Process

Aurora James

Apparently he was serious about this being an interview. He leans back against the granite counter and folds his arms, watching me with a critical eye. Everything in here gleams in a hardwood and dark metal kind of way. It makes my scruffy, muddy appearance even more obvious as it’s reflected back off a hundred surfaces. Mr. Sterling himself looks coldly handsome. It isn’t right for a man so hard to look almost beautiful. The kitchen lights reveal piercing brown eyes and thick brows. His nose is long and flat on the top. His mouth is pressed into a thin line of displeasure. I hold the drenched kitten away from me, trying to see if anything is broken. Not that I would know what to do about it if it were. It wriggles in what seems to be a normal kitten fashion? I have very little experience with pets. My life is divided into two halves. The before and after. Before, my dad was allergic to pets but he always promised that when I got older I could get a puppy. After he died, I bounced through foster homes. Occasionally there’d be a dog. Or two. Or three. In the last house there was an entire pack of them who roamed the house and the woods nearby as if they were the same thing. They weren’t exactly domesticated. Mr. Sterling lifts an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with my nanny abilities. “I’ve never had a cat,” I say, though it comes out more like a question. “Then act like it’s a baby.” His dark hair will turn brown when it dries. It’s a stark contrast to my black curls, which stay the same colour wet. Now that we’re inside I can see that he’s tall, built, and white. A green sweater hugs a broad chest and narrow waist. Wet denim cling to muscled thighs and drips onto the marble tile. “You know, I already signed a yearlong contract with the agency for this position. We had multiple rounds of interviews, including one that was videotaped for you.” He shrugs, unimpressed with this. “You’re locked in for a year. I’m not. I can fire you anytime I want if you don’t do a good enough job.” Great. Holding the kitten in one arm like a football, I search through the drawers and cabinets for something marked Emergency Pack for Stray Kittens. All I end up with is a large metal mixing bowl and a stack of flour sack dish towels. I take him to a white ceramic sink and fill the bowl with warm water. Without any actual training in animal care, I’m working under the knowledge that a hot bath sounds amazing to me right now. It’s the only thing I can think of that would work this chill from my bones. When the water’s the right temperature I fill the bowl only a few inches and then settle the kitten inside. She responds with a small, broken meow that hurts my heart. “I know,” I murmur to her, my back turned to Mr. Sterling. It feels like me and the kitten are in this thing together. Sure, the guy saved the kitten’s life, but he doesn’t seem very invested in her survival. He stands there watching me like we’re a television show. Like a survival reality show where they throw a girl and a kitten in the ocean to see if they live. “I know you’re cold right now. And probably freaked out. This place is scary, but you’ll be okay.” “Are you planning to cook him for dinner?” Mr. Sterling asks amiably. “Listen.” I carefully lift the kitten from the water and dry her off using the dish towels, one by one. I try to move quick so she’ll get warm, but I also have to be careful. She feels like he’s made of toothpicks. One wrong move, and she’ll snap. “There’s no business underneath, so I think we can assume she’s a girl. And you could be helpful by getting some warm milk or whatever it is cats like to eat instead of just criticizing what I’m doing.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I don’t have a ton of experience with job interviews. I worked at the diner near my foster home and as a cashier at a grocery store when I moved out, but those weren’t really interviews. I filled out an application and got a call back. The nanny agency interviewed me several times, but they seemed okay with my rambling answers about taking care of my foster siblings and babysitting and volunteering at the food bank. Despite my relative inexperience with interviews, I feel like talking back and asking him to get a bowl of milk is probably not the best thing to say. But when I turn around, he’s already reaching inside the wide stainless steel fridge. Even in this quick glimpse I can see that it’s mostly empty. He does find a carton of milk, half full. In a few moments he’s found a saucer that he pours into. “Thanks,” I murmur, accepting the saucer from him. I wrap the kitten like a burrito using the last dry dish towel and then set her down in front of the milk. She shoves her face into the liquid, making her nose white. I can’t help it. It makes me laugh, but then I catch Mr. Sterling's eye. He has a strange expression. Strange because it’s less severe and judgy than the one he’d had a minute before. As soon as he sees me looking at him, he grabs the milk and stows it back in the fridge. Once the kitten understands the way milk works, she laps it up. I’m going to have to find some cat food and probably google a million pages about caring for kittens, but I think she’s doing okay. I have to hope that if a bone were broken, I’d be able to tell. Maybe it’s true what they say about cats having nine lives. She probably used up a couple of them falling off that massive cliff. “Sorry,” I say without looking up. I’m sitting with one leg under me, the other curled up beneath my chin, watching the kitten. “About saying you should be helpful.” I read the fine print in the contract. Enough to know that the penalty for breaking it early would be severe… for me. I only get paid the bulk of it after the year is over. And I don’t get that if I leave before then. Of course the strictness only works one way. He can fire me anytime. I just didn’t think he’d consider doing it on the first night. “Don’t worry about it.” “I just wasn’t expecting the whole kitten interview thing.” “You can keep the job. For now.” I let out a huff of exhausted laughter. “Thanks.” “Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you to your room. You can share with the kitten.” Great. My suitcase has been dripping onto the marble floor this whole time. I grab the warm bundle of fur and the suitcase and follow him down the hallway. We pass a series of rooms with sofas and dining tables and pianos and then more sofas. The place is massive. It’s more like a hotel lobby where hundreds of people could pass through, instead of a house for two people. Everything looks expensive and even comfortable, but it doesn’t feel like a home. A full wall of windows exposes the storm in all its glory. Maybe some people like watching nature use the earth like a drum, but after being out in it I’m still shivering. There’s a trail of muddy water behind me that I’ll probably have to clean up tomorrow. Right now I’m just desperate for a chance to get into some dry clothes. He turns a corner and we head down a long hallway with a series of closed doors. Like the windows outside, they’re dark and nondescript and innately full of secrets. A small gesture. His voice is low in the dark hallway. “That’s her bedroom. Megan. The reason for your position. You’ll meet her tomorrow.” The reason for your position. There’s no warmth in his voice, even though he’s talking about a six-year-old little girl. “You’re her uncle?” “Correct,” he says, his voice matter of fact. And cold. Colder than outside. I’m almost running to keep up. So I slam into him when he stops suddenly. One minute I’m striding along a corridor, and the next I’m plastered against him, cold clothes against cold clothes, warm body against warm body, my face pressed into his back. “I’m so sorry,” I say, heat climbing my neck as I step back. He opens one of the doors, and only now do I realize I should have been counting. Every single door looks the same. The distance between them is the same. There’s no artwork or rugs in this hallway. Barren. That’s how it looks. How it feels. The room is no different. There’s a bed in the middle. A nightstand. An open door revealing a small bathroom. A closed door that I assume leads to a closet. There’s not even a rug or lamp to make the room feel lived in. “This is yours,” he says. “Your space when you aren’t working.” “Me and the cat.” His lips quirk. “Right. You and the cat.” I have to squeeze by him to get into the room. We only touched for a second, but it was electric. I can still feel the currents running through me. Even getting close to him feels like heat. I wheel my soggy luggage into a corner and then settle the kitten in the middle of the bed. I flick on the light in the bathroom and blink against the glare. I’m pretty sure we need a litter box or something like that, but I’m too freezing and tired to worry about it now. I turn to face Mr. Sterling. Beau Sterling. “Well,” I say, tangling my hands together. “Thanks so much for showing me to my room. And for the… you know, the welcome. And everything. I want you to know that I’m so grateful for the opportunity to be here, and I’m going to work so hard to make sure that—” “You’re freezing,” he says, almost gently. I’m freezing. And I’m rambling. “Right. I’m cold. You’re cold. The kitten is cold, but more importantly, Megan and I are going to get along great. I’m so excited to get started.” I’m not sure why, but in that moment, I look down. And I see that my nipples are hard points against the fabric of my bra and the T-shirt I wore on the plane. I fold my arms in front of me, the movement protective and wildly obvious. If he didn’t know my nipples were standing at attention before, then he definitely knows now. Reluctantly I meet his dark gaze. Oh, he knew. He definitely knew. “Your job isn’t to be best friends with Megan,” he says. “Right,” I say, even though I don’t know where he’s going with this. “Your job with her is the same as it is with the kitten. Keep her alive and keep her out of my hair. That’s what you’re getting paid to do. Understand?” In both the before and after of my life, I believed in the value of family. I always knew my father loved me. And cared for me. And when he was gone, when I was cold and lonely and afraid, I knew it was because I no longer had a family. “But she’s your niece.” “I’m not a parent. I’m a businessman. And in the business world, she’s what we call a liability. Something I’m required to pay. An expense. A loan. The wrong side of the balance sheet.” My breath sucks in. “She’s a child.” His gaze flicks down to where my arms cover my breasts. “So were you, not that long ago.” For the first time I’m aware of him as more than a shadow shouting in the rain, as more than my new employer. I become aware of him as a man. And he’s aware of me as a woman. There’s a form of power in that mutual understanding. There are years between us. How old is he? Some number greater than thirty, for sure. The hard planes of his face are strong, mature. His eyes are world weary. I would almost expect there to be gray in his hair for how jaded he appears, but instead there’s a lush black. Too many years for a potential relationship, even if he were interested in rain-soaked nannies and I were interested in cold-blooded men. But the spark runs between us anyway, our bodies giving way to chemistry when our minds should know better. I need to end this awareness, this mutual interest, the physicality of standing here while both of us are cold and shivering, our clothes clinging to our skin. “Good night,” I say, but the word comes out low and smoke-filled, as if I meant it to be tempting. I’ve never meant to be tempting in my life. He does not answer me with words. Instead he closes the door in my face.

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