Page 35 of For You, Sir

I only had two days left to respond to the Olsen family and still felt paralyzed. To distract myself from my own problems, I had given myself a complicated project for Sir’s sake—organizing a file system for his computer.

The guest room I was using as a makeshift office had a desk, a rolling chair, and a bed. The walls were utilitarian white and needed artwork. Once Sir was writing again, maybe I could recommend an interior decorator.

IfI got him writing again.

The studio was losing patience. Deborah called for status reports every few days, and I put my best spin on Sir’s progress. I told her how Sir was taking his medicine again, that he’d resumed exercising, and had received a guest at home. Calling Investigator Marshall a “guest” was a shameful stretch of the truth, but I didn’t know how else to keep the studio at bay. I was like a lawyer, submitting an endless series of appeals to delay a death sentence.

If I told the studio outright that Sir refused to write again, my contract would be over, and I’d probably never see Sir again. Which would have been fine, but…

I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

During my miserable days holed up at home, I kept replaying the scene of Investigator Marshall accusing me of financial exploitation. Of sordid intentions. Of murder. I would have crumbled like sand under the weight of his accusations if Sir hadn’t been there to back me up.

“Don’t answer that, Jun. He’s not even a cop.”

I feltprotected—a wonderful sensation I’d never experienced. I usually avoided trouble by avoiding attention, blending into the background like a camouflaged animal. But when danger stared me in the face, Sir thrust himself in the middle to keep me safe.

I could see how challenging it had been for him. At the initial knock on the door, Sir had looked boyishly frightened, practically hiding behind me. But when Marshall intimidated me, he’d stepped forward, bold as a roaring lion.

Intervening on my behalf had been a gratuitous kindness. It made me want to return the favor—to help Sir break through his creative block.

He’d flourished when I sorted his emails, so I took a similar approach to organizing the documents on his computer. Among them lay a treasure trove of half-written scripts, early drafts, and screenplay outlines. Even without knowing much about movies, I believed in their potential. There was a list of potential script ideas in there; maybe he could pull from that.

Please, Sir… I know this would be good for you.I clasped my hands over the keyboard, sending an aimless prayer toward the ceiling. It wasn’t just about appeasing the studio. I wanted Sir to resume writing for his own sake. This was clearly his dream, something he loved.

The clank of metal and an occasional grunt drifted from the workout room. Sir was lifting weights again. My brain flooded with clever suggestions for why I might take this moment to walk down the hall and sneak a peek at his blood-engorged muscles and catch a whiff of sweat-drenched testosterone. I could bring Sir a water bottle to make sure he stayed hydrated, or pretend to get a thumb drive from my coat pocket in the foyer…

I slapped my cheeks in reproach.Focus, Jun. Focus.deftly created folders and sub-folders, sorting, clicking, renaming, and dragging files while the other half of my brain pondered how I might entice Sir again.

That was the other thing I couldn’t get off my mind: our bodies tangled on the couch, his hands all over me, the slide of his hot, wet mouth. Countless times, I’d replayed the erotic scene in my head, wishing I could change the ending.

I glanced over my shoulder at the guest bed pushed up against the wall. It loomed in the corner with unspoken potential, covered with a charcoal-gray duvet I longed to be thrown onto. I chewed my lip and glanced at the doorway, wishing Sir would walk through it, amped up with adrenaline from his workout and seeking release.

I once thought his interest in me might be purely physical, perhaps even exploitative, but that fear was quickly fading. When I panicked last time, he was compassionate. When trouble came knocking, he faced his fears to protect me from mine. And he never made me feel small, like some clients. He made me feel valued and worthy. Like everything I said and thought really mattered.

I turned back to the computer and rubbed the tension from my forehead. Damn it. Now that I’d had time to process everything, I was eager for a do-over, but too shy to ask for it. If Sir would only make a second pass, I would seize the opportunity. Express my gratitude on my knees…

From the workout room, I heard the clang of a weight bar returned to its rack. Sir padded down the hall, and a short while later, I heard him turn on the kitchen tap. I was halfway down the hall before I realized I’d decided to get up.

Sir stood next to the kitchen sink with a glass, his long hair tied back in a messy bun. He wiped the sweat from his face with the bottom of his sleeveless shirt, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his flat stomach. My mouth watered at the thought of licking the blond treasure trail that disappeared down the front of his pants.

He looked up. “Oh. Hey, Jun.”

“Hello, Sir.”

He licked the perspiration from his upper lip, still flushed and breathing hard. “How’s the project going?”

“Good, so far.” I grabbed the electric kettle under the pretense of making myself a cup of tea while Sir refilled his glass.

Sir gulped his second glass of water, his Adam’s apple bobbing. A trickle of water rolled down his throat and into the scooped neckline of his workout shirt. I longed to catch it on my tongue.

He stepped aside so I could get to the sink, just a pace or two away. I filled my kettle slowly, savoring the heat of his proximity and trying to think of how I could serve him. Maybe offer him a post-workout smoothie? My eyes traced over the sheen on his arms.

“What’s up?” Sir asked.

Oh, God. I’d been staring. “I was wondering, Sir…”

He finished the glass and thumped it on the counter. “Hm?”

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