10 t e n : act professionally

"Wow," Aaron looks at me with hungry eyes. Usually I would enjoy his attention, but right now I feel awkward, like I'm under a microscope. He rubs his chin, ruffling the ginger stubble.

Dad lightly taps the table. That's his tell—when he's slowly growing impatient or aggravated. I can sense the wheels of thought turning in his brain.

"Where exactly were you?"

"I forgot to tell you. I went to a party with Casandra."

Aaron shifts uncomfortably.

"Oh, okay. Just remember to tell us," he finishes. Phew.

Mom doesn't let me off the hook that easily.

"In my dress?" she inquires, crossing her arms.

I chuckle nervously. "Yes. I didn't get anything on it, and I'm going to get it dry-cleaned tomorrow," I reply hurriedly.

She nods slowly, zeroing in on the dress to detect for any stains.

"I never knew about this party," Aaron chimes in.

I shrug. "It was a last minute thing. A classy event."

He chuckles bitterly. "Casandra at a classy event?"

Aaron and Casandra nearly despise one another. She always says that I can do better. And I always say that I love him, and that she doesn't know him like I do.

"Um, anyway," I speak up, "I'm going to change and shower."

After finally reaching my room and taking off the dress, I sit against the wall. Lately, I swear I've been up every second of the day. I need a—

Suddenly, the door swings open.

"Ugh, knock please!" I exclaim, trying to cover my exposed skin.

"Didn't know I needed to," Aaron replies.

I sigh. Why did he have to be here?

As he takes his jacket off, he settles on the foot of my bed.

Still covering myself, I go to retrieve a towel.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," he murmurs, faced down at his phone.

Suppressing the urge to respond, I get some comfy clothes and lock the bathroom door behind me.

I hear the TV turn on as the hot beads of water penetrate my back. I can only take hot showers. The steam soothes me, and I can really think during a hot shower. All the recent events in the past week almost distracted me from the pressing issue: that fucking photo.

Who would want to sabotage me like that?

Only one person that's bitchy, evil, and conniving enough to do this comes to mind: Sarah.

Not to toot my own horn, but I'm in the top 10% of my class, I play sports, I volunteer—I'm not the type of person to get wrapped up in a scandal like this.

"Fuck, score already!"

I hate that he feels so comfortable bombarding my space. I just don't want him here. I wanted to relax before having to face Drake tomorrow. I mean, he might not even be that present in the real work—he's just the name behind the charity. Him and his rich family. The way he spoke to me tonight, the ever-present look of intrigue he carried—what was that about?

Finishing up, I get dressed and return to the room to see Aaron spread over my comforter.

"Hey, you were supposed to take your shoes off downstairs," I scold.

He rolls his eyes and tosses them across the room.

Before I can stop myself, rage builds up and I end up pulling the damn cord out of the TV.

"Go."

He looks confused, but mostly appalled at my outburst.

"Wh—I was watching the game."

"You can't just barge into my house and entertain my parents and—"

"What? Do you hear yourself?"

"I need warning! I need a phone call or something if you're going to come here," I cross my arms.

He sighs exasperatedly. "I don't get the problem."

"Can you just please go?"

After stilling for a second, he gets the message and leaves.

At the chilling slam of my door, I let out a quick breath. Did I overreact?

~Saturday~

"Damn, he can eat this pussy any time he pleases," Claire whispers into my ear.

"Claire, fuck. It's eleven in the morning!" I whisper back.

She's shamelessly lusting after our supervisor… again.

I still don't see much of the hype.

"—so we've got food heating up on the burners and—" he's giving a speech and going over the basic elements of today's objective, while also sneaking subtle, but not so subtle glances at me.

I was hoping we could forget what happened yesterday. Maybe that we could forget that we saw each other outside of this professional setting altogether.

I don't want anything to do with him… nothing that's unprofessional, at least.

I don't want Claire to get involved with him, either. He's most definitely the player type. She doesn't deserve to get hurt by someone like that. He's definitely banging the busty secretary—a blonde like the one from last night.

It's not my business who he fucking fucks, I harshly remind my inner monologue.

"Then I'll leave him wanting more, and—"

"Claire, shut the fuck up," I snap.

She looks a little disheartened. "Damn, fine."

I rub my temples. "I meant… I just don't want to hear about how sexy Drake Staple is!" I blurt.

Immediately, I look around to see if anyone heard. Thankfully, everyone's clinging on to his every word, too immersed in whatever he's saying to hear our conversation.

"Alright, let's do this!" he exclaims. This is a change from his usual sardonic tone, laced with nonchalant undertones. This team-building, pep-talk-giving version of him is so unnatural. Maybe HR advised him to take this approach. I chuckle at the thought.

Everyone files out into the dining area, and Claire and I follow.

A hand lands on my shoulder. "Genevieve, stay back for a minute."

Claire shoots me a suggestive smile, and I roll my eyes. What now?

I turn to face him. "It's Gen."

"I thought we agreed: no giggling or bringing outside topics in during work time," he shifts his gaze down to me and crosses his arms.

I cross my arms in return. "I don't remember agreeing to anything."

He's like my boss, so why am I talking to him like this? For some reason, I feel the need to bite back with a rebuttal to everything he throws at me. It's like a game. A game that I should probably stop playing. If I get in his good graces, there could be an internship in my future.

I play with one of my curls. "I-I'm sorry. I meant to apologize. I know what I came here for, and it won't happen again." I plaster on my best customer service voice.

My entire disposition changes—no longer playful and engaged in this game. It takes him aback, but nevertheless he straightens.

"Good. Get out there."

The tables are neatly set, lined with the finest linens, or so it seems. From far away, it almost looks like they've gilded the tables with silk, but he wouldn't do that.

I touch the tablecloths, just to be sure. They're soft to the touch. Why would he go through this much effort for homeless food distribution? I know his type—industry folk; they don't care about the needy; they throw money at problems to make themselves look good. Maybe that is all it is—throwing money.

As I'm pondering the choice of tablecloth, he slides by me, and his cologne wafts into my nostrils.

"Excuse me," he says softly.

There is so much space in this room; he could have literally gone anywhere else.

"Gen," Claire calls. She waves me over to a table, which has hair nets, gloves, and aprons.

"I-I'm sorry, again, for how I snapped at you earlier. I feel kind of bad," I half-bite my lip.

"It's fine. I'll probably blow up at you more later—I mean that's what friends are for," she smiles.

"Taking your anger out on?" I ask sarcastically.

"Yes, exactly."

We dress ourselves in the protective gear and get ready to face the hungry, homeless population of New York City.

Staple has already entered his office with his assistant. What could she possibly need to assist him with? Oh right, I forgot he's next up to take over a poisonous oil industry.

Suddenly, the doors open, and the bustle begins.

Claire and I are operating the dessert table. Luckily, there are pre-packaged chocolate eclairs, so no mess.

"Here you go," I smile at a young girl in tattered clothing, holding a faded teddy bear.

"Thank you," she smiles back.

Her hair is in shambles, and her shoes look like they've been through war. I hate that so much of New York's population is suffering like this. Who knows where she has to sleep at night—whether she's safe or afraid?

Claire eyes my expression and snaps me out of my trance.

"Here," I continue with feigned grace.

Once we're finished, we had completed 6 hours of service. That had to be hundreds of people, all hungry and depending on Marie's Soups for survival.

We threw our hair nets in the trash and hung up our aprons.

Then, out of the blue, a click-clacking noise approaches me, coupled with an awfully strong smell.

"Mr. Staple wants to see you," an annoying voice states.