BILLIONAIRE'S ASSISTANT

“Here you go,” I said, giving back the debit card to the customer who stood across the counter from me. He was fixed in his position, and the look on his face made me scared he might ask me to keep the card. I’d like to be humble and say it surprised me, but it didn’t. It wasn’t the first time I had a customer in Mickey’s Grocer staring at me like I was in a magazine for supermodels. I cleared my throat, and his cheeks turned red. He straightened his back, accepted his debit card like I had just given him a gift, and headed out of the store. He spared one glance at me, and I smiled nicely. I probably shouldn’t have done that, because he returned to the counter and mustered the courage to ask for my number. I shook my head apologetically, still smiling nicely. “I’m sorry, I don’t do that.” Disappointed, he left the store. If history had taught me anything, he would be back some other evening, ready to try again. When he did, he would get the same response. “That makes six times today, Willow,” someone said from behind me. Without turning to the doorway leading into the staffroom of the grocery, I knew a certain dark–haired, half–Asian, half–cocky, shrimp–sized twenty–six year old was staring at me with a smug smile. “Why are you even counting?” I asked, turning to Ellie with folded arms. About 5 '3, Ellie was my closest friend, probably because she was my co–worker. Her straight black hair was held in a ponytail and her hands dipped in the pocket of her uniform. She shrugged. “Anything for my amusement, and trust me when I say it’s amusing watching guys hit on you, and you deflecting their advances with one of your many techniques. It’s like a never–ending sitcom.” She was wearing an amused smile. I snorted. “Glad to keep you entertained.” “Take off the hat,” Ellie said, but it sounded more like a command which I wouldn’t be obliging. She was referring to my work cap. It was a really hideous lemon–colored cap with the store’s logo on its visor. Wearing it wasn’t compulsory…if you weren’t me. I always had it on, that and my work uniform that was a green apron atop orange overalls. It was like I was working in a prison cafeteria. I loved it. It hid me. I liked to keep my appearance hidden. I wish I learned to do that earlier in my life, then people wouldn’t have tagged me arrogant or slutty. “I’ll take it off at home,” I told Ellie, vacating the counter into the staffroom as it was time for her shift. She really didn’t like the effort I put into dampening my looks. “I swear you could be a model!” she said, lingering by the doorway because if Mickey caught the counter empty, there’d be hell to pay. “I appreciate you saying that everyday, Ellie.” After gathering my things and saying goodbye, I headed out of the store through the back door. It was a ten minute walk from Mickey’s to my apartment building, but it always felt like less when I had my headphones plugged in, which I did right now. My weary feet carried me through the crowded sidewalks of the Lower East Side. The tantalizing aromas from street food vendors made me wish I wasn’t still a week away from getting paid. Saving what I had was important, so me and mom would have to make do of whatever was in the fridge. I waved at the aged florist, Miss Juanita, before going through the worn and creaking entry of my three–floored apartment building. I climbed to the top floor and went through the door on my right into the two–bedroom apartment. It was extremely modest. Most times we sold belongings to make ends meet, which meant we didn’t have a lot left. “Mom! I’m home!” I announced and walked out the small passage that led into the living room. I was met with an unfamiliar sight. On the old gray couch, as usual, was my mother. She had short, thinning brown hair, weak brown eyes, and she was dealing with a heart disease. For a long time, that heart disease had left her unable to work, and since my father had run off with another woman years ago, the responsibility of taking care of my small family was wholly on me, which is why I’m a twenty–four year old who didn’t go to college. But moving on. I was curious about the woman who sat beside my mother. She had bouncy blonde hair and inquisitive crystal blue eyes, clearly about my mothers age which was fifty. If her expensive–looking blue silk blouse and gray skirt was any indication—not mentioning the Prada purse and Gianvito Rossi shoes—she wasn’t the broke type. “Hi,” I said. She rose to her feet, blinking a few times as she watched me. “My word, dear,” she said, her accent a bit British and American, if that made sense. “Would you take off your hat please?” Obliging the rich stranger whom my smiling mom seemed to trust well enough to sit beside her, I took off my cap. I stood at 5’6, with bright amber eyes and curly brown hair that came free from my headwear. I also had steep–arched brows and modest curves. The woman sucked in a breath as she approached. “You are stunning!” So I’ve been told. I smiled in thanks. “And you must be Mrs King?” She raised a surprised brow, turning to my mom who looked equally surprised. “Have I become so popular?” she asked and I shrugged, not responding but shaking her slender, outstretched hand. “How did you figure?” I thought about my answer. “It’s really more of a guess,” I confessed. “There’s a black SUV parked by the side of the road. I noticed the plate reads KING, so I figured someone’s visiting the neighborhood, then I come in here and find you…” I gestured awkwardly at her rich attire. “It could have been someone else visiting the building named King,” Ursula countered, looking intrigued. I shrugged. “Like I said, it was a guess.” She didn’t look convinced. “What aren’t you telling me?” Oh, she was the perceptive type. I felt like I was being tested, especially since we were meeting for the first time. I glanced at my mother who looked away innocently. Safe to assume Rose Peterson had gone about her habit of bragging about her daughter’s beauty and brains. I restrained the urge to shake my head disbelievingly. “Miss Juanita, the florist downstairs, had the best view of anyone who would come down from the SUV, and she had no trouble describing you.” “Interesting,” Mrs King said, lips kicking up in a smile. “Can I get you something to drink, ma’am?” “Please call me Ursula.” We talked for a while. Ursula King was the former CEO of a company called ACE sporting goods. The company dealt in all things sports from kits and equipment to edibles and underwear. I, for one, have eaten an ACE energy bar tons of times, and noticed the brand logo here and there. Ursula had been my mom’s friend in high school, and oddly, they had recently reconnected. I say odd because not many rich people want to meet with a financially struggling old friend. Finally, a few minutes before Ursula would leave, she dropped a bomb of an offer that stunned me into silence for at least half a minute. My mother cleared her throat, snapping me out of my momentary trance. I shifted on my feet, watching both women on the sofa. “I’m sorry, what?” “I said, I would like for you to come and work as personal assistant for the new CEO of ACE sporting goods, my son, Harrison King.”