Page 18 of For You, Sir

My stomach turned at the mention of writing.Et tu, Jun?I kept forgetting he was working for the studio’s benefit, not mine. “Why? Is the studio putting the screws to you?”

He furrowed his elegant brow. “Excuse me, Sir?”

“I assume that’s why they hired you, right? To make me write again.” I hated the edge of accusation in my voice.

Jun’s mouth turned downward. “The way I understand it, you’ll face a large fine if you don’t,” he said.

I scoffed. “That’s an understatement. And I guess if you can make me finish the script, you get a big cash bonus or something?”

Jun leaned his broom against the wall, pausing from his sweeping to give me his full attention. “Don’t impugn me, please, Sir,” he said, indignant. “Yes, I get my orders from Davies and Horne. And yes, they would love to have you resume writing.”

It was the answer I’d expected, so why did it sting? “Thought so.”

“But my loyalty is always to the client first,” Jun said firmly. “I’m here to helpyou,Sir.”

So you say…“Yet, here you are, bugging me about writing.”

“Yes, but not for the studio’s sake.” He took off his apron and folded it neatly. “I believe Sir would be happier if he was writing again.”

“Oh, yeah?” I raised an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“Yesterday, when I asked you what was most important, you said it was the work. You told me you miss filmmaking.”

I pressed my lips together, both annoyed and flattered that he remembered. “Yeah... And I said it’s impossible to go back. I can’t write anymore.”

“Have you tried—?”

Anger prickled up my neck. “Drop it, Jun.”

He exhaled through his nose and looked away. “Pardon me, Sir. I overstepped.” When he grabbed the broom and resumed sweeping, he wore a sullen expression.

I opened my mouth, then closed it. I’d gotten what I wanted—he’d dropped the issue. So why did it feel like I’d lost?

I took my laptop out to the living room to avoid the awkward vibe. Butlers were supposed to assist around the house, not offer unsolicited advice. What did Jun know about writing, anyway?

Probably nothing. But he’s trying to help you.

Ugh. Shit. Nope. I was supposed to be putting him back in the “professional” category in my mind, not convincing myself that he actually cared. I rubbed at the tension in my forehead and tried to focus on my emails, but my unsettled thoughts kept churning.

Jundidcare. It was obvious from the value he placed on making his clients’ lives better. So why did I feel so peevish when he nudged me to write again? Because I resented being told what to do? Because I secretly knew he was right?

My sister, Nora, was next on my list for emails to write, but I couldn’t focus, so I grabbed my phone and called her instead.

“Einar? No way!” she exclaimed in Norwegian. “How have you been?” She sounded delighted to hear from me, and the anxious feeling in my chest eased.

I was ready to apologize for my long silence, but she never brought it up. Hell, her one- and three-year-old daughters kept her so busy, she probably hadn’t even noticed. We chatted for over an hour, talking about her husband’s new job, and how the snow over there was finally melting. She teased me whenever I forgot the Norwegian word for something.

When she asked how I was doing, I told her I had a butler now, and that I highly recommended it. She called me a rich asshole and laughed it off like I was joking. I laughed along with her. My life really was absurd.

By the time I got off the phone, I felt better than I had in ages—relaxed and hopeful. Smiling to myself, I went to track down Jun. Time to apologize for being prickly earlier, maybe ask him to stay for dinner… But I’d missed my chance. It was a little after five, and he was already gone, but he’d left a note in his tidy handwriting that there was a plate of dinner warming in the oven.

I peeled back the foil and found a pile of hearty mashed potatoes with chicken cacciatore over the top—meat so tender it was falling off the bone. The perfect comfort food after a long day of work. I just wished he was there to eat it with me.

I let the mashed potatoes melt on my tongue while the evening sun cast a beam of butter-yellow sunlight on the bouquet of sunflowers. I thought about Jun in his sunflower apron, in his burgundy suspenders, and fantasized about how he’d look tangled up in the straps.

Chapter 9 (Einar)

The next morning, I woke up early and couldn’t fall back asleep. My mouth was bone-dry, but I didn’t want to get up. That would mean the day was starting, and the first item on my to-do list was pure torture.

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