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Oh man. I had just suggested teaching my boss—who's not only super attractive but also really intimidating and a total buzzkill, how to let loose at a club. Me. The same person who'd been recognized by both the bouncer and a former fling in just twenty minutes.
Honestly, it's amazing I've made it to twenty-four. For real, natural selection should've taken me out years ago.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap!!
He tilted his head a bit, and I could see the corner of his mouth twitching. Was it amusement, or was he just about to fire me?
"I thought you said," he said, with a voice so low and dry it could evaporate my soda, "that you hardly ever came to places like this."
There goes my shot at pretending to be the dedicated assistant who spends weekends color-coding spreadsheets and sipping herbal tea. In one enthusiastic slip, I'd revealed myself as at least a semi-professional chaos agent.
Fantastic. A truly stellar career move, Theo.
I felt my face heat up so much that I was almost worried the strobe lights would start bouncing off it like a disco ball.
"Y-yeah! Exactly!" I stammered, forcing a laugh that probably sounded more like a nervous hyena than anything breezy. "I'm not really into the whole party scene. At all. But I've known Miles for years, you know? He drags me to stuff sometimes. And back in college, I got roped into a couple of frat parties by my roommate...very reluctantly."
Very reluctantly. Sure, except for that one Kappa Delta guy with the shoulders and dimples who made my freshman year way more educational than any lecture. I could still recall that basement smell—cheap beer and cologne, the thump of whatever Top 40 remix was blasting, and the… well, let's say the highly memorable encounters we had upstairs that probably left a mark.
Good times. Actually, maybe the best times.
Yes... I've been a man whore for a long time, if you have any problems you can take it up with my manager.
I pushed that memory down before it could make my face turn even redder. Focus, Theo. Don't start mentally listing your conquests or body count in front of your boss. (Although, if I did track them, I might be in the Guinness World Records for the Olympic sport of bad decisions.)
I straightened on my stool, gripping my glass like it was a shield, and decided to charge ahead before common sense could get a grip.
"But the thing is, sir, I really appreciate you keeping me on as your P.A. seriously, you've been way more patient than I deserve and I'd be totally honored to help you chill tonight! If that's okay with you, of course. I could show you the ropes. Or… the beats? The fun stuff. Whatever people call it these days."
Mr. Fairchild's expression stayed beautifully, infuriatingly blank...strong brow smooth, lips pressed in that firm line that made him look like he was carved from marble by someone who didn't believe in smiles.
The flashing lights turned his eyes from gray to violet to electric blue, and I could feel my palms sweating against the cold glass. Telling an alpha this good-looking a lie like this should come with a warning. My instincts were in a frenzy, yelling both "run" and "notice me" in a dizzying cycle.
He didn't say anything for what felt like forever, just looked at me as if he was trying to figure out whether I was having a meltdown or genuinely offering nightlife lessons. The bass was booming, people laughed and shouted around us, and I wondered if it was possible to die from secondhand embarrassment.
Finally, he let out one of those long, weary sighs I'd heard him use during conference calls with vendors who just didn't get it.
"Fine," he said, the word measured and reluctant, almost like it hurt him to admit he might need help having fun. "Show me how to have this… fun."
This...fun? What was he, an alien?
He gestured vaguely at the chaos around us, the dancers, the lights, the sheer madness of it all like a man who'd just agreed to a root canal because the toothache was too much to bear.
I stared at him, waiting for the punchline, the "just kidding, you're fired," or something. But he just sat there, expectantly, one eyebrow slightly raised.
And just like that, against every bit of better judgment I had, I was now in charge of teaching Xavier Fairchild—CEO, alpha extraordinaire, and the very definition of 'a stick up his ass', how to party.
Tonight was either going to be epic or the final nail in my professional coffin.
Maybe both.
Mr. Fairchild fixed me with that steady, expectant stare, the one he usually reserved for when he wanted me to pull off a miracle presentation at 8:59 a.m. right before a 9:00 meeting. But this time, instead of quarterly reports, he was waiting for me to deliver some nightlife wisdom.
"Where do we start?" he asked, his deep voice slicing through the pounding bass like a knife through butter, completely calm and totally serious.
I just gaped at him for a solid three seconds, my brain doing that spinning-wheel-of-doom routine it loves whenever life throws me a curve ball the size of a meteor.
How in the world did I end up here? Oh right...because I'm a certified idiot with a mouth that didn't seem to understand survival instincts. One minute I'm trying to keep a low profile and sip a drink like a sensible adult, and the next? I'm volunteering to be the party guide for the most uptight alpha billionaire in New Athens.
Brilliant, truly living my best life.
Teaching Xavier Fairchild how to loosen up without revealing that I'm pretty much a veteran of sketchy nightlife decisions was going to take the finesse of a bomb defusal expert. One wrong move, and boom...either he'd figure out his P.A. was a mess, or worse, I'd end up even more attracted to him than I already embarrassingly was.
I looked around for some inspiration, or maybe an escape route, and spotted Gavin leaning against the back counter, chatting quietly with one of his co-workers. They both shot me amused glances, and when Gavin caught my eye, he gave me a tiny smirk, like he was already placing bets on how this was going to go down.
Perfect, liquid courage it is.
I turned back to Mr. Fairchild with what I hoped was a confident, professional smile, though it might've landed closer to a goofy grin, judging by how his brow raised a bit more.
"First," I leaned in like I was about to share a secret, channeling every bit of false confidence I could muster, "we've got to get you drunk, sir."
The words hung in the air between us like a glitter bomb just exploded. Mr. Fairchild blinked, slowly and deliberately...like someone had suggested rebranding the whole company in Comic Sans.
The club lights kept flashing over his face, hitting him with bursts of magenta and electric blue, but his expression didn't shift from that perfect, handsome neutrality.
Seeing him drunk and stupid wasn't in my bingo card but, I'll take it!