Page 17 of For You, Sir

It was a brutal truth, but karmically fair, that working out was easiest for those already in shape. I told myself I hadearnedmy once-hard body and I would claw it back with that same dogged determination. I wanted my pecs and abs back, dammit.

Lacking theoomphto get out my weight bench, I started with pushups in the living room. Back straight, I lowered myself down for the umpteenth time, breath hissing between clenched teeth. My chest and shoulders were screaming, my arms trembling under the strain, but I thought about Jun and wouldn’t let myself give up. I wanted him to look at me with admiration instead of pity. As if summoned by my thoughts, Jun’s keys rattled in the door. I collapsed onto the living room carpet and rolled onto my back, panting.

From my view, Jun was upside-down as he stepped inside the foyer. He cradled a canvas grocery tote in one arm, a bundle wrapped in cellophane in the other.

“Good morning, S—” His gaze fell on my sprawled body and his eyes went wide. “Sir!” He dumped everything on the ground and raced to my side, putting a hand over my heart. “Are you all right?”

I laughed breathlessly. “Fine, Jun. Just getting a little exercise.” It was kind of humiliating—it must have looked like I was dying. His hand on my chest felt good, though. Stabilizing.

“Ah,” he said. “Of course.” He sat back on his heels and withdrew his hand, but worry lingered in his eyes. Jesus. Maybe hehadthought I was dying.

“Don’t mind me.” I was tired as fuck, but sat upright fast, hoping it wouldn’t show. “Gonna go hit the shower.”

“Certainly, Sir.” He rose gracefully to his feet and dusted unseen lint from his knees.

I trudged to the bathroom, trying not to betoomortified. Although, I had liked the way Jun dropped everything when he thought I was in trouble. There’d been a clink of glass when the grocery bag hit the floor, but he hadn’t spared a thought for something breaking—that split second was entirely mine.

In the bathroom, I stepped out of my sweaty clothes and glanced at myself in the mirror, combing out my hair with my fingers. For how worn-out I felt, I didn’t look too bad—just a little flushed and sweaty. Though maybe through Jun’s younger lens, I looked rough. I was old enough that I regularly lied about my age—as essential in Hollywood as Botox. But my hair was thick and healthy, so I wore it long to distract from the crow’s feet forming at the corners of my eyes. Plus, it kind of made me look like the guitarist in my favorite Scandinavian metal band.

After showering, I put on an outfit I liked—a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a shirt decorated with asymmetrical bleach splatters, like a reverse image of spilled ink. I’ve always been too lazy to blow-dry my hair, so the tips were still dripping onto my shirt as I headed into the kitchen to see what Jun was up to.

A vase of sunflowers stood in the middle of the island—so vivid yellow they practically glowed, with stems artfully arranged so the flowers faced outward to be admired from every angle. Sunshine in a glass. How could anyone look at those brazen beauties and notsmile?

Thank you, Jun.Warmth spread through my chest at the sweet but unnecessary touch. I had to remind myself it didn’t mean anything. Jun probably bought flowers for all his clients, and here I was getting all sappy, like I’d gotten flowers from a sweetheart.

Get a grip, Einar.

Jun unpacked the day’s groceries, wearing slate gray slacks that hugged his hips nicely. They were held up by dark burgundy suspenders, an old-fashioned touch I appreciated. Something about the conspicuous way they held his pants up kept making me think about taking them off.

“Sir?” Jun was holding a package of spiral-shaped pasta, looking at me expectantly. “What do you think?”

Oh, hell. He’d been telling me something, but I was too busy ogling him like a teenager. Thinking about slipping the taut straps off his shoulders and letting them dangle at his hips… “What would you suggest?” I asked.

Jun put the pasta away. “Try it. You can start with the easy ones.” He took a couple of bottles of red wine from the canvas tote and lined them up in the pantry.

Damn. I still had no idea what he was talking about. But Jun had a good head on his shoulders. I preferred to trust whatever he was suggestingcarte blancherather than admit I hadn’t been listening. “Sounds good.”

“Excellent.” Jun’s face brightened into a smile, and I was glad I’d agreed to… whatever I’d agreed to. “I’ll get your computer.”

Nooo! What had I signed myself up for?

Jun brought over my laptop and showed me the project he’d been working on. He’d meticulously organized every email in my inbox from the last six months. They were color-coded by category so I could tell at a glance what each contained—work inquiries, personal emails, networking, fan mail, marketing.

Rather than keeping the entire inbox in one mass, Jun had subdivided everything into “First”, “Next”, and “Take your Time.” TheFirstcategory must have been the easy ones Jun mentioned. I could tell by his color-coded system that these were mostly personal emails and messages from fans. One was from my college roommate. Another from a coworker that I liked so much that Jun had rightly put her in theFriendscategory instead ofWork.

The streamlined system gave me a sense of curiosity and excitement, instead of the usual dread I associated with reading my emails. TheNextcategory revealed a mix of work-related emails and trade journals I liked to keep on top of. Nothing too intimidating. I was kind of looking forward to tackling those.

While Jun vacuumed the house and finished cleaning the bathroom, I dug into my inbox, and a kaleidoscope of emotions rolled through me. There were uplifting project updates from charities I supported, emails from my sister in Denmark with photos of my nieces, encouraging notes from superfans who had supported my art back when I was a nobody. How had I forgotten there were so many good people doing good things in my life?

I spent the entire morning writing responses to the messages that mattered most, and Jun kept my coffee mug full. Before I knew it, he was sliding me a tempting-looking salad for lunch: chopped rotisserie chicken and sliced strawberries over baby spinach, with feta cheese crumbles and a balsamic vinaigrette.

While I chowed down, I scrolled through a side folder Jun had labeledMaybe Delete.As usual, Jun’s discernment was impeccable. After scrolling through several pages of spam and hate mail, I hadn’t come across a single message that needed opening. I right-clicked the folder and deleted everything inside. A palpable weight lifted from my shoulders and I exhaled.

“Going well?” Jun asked, appearing at my side.

“Yeah,” I said. “Feels great to tackle this stuff instead of letting it pile up.” I gestured vaguely at the laptop screen. “All this felt impossible, but you made it easy.” He really was clever as hell.

“I’m glad, Sir.” Jun bit his lips together to suppress his smile, and resumed sweeping the floor. After a minute, he quietly added, “Perhaps if you try writing again, you’ll find that’s not as hard as you remember, either.”

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