The Stalked Assistant

The moment my alarm buzzes in the morning, I instinctively reach for my phone and hit snooze. I want to savor a few more minutes of sleep. It’s the first day of my new job.

I moved to New York years ago to study business. I’d always dreamed of working for a publishing company, but despite my best efforts, I haven’t landed a job in that field yet.

My relationship with my parents has been strained because I haven’t been home in a long time.

It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. But I just can’t seem to find the time to book a flight back to Texas.

None of the publishing companies seem to want to hire me. They’re all fully staffed and aren’t planning on hiring anyone new anytime soon.

My savings account is dwindling, and I realized I needed to get my act together and find a job—any job—fast.

One day, I picked up a newspaper from the vendor around the corner from my apartment and saw an ad for a personal assistant.

It wasn’t a publishing company, but it was still business-related. I jumped at the opportunity.

A few years ago, Ryder Claiborne, the company CEO, took over the business from his father.

I was curious about my new boss. From what I found online, he’s had many assistants over the years. His father is retired, but he still helps his eldest son with the business.

Ryder has an older brother and sister, as well as younger siblings. His mother has spent most of her marriage as a stay-at-home mom.

I’m sorry, I can’t go into more detail right now, I have to start my day.

My alarm was set for 5:30 a.m., and it’s already five minutes past. I have to be at work by 7 a.m.

That doesn’t leave me much time.

I usually shower first thing in the morning, but since I showered late last night, I decide to skip it.

I’m also grateful that I remembered to shave my legs the night before; it’s not always a given with me.

As I head to the closet, I ruffle my hair with one hand and rub my eyes with the other, trying to wake myself up.

I pull out the dress I picked out the night before for my first day. It’s cute but professional.

I don’t want to give my new boss the wrong impression on our first meeting. It’s a simple light pink dress that doesn’t show too much cleavage.

I’m starting to get nervous, even though I’ve been telling myself all night that I’m more than qualified for this job.

But the fact that Ryder has had so many personal assistants has me wondering. What’s up with that?

When I first read about him, I assumed he was an older, grumpy man. But then I saw his pictures and realized he was young and handsome.

I grab the dress and head to the bathroom, where I take off my nightgown and look at my reflection in the mirror.

My hair is a tangled mess, and my curls are going every which way. I doubt I’ll be able to tame them. I don’t like pulling my hair back into a ponytail.

I try to smooth it down and then spray a little hairspray on it, hoping it’ll stay in place.

Then I do my makeup. Just a light foundation, some light brown eyeshadow, and eyelashes.

My eyes water at everything, and it takes forever to get the fake eyelashes on right. It’s the damn fake eyelashes that make me take so long.

I rush out of the bathroom, grab my phone from my nightstand, and dash into my tiny kitchen.

Believe it or not, I grew up on a ranch, which is why my apartment isn’t exactly luxurious. My parents aren’t wealthy.

Even though I was lucky enough to get a scholarship, I had to work as a waitress at a restaurant down the street to make ends meet.

After paying all my bills and buying what I needed for school, I didn’t have much left over for anything else.

Even the dress I’m wearing now was bought from a store called Roses, known for selling cute clothes at low prices.

When I walk into my kitchen, I grab a banana from the counter and start eating it. Then I start the coffee maker.

I’m good at multitasking, so I should be a great fit for this job, right?

While the coffee is brewing, I take a loaf of bread from next to the stove and make myself two slices of toast.

Once my toast is ready and my coffee is brewed, I sit at the kitchen bar and start eating.

I savor the taste of the coffee as it goes down my throat; I’m sure it’ll wake me up. And yes, I live off coffee. Coffee is like my drug; I can’t function without it.

I look at my phone and see that it’s already past six. My new workplace is at least a fifteen-minute drive away. In this traffic, that means an hour.

I finish my toast as quickly as I can and then rush to the door where I keep my shoes.

I spent most of my childhood on a farm. I have a weird thing about wearing shoes in the house. My mom hated it when my dad and I tracked mud inside on her clean floors.

I have quite a few pairs of shoes, but only two are fancy.

Would black heels or brown wedges look better with this dress? I take a moment to decide.

Wedges are more for parties or outdoor events. Heels are more professional, so I slip them on as fast as I can.

I scoop up my purse and cell phone, whispering a quick prayer for a good day before stepping out the door.