Page 11 of For You, Sir

Ah. He wanted the self-reprieve. It would be kinder to let him fix his mistake than insist it didn’t matter. “Okay,” I said. “But you have to get yourself one, too.” Seemed like Jun could use something nice. I wrote my order on a Post-It note: sugar-free hazelnut latte with an extra shot of espresso.

“I can’t, Sir.”

“I insist.” I held out the sticky note with my order on it.

“It would be a misappropriation of funds.”

I blinked at him.

“It would be improper to charge my drink to the studio,” he explained.

“Oh! In that case…” I took my phone out of my pocket and popped open the case, pulling out the fifty I kept tucked inside. “Here. Get yours in cash, so it’s off the books.” I stuck the Post-It onto the cash and held them both out.

“Thank you, Sir.” He accepted them, but hesitated a moment before putting it in his pocket. “I’ll take care of the broken glass first.”

“Actually, could you get the coffee now?” I forced a smile. “I’m really craving one.”

“Certainly, Sir. I’ll purchase a replacement carafe later this afternoon.” He gave a small bow and headed out.

As soon as he left, I went searching for the dustpan and found it under the sink. I swept up the broken pieces, then swept a second time for the shards I couldn’t see, being more careful for Jun’s sake than I would have for my own. Hopefully, he would appreciate my intent and not see it as stepping on his toes.

Afterwards, I flopped back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. Poor Jun. He’d gone to the hospital yesterday to visit his mother. The prognosis must’ve been bad—it would explain the bags under his eyes and his sour mood.

I tucked my hands behind my head and tried to think of a way to do something nice for him. Buy him a gift? Seemed like a rich asshole move. Be a low-maintenance client? He might stop showing up! Would Jun open up about his problems if I asked? Maybe. Didn’t Batman and Alfred have a dynamic like that? Jesus, I knew nothing about butlers.

A while later, Jun came home with two drinks in hand. He looked refreshed and more like his usual self, which made me strangely giddy.

“Here you are, Sir.” He crossed the living room and held out my latte.

“Thanks.” The logo emblazoned on the cup was one I didn’t recognize—hell, maybe an espresso stand had opened during the six months I’d been living as a hermit. “JUNE”was scrawled across the top in felt-tip marker. Holding a cup with someone else’s (misspelled) name on it reminded me of being in a couple, and a warm feeling spread through me.

Don’t be a creep. He’s your butler.

Jun headed to the kitchen and halted in the doorway, looking down at the floor where he would have expected to find the shattered coffee pot. I hoped he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it, and that I hadn’t overstepped. He glanced at me, opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and headed inside. Good.

I took a sip of my drink. Latte perfection. Jun really knew how to pick a good place. Maybe I could ask him for a good restaurant recommendation and take him out to dinner.

But the thought of leaving the house made my heart race, leaving me queasy with dread. It wasn’t safe. The outside world was filled with hateful people who wanted to see me shamed and destroyed. I’d rather be hit by a car than accosted by paparazzi.

Sorry, Jun. I’m going to stay bunkered down here for the rest of my life and wait for you to bring Heaven to me.

I remembered a sermon from back when my parents dragged me to church every Sunday. Something about a rich man burning in Hell and whining for an angel (or was it Lazarus?) to come bring him a drink of water. The point was supposed to be that the rich asshole in Hell was too lazy to get the water himself. Or the angels were too far away to help, even though they wanted to. An impossible distance separated Saint Jun and slothful Einar.

Fuck me. I needed to stop crushing on him. Not easy when I had a perfect 10 in my house all day, improving my life. I was drawn to Jun’s diligence, but he was probably disgusted with my lack thereof. I could barely get my ass off the couch and had no aspirations of setting foot outside my door. Who could respect that? To Jun, I was just one rich dipshit in a sea of Hollywood phonies. A grown-ass toddler to placate, feed, and clean up after.

Jun reappeared and headed toward the guest bathroom, carrying a plastic tote of cleaning supplies. I waited a few minutes and followed like a dog who had caught the scent of a tasty snack.

I found Jun on his knees, wearing a pair of heavy rubber gloves, cleaning the toilet. Heat rose to my face, and I felt suddenly ashamed for having biological needs. I wanted to tell him to stop, but it would probably shame him if I suggested his duties were beneath him.

“May I help you, Sir?” The way Jun looked up at me from his knees made my insides flutter.

“Oh. Uh…”Fuck. What did I come in here for again?Surely, I had a better excuse than leering at my handsome house-angel.“I was wondering… Do you want to eat lunch with me today?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes dropped to the spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner and then he looked at the shower. Maybe he was implying he had too much work to do?

A pins-and-needles fear of rejection pricked my insides like I’d just asked a popular girl to prom, my fate yet undecided.

“Does Sir dislike the new shower items? I’ll get something else this afternoon, if you’d rather.”

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