Page 45 of For You, Sir

He nuzzled my nose with his, giving me a cheeky smile. His long hair tumbled down, forming a curtain around our faces to hide us from the world. Our private world of two.

Chapter 17 (Einar)

It wasn’t yet noon, and the heat was intense. Sweat rolled down my back, plastering my shirt to my back. I pulled another weed and added it to the growing pile, then sat back on my heels to admire my work. Just a few hours of labor had transformed my backyard. Flowers once choked by weeds now basked in the sunshine, and I flourished along with them. I only wished I’d done it sooner.

It was time to get serious about tackling my damned agoraphobia. I couldn’t expect Jun to hide with me at home all the time. He deserved to be taken to fancy restaurants and ritzy resorts, wherehewould be served and spoiled for a change. But first, I needed to get comfortable outside.

For my next step, we could go to the grocery store. Pushing the cart and picking things out together sounded nice, like something a couple would do. But when I pictured myself in the supermarket, the aisles stretched into eternity—an endless gauntlet of meaningless choices, with tall shelves concealing angry ex-fans and paparazzi around every corner. My chest constricted and my skin went clammy-cold.Ugh.Maybe I needed to start smaller…

The sliding patio door rolled behind me, and I turned to see Jun stepping out on the deck with a silver tray delicately perched on one hand. So damn handsome—long legs in crisp black slacks, an oxblood-red tie drawing my eyes upward to his elegant face.

I stood, clapped the dirt from my knees, and headed to the shade of the pergola stretching over the back patio. Jun set a glass pitcher of icy lemonade on the table, already dripping with condensation. I hadn’t even realized I was thirsty.

“Perfect timing,” I said. My heart buoyed when he pulled his chair close to mine.

Jun poured our drinks, and I admired the graceful bend of his wrist, the way he managed not to spill a drop, even with ice cubes precariously clustered at the mouth of the pitcher.

I took a sip and jolted in surprise. Zesty, bold, and not overly sweet. My mouth gushed with saliva. “Damn, that’s good!”

Jun gave one of his shy smiles. “Fresh-pressed Meyer lemons and caster sugar,” he said, as if the ingredients had assembled themselves.

“Jesus, I’m a lucky man.” I took another sip, let it linger on my tongue. Jun’s smile deepened, and he turned his face away, but not before I saw a hint of pink rising to his cheeks.

Jun looked over the yard where I’d been working all morning. “Looking great out here,” he said. “It’s a lovely view from the kitchen.” He took a sip of his lemonade. “The garden looks nice, too.”

It took me a beat to realize I’d just been complimented. I chuckled and shook my head.

We sat in pleasant silence for a while, enjoying our drinks and watching finches flit through the redbud trees. My dirt-coated hands left gritty smears on the side of my glass, and I wiped them away with the bottom of my shirt.

“Forgive me for prying, Sir,” Jun said. “The other day I saw you reading something that looked like a script…”

“An old colleague of mine offered me a teaching gig at a private university,” I said. “He sent a batch of his students’ work so I could get a sense of what I’d be reading.”

“Did it, uhm, seem like a good fit?” He rubbed his thumb along the side of his glass, tracing wet arcs in the condensation.

“Not really,” I sighed. “The curriculum I’d have to teach is too formula-driven.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Students should experiment with what’s possible at that age, not limit their minds.”

Jun quirked a brow. “Some people need that kind of structure.”

“True,” I said. “But I’d hate torequireit, you know? If a student’s work is really odd and unconventional, I don’t want to tell ’em,‘That’s wrong. You should follow the template.’” I shrugged. “If I thought formula writing was the way to go, I might as well write my own crappy script.”

The optimistic gleam in Jun’s eyes asked,Well? Why don’t you?

“I already tried the hack approach. That’s how I cranked out the crappyFringesequel.”

“Ah.”

I dropped my chin in my hand. “The studio likes me for my artistic vision, yet expects me to make low-risk mainstream schlock. They say they want movies that are‘accessible,’but what they really mean is‘dumbed-down,’”I complained.“I don’t want to talk down to my audience or tell them how to feel. I want to show them something thoughtful and unique.”

Jun pressed his steepled fingers against his lips, deep in thought. After a moment, he asked, “Is ‘mainstream appeal’ a stipulation of the contract?”

“No.” I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “But I can tell it’s what the studio wants.”

“If the studio’s preferences aren’t a truerequirement, couldn’t you write however you want?” Jun cocked his head. “Even if they didn’t like the new script, you’d have met your contractual obligation, right? You could escape the penalty fee.”

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