Page 4 of For You, Sir

I smiled a little. “Simmered bone stock makes a huge difference. What you sacrifice in time, you gain in depth of flavor.”

I popped the roasting pan in the preheated oven and retrieved the vegetables from the crisper drawer. As I pulled out a fresh cutting board, I noticed Sir peering at me with an odd expression. Curiosity? Disapproval?

“Apologies, Sir. The soup won’t be ready for a few hours. Is that too long to wait?” Maybe he objected to my time-consuming methods. “I can fix you something now if you’d like.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m just surprised. I would expect someone to take shortcuts when cooking.”

I smiled to myself and washed the celery in the sink. “I find it’s worth the extra effort, Sir. The difference between ‘good’ and ‘excellent’ is a matter of degrees.”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed with an animated gleam in his eye.

“Sir?”

“People say I’m heartless.” He leaned forward, and the blanket slipped off one shoulder. “They complain I fire people too easily.”

“Is that so?” I feigned surprise. Deborah had warned me about his volatile temperament, but I hadn’t expected him to bring it up.

“It’s not because I’m an asshole,” he insisted. “I mean, if the lighting guy isn’t focused on the job, I’m going to replace him with someone who cares about what he’s doing. When I make a movie, I’m not trying to rush something out the door. I’m trying to make something extraordinary.”

I nodded. I understood the sentiment, and it was good to hear Sir talking about his job. The studio had made it clear my primary aim was to get him back to work.

“Anyway. I’ve worked with enough guys doing less than their best,” Sir said. “I respect someone willing to go the extra mile.”

My heart fluttered that he’d noticed so quickly, and that he cared enough to say something. Clients rarely recognized my efforts with praise. “Thank you, Sir.” It seemed like I should say something nice in return, so I added, “I’m sure your effort shows in your movies as well.”

“You think so?” Sir gazed out the kitchen window with a faraway look in his eyes.

Crap! I hadn’t seen any of his movies yet. I made a mental note to watch one when I got home.

Sir saved me from having to answer by laying his cheek onto his folded forearms and closing his eyes. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “That’s over.”

Should I ask him what happened? Try to offer some encouragement? Sir was slumped and weary-looking, as if he were trying to sleep. He drew a long breath and exhaled through his nose, stirring the fine blond hairs on his forearm.

I suspected his lethargy was a sign of depression—it had been for me after Dad died—so I saved my questions for later. Better to get him back on his medication and thinking straight before talking about his future. Depression had a way of making minor hurdles seem insurmountable. If Sir verbalized his reasons for feeling stuck, he might just entrench himself further into a hopeless mindset.

Sir’s phone rang in the living room, and he remained motionless as if he hadn’t heard it.

After the third ring, I asked, “Would you like me to get that for you, Sir?”

An almost imperceptible shake of his head. “I never answer.”

The ringing stopped. “If you’d add me to your password manager, I can begin handling your future calls, Sir.”

He sat up and frowned, narrowing his eyes at me. “Why? What’s the point?” Under that sharp gaze, I could suddenly understand why people found him intimidating on set.

“It’s standard practice to field a client’s emails and calls like a P.A. would,” I assured him. “If you’re concerned about my references—”

“No, it’s fine,” he sighed, and waved a hand in dismissal. “Whatever.” He pushed himself back from the counter and left the room. He returned a minute later with a Post-it note and stuck it on the counter.

A four-digit pin was written at the top—for his phone, I assumed—and beneath was an eight-letter password with no special characters. Both were relatively easy to guess. It was incredible how a brilliant client could be so foolish with cybersecurity.

“Is this for your email or…?”

“My email. Wireless network. Spotify. Most of my accounts.”

Good God. He used a password this weak for everything? I schooled my face into professional neutrality to conceal my dismay.

“It would be wise if Sir had unique passwords for his various accounts,” I said gently. “More complex ones that would be harder to crack.”

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