Page 17 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Seventeen

HOLLY

I want to say that my new job as a personal assistant for an international best selling author is the highlight of my life…

but it isn’t. I despise coming to work. Because it means that I actually have to face the person I can’t seem to stop thinking of doing unspeakable things with, whether he’s in front of me or completely out of sight.

I’ve spent the best part of this week ignoring Cyrus by hiding in the kitchen, running errands, fluffing about in the indoor garden or answering emails from reporters and podcasters wanting interviews while he occupies himself with writing.

It sucks here!

In saying that, ignoring him has actually been relatively easy since he’s moved my work space into a separate room like I’m some disease-ridden freak, for reasons I hadn’t the slightest answer to.

But will it be easy to ignore him when I move in?

—if I move in. Because that was part of the job.

Live-in assistant. Yet, I’m coming up with every excuse under the sun to not move in.

And yes, I have looked for other jobs, but there are none, so dealing with working for the sexiest man on earth, and coming up with ninety nine reasons why I shouldn’t is the only option I have.

I wipe down the kitchen bench from making Christmas Crack and glare out the window. It’s dead silent, both inside and out, other than the occasional whoosh of arctic winds brushing against the windows.

The weather will worsen throughout the day, no doubt.

It’s been getting colder, too. I had barely made it here this morning without being swept off the road from the gusts.

I’m convinced that it’s my fault, because when I don’t wear knickers it always causes chaotic weather.

When it happened last time the whole of Queensland flooded, and the time before that a hail storm with balls the size of my palm fell from the sky.

I don’t intentionally not wear underwear, by the way, it’s just because not only do I have no clean ones left, I am also missing a pair—my favorite red laced g-string.

When was the last time I saw it? I drift off, tracing my steps.

I remember packing two pairs, a black one and a red one.

The black one I wore yesterday. I recall seeing them both when I did a bag check at Sydney when they lost it. And then…

My luggage w ent flying.

I must have left it behind on the stairs, dammit. I’ve been running on four undies, and I haven’t been able to go back down to the laundromat this week. Since the holidays are only three days away I need to make sure I go tonight .

My phone notifies me that I have an email. It’s Quinn, sending Cyrus and I a reminder about a signing that takes place in Vancouver for New Years.

Ooh, Vancouver.

Ugh, planes…

My stomach turns just thinking about getting on another plane again.

Especially after the turbulence of the last one here.

Quinn sends me on a mission to book flights since he forgot—in business class—and accommodation for the three days, plus the tickets for us all to the Gala that takes place afterwards.

I fetch my laptop from the kitchen table and browse the web, securing business class flights for Cyrus and I from Calgary.

I’ve never flown business class before , I low key grin to myself, even though I hate flying. Maybe traveling like a fancy rich princess might help with the nerves?

Pfft. Yeah right.

I book two separate rooms at a hotel in Downtown Vancouver, and take the liberty of locking in the calendar a fit and dry clean for Cyrus’s suit next week.

Quinn said that the best of the best authors, managers, and publishers alike will be in attendance so he and I are both to look smart and well groomed.

I take the liberty and search the event and almost squeal with excitement when I see that there will be two hundred authors.

I get to meet two hundred authors, and eat and dance with them too?

How I will manage to function without fangirling over a few of my favorites who will be there: P.L Manter, Lilly Lane, H.T Loom and?—

HOLY SHIT.

Izzy fucking Wentworth. My favorite author.

“Jee wizz, what a line up,” I utter to myself quietly, then compose a new email.

—————————

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Date: 12/21/2024

Time: 10:30 A.M

Subject: Signing

Good morning, Quinn.

Tickets are all booked. We’re staying at the Grand Hickett, which is where the event is actually at. I’ll grab your suit this week and take it to the dry cleaner so that it’s ready for then. See you there.

Regards,

Holly Cate

—————————

I can’t believe it, I’m going to a gala. A gala! I suppose I’ll have to do my hair all nice, and wear a pretty dress. Crap. That means I have to find one first… and have it fitted in a week. But there’s a downside…

I have to be nice and pretty in front of my boss.

My stomach growls. This cold weather just makes me want to eat, and eat. I make two hot beverages, bringing them, and the Christmas Crack to Cyrus’s office door that’s left open a crack where I stop.

The smell of cinnamon that I put in our drinks makes me think of the American movies where their families get together to decorate the house with tinsel, and drink too much eggnog, and snuggle by the fire and then build snowmen.

I mentally drift off, just for a moment.

I’ve spent my entire life wrapped in summers so bloody hot that the roads literally melt.

Bare feet, sprinting across the sand too hot to stand on, racing to the ocean.

Ice-cream dripping down my wrist. A music box blaring our favorite summer songs—usually Bucko and Champs and Chritsmas hits, maybe some Bliss n Eso or Hilltop Hoods in there too.

Oh, and always the stupid cicadas, buzzing so loud it felt like my ears might bleed.

And now… snow. Five spices and pine in the air.

Holiday themed sweet treats in the oven.

Swapped the bikini for a beanie. It’s like I’ve fallen into someone else’s December.

My first white Christmas is already turning out to be totally and utterly garbage.

Building a snowman sounds great, sure, but I’d be doing it out the front of a house that doesn’t even have a Christmas tree, without the smiles, and laughter, and above all else without a family .

Mine don’t even know I’m not in Australia anymore.

I haven’t spoken to my parents in years, not since I left my old country town to chase my dreams—a stupid ex.

Pfft, yeah, some dream.

I haven’t even charged my old phone, I don’t even know if I want to. What would they say if I called? ‘ How disappointing, Holly Polly. Why did you move there?’

‘Oh, jee mum, I dunno, maybe coz I’m stupid and got absolutely shit faced when Adam left me and plotted an entire move with a one way ticket as if it’ll fix a broken heart.’

Yep. That’s how it would go.

Always a disappointment.

Always a second option.

And always collateral damage.

Maybe I am better on my own. But truth be told, I’m not always so melancholy.

I’ve been managing throughout the chaos, and I’ve come quite fond of Banff.

The snow is slowly growing on me, and the people are beautiful.

I even go on brief walks in the morning by the lake before my car picks me up.

It’s no warm, sandy beach like home, but the fresh air does me good.

ASMR sounds of a thocky keyboard tap away at speeds as fast as light, knocking me out of my daydream. He must be on a mission with this book, I don’t think he’s looked away from that computer in the past ten days, not even to look at me… the way that he used to.

Coming to my senses, I peep the door, seeing the ever so gorgeous, talented C.M Stone—wannabe New York Time’s Best Selling Author—lose himself in his dark and twisted world.

After reading his, and a few other dark romance books, it’s a genre that I now absolutely enjoy devouring, indefinitely.

A smile pulls at my lip on one side, seeing his contentment.

Damn he’s such a nerd.

A hot nerd.

He does look very smart today, sporting a soft blue button up shirt, a tight, tan woolen vest with a tie tucked under it, and those gorgeous thick, black glasses that make my heart skip a beat.

And even though I can’t see from this angle, I’ve witnessed his style enough to know his pants would be cream… and tight.

God, I could look at him all day.

Holly, stop staring. It’s only going to make things worse.

Besides, even if I wanted to gawk at him all day like I’m window shopping for beignets, I can’t on account of the fact the fucker made another office for me in the room next door. Even when I’m not near him I can’t stop seeing his face in my head.

Images of him flicker through my mind like a damn movie, day in, day out. Not to mention that I’ve orgasmed more times in the last two weeks to the sheer whisper of his name on my lips when I cry it out than I’ve had in my entire life.

I trail off… yet again , mindlessly picturing myself perched on his rough three day growth while he devours the sweet spot between my legs like it’s an ice cream.

I just know that tongue could do marvelous things to me, having seen it when he rolls it over his lips in such a way.

Especially when I’m certain that he’s holding back from saying something, like he’s doing right n?—

“Are you going to come in or are you going to stare and drool all day?”

I jolt at the sudden intrusion of his voice in such an absent minded moment.

I’m not… I check my mouth in a panic… drooling. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you,” I stutter, then place his now lukewarm cup of cocoa on his desk with a piece of the crack.

“Thanks.” Cyrus’s tone is flat as per usual, but it seems like a struggle, then he takes a sip of his drink without breaking from the screen.

I roll my eyes. When will this end? It’s been ten days since he actually looked at me for more than three seconds. Ten days since the moment we shared when I split my lip. I just want to be normal again. I just want to walk around in this house like I’m not unwanted.

Feeling defeated, I head to my desk in the other room and spend my day without lunch.

Snuggled at my desk with a blanket watching the wind blow snow on the window, I tell Quinn about an event I found on Valentine’s Day a few cities down, then book a few conferences for 2025, and doom scroll over the thousands of horny BookTok girls that go crazy over the quotes I add into Cyrus’s TikTok and Instagram stories.

Don’t even get me started on those comments. I’ll admit that it makes me jealous, especially now because I know he’s not interested in me, and it’s all my fault—I called him mate. On more than a few occasions, and then gave him the cold shoulder.

God my head hurts. He’s my boss. I shouldn’t be second guessing my actions towards him. I shouldn’t think of him the way I do. I shouldn’t be upset that he doesn’t want me the same way. I shouldn’t be jealous of the women thirsting over him.

Well you won’t be in this mess if you quit.

“For fucks sake, you bloody drongo! Why can’t your life just be simple?

” I shout in frustration, slamming my fist onto the table and get up in a huff.

Why can’t I just have a normal life and live in a normal house with actual fucking furniture?

“Who has a normal career that’s not working for some hot piece of ass .

” And date normal men who aren’t cheating, lying, assholes OR my boss.

Well fuck the furniture, I’m going home—HOME, HOME!

I storm out, only to collide with something solid. Oof.

“Something wrong, bloody drongo ?” Shit, how long has he been standing there? Cyrus’s sultry tone hums across my chest as he leans on the door frame of my office, in that way.

Move out of my way, you big moose. I’m leaving!