie and suit coat, which means I’m not exactly dressed to see my boss, but I’m out of fucks to give in the moment. I pass by both items that I tossed on the couch not ten minutes earlier and head for the door. My hands pat my pockets to double-check I have my keycard before I let the door close behind me.

The elevator is around the corner and already waiting for me. That fact feels almost mocking, like the damn machine knows I’m running bitch errands.

I step inside, scan my card, and press the lobby button when the screen flashes with my choices. Soft music hums in the background, and I rock back and forth on my feet until the doors slowly open to the ground floor.

The fresh ocean air greets me, and I take a deep inhale before stepping out. I need to remember that I’m going to have free time at some point, and there will be benefits to being on this work trip. It won’t all be a pain in my ass.

I walk toward the concierge counter, and I see Robert. He smiles brightly when our gazes meet.

“How can I help you, Mr. Porter?” he asks when I approach.

My fingers drum on the smooth granite counter. “First, you can call me Owen. Secondly, I’m supposed to be picking up some papers that were printed for Jack Harrington in Room 2001.”

Robert moves to the cabinets behind him and searches for a good thirty seconds. I internally groan, not wanting to deal with Jack if the papers aren’t here as he expects.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Por—Owen, but I don’t see any documents,” Robert says apologetically.

My phone dings with a text.

Jack Harrington: Looks like someone else brought them up. Never mind.

Asshole doesn’t even say, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

I send back a thumbs up that I wish is the middle-finger emoji.

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