With a final, pointed look that seemed to say "May the odds be ever in your favor," Veronica sashayed out of the office, leaving me alone in a vast, gleaming sea of luxury that threatened to swallow me whole. The moment the door clicked shut behind her perfectly manicured fingernails, I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding - and immediately regretted it, as the air in here smelled heavily of Veronica's overpowering perfume mixed with a tinge of desperation.

This office was overwhelming in a way that brought me back to the time in 7th grade when Mrs. Johnson made our class help clean the gym after a pep rally - the sight of so much glitter and discarded pom poms swirling around the floor in a chaotic dance of school spirit left me perplexed and anxious. But beneath the initial sensory overload, a tiny spark of curiosity ignited within - maybe exploring would be slightly less dreadful than just standing here.

First things first, coffee. Veronica's detailed explanation echoed in my head, though I seemed to have conveniently blocked out the part about adjusting the grind size or tamping the grounds - you know, the basic instructions. Armed with bravery, I ventured towards a sleek, chrome contraption nestled in the corner like my Uncle Bernie after Thanksgiving dinner.

A few 'accidental' button presses and one impressive steam burn later (because clearly even a machine costing more than my college tuition wasn't idiot-proof), I managed to produce a cup of something resembling the liquid Uncle Bernie rinsed out with after cleaning his retainer every night.

As the caffeine coursed through my veins, sending a jittery charge to my nerves, I began to feel less scared. Time to see what treasures this lavish lair held! The anteroom offered nothing but tasteful potted plants and stacks of glossy magazines - all featuring Daniel, of course. Where's the fun in that? My sights were set on livelier prey: the room where the magic happens, or so I imagined.

Pushing open the double doors with a flourish, I gasped like I'd discovered Cinderella's forgotten slipper. Good lord, this wasn't a closet, it was Neiman Marcus having a wild weekend in Vegas! Row after row of perfectly arranged finery extended as far as the eye could see, a kaleidoscope of colors and textures to dazzle even the most jaded fashionista. Tuxedos from Tom Ford bumped elbows with Gucci blazers, while demure little Prada shirts peeked out, desperate for attention.

In the center itself held court, a rack devoted entirely to the dainty and not-so-dainty feet of the rich and famous. Jimmy Choos! Louboutins! And - lord love a duck - a pair of custom boots that screamed "Howdy, partner!". And the accessories! Cartier watches by the dozen, Ray-Bans by the gross, and a hat rack stretching clear to the rafters, from top hats to baseball caps (because even our dear leading man has his bad days hiding from the world).

This room was dazzling—wall-to-wall couture worthy of a Paris runway. I half expected to spot André Leon Talley napping in the chaise lounge amidst piles of discarded neckwear. The array of accessories alone told a story. Each tie spoke of exotic travels to lands unknown to peasants like me. I spied a pair of loafers hand-tooled in Naples and wondered what scandals they had witnessed. This was a treasure trove of sartorial splendor, a testament to Daniel Hunter's undeniable style. I couldn't resist whipping out my phone and snapping a picture (for just Sarah of course), making sure to catch the monogrammed hankies just so.

The caption practically wrote itself: "This Is My Normal Now".

With a mischievous grin, I hit send, instantly knowing it would elicit a major reaction from Sarah. Her reply came back within seconds, just a series of emojis too racy for social media.

Sarah's text read. "Can we raid his closet? Asking for a friend..."

"Dude, you'll be working for a walking ad for GQ!" Sarah's follow-up text read. "Think he'd let me borrow something Prada for my community theater audition? Fingers crossed I land the part and can finally quit waiting tables..."

I chuckled, already picturing Sarah swanning about the stage draped in fine Italian silks like a rescue shelter mutt dressed for a fashion show. Now that would be a sight for sore eyes. A girl's gotta dream, right?

As I continued wandering this maze of a home, hoping to get lost, I stumbled upon a cozy nook tucked deep in a far corner.

"Aha!"

"Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back," I thought.

I creaked the door open and found myself in a room that could only be described as a relaxation sanctuary crossed with your aunt's living room. A plush white daybed, covered in at least three crocheted blankets, beckoned me to nap forevermore. A bookshelf was stuffed to breaking with first-edition novels - perhaps Mr. Hunter was aiming to cure insomnia with boring prose. Or maybe it was just set dressing for when he played an intellectual on a TV show.

And then I spied it - a shy second door, hiding in the wall like a wallflower. You know that feeling you get when you spot a two-for-one sale at the Dollar Store? That's how fast my heart sank its claws into my ribs. What mysteries or embarrassments may lie behind that discreet door?  Did it open to a dojo stocked with steroids and other illegal performance boosters? Or perhaps a media room wherein Daniel and his cronies screened poorly lit home movies of ill-advised antics and awkward phases? The possibilities were endless and I was itching to find out.

But before I could muster the courage (or recklessness) to investigate further, the intercom crackled to life. Veronica's voice, devoid of its earlier snark, filled the room.

"Mr. Hunter is on his way back, Ms. Watson. Please make sure he has a fresh cup of his favorite espresso ready upon arrival." No problem, thought I as I hurried to prepare the coffee. This fancy office had more doodads and gizmos for making coffee than the entire staff lounge at my old high school. Which brew setting does this monstrosity use for a single serving - the espresso shot or the tiny teaspoonful?

~

Another intercom announcement sent a jolt of nervous energy through me that could have powered the coffee machine. Veronica's dry, crackly voice echoed through the speaker like a bad PA system at a middle school dance - "Ms. Watson...Mr. Hunter is almost there...Please make yourself ready with an 'espresso'." It was time to hop to it faster than after four Red Bulls. I scurried to the coffee station, channeling my inner barista. Or at least, I hoped there was a barista inside me somewhere, having forgotten which button made milk steam and which one spilled boiling water all over the counter just five minutes ago.

Thankfully, this high-tech machine was now more user-friendly than the email login at my old office, with pictures and words even I could understand. Just a few taps and it began to gurgle and steam, like one of those fancy European cars Mr. Hunter no doubt drove.

Minutes later, a steaming cup of perfectly brewed espresso sat waiting like a student before a pop quiz, ready for Mr. Hollywood himself to take a sip and decide if it was an A+ or back to the coffee urn for remedial brewing.

Feeling oddly self-conscious, I glanced at my reflection in the mirrored office kitchenette wall normally reserved for admiring fresh produce or one's youthful good looks.

My clothes looked hopelessly plain against the stylish backdrop of Hunter's tastefully decorated office. In a last-ditch effort to bolster my confidence, I frantically patted down my haystack hairdo and gave myself a generous spritz of Sarah's flowery perfume. It was a delicate blend that said "professional yet mysterious" - or so the label claimed. Whether it did the trick or merely left me reeking of old lady, only time would tell.

Just as I straightened my posture, hoping to impress upon Daniel Hunter my air of effortless professionalism, a loud "CRACK!" shattered the silence. Or, should I say, further shattered the silence, as the squeak of my spine as I stretched to my full five feet could be heard for city blocks. I looked down to see the culprit - the heel of my trusty black pumps, maybe once trusty before years of wear had turned them brittle. Not only did I look like I had just wandered away from the city bus, shoeless and smelling of cat pee( that is obviously my sweating feet plus Sarah's perfume), but now I was practically crippled.

Panic threatened to engulf me, visions of face-planting sloppily into Daniel Hunter's chiseled jaw flooding my anxiety-ridden mind. In my mind's eye, I pictured the gossip blogs gleefully reporting "New PA destroys hottie movie star!" With a resigned sigh, I lamented that all those years of perfecting my slouching posture had finally caught up to me.

As the panic threatened to make me sweat through my pants, I knew only one solution remained - a trip to the restroom to attempt repair with whatever women stow in their purses these days. A bobby pin seemed as good a bet to MacGyver my heel and pump altogether, or failing that, a roll of duct tape or chewing gum ( whatever I can find in the powder room) was going in for the rescue. Anything to avoid ending up as the latest joke in the office - or worse, featured on TMZ.

Hobbling sadly down the hall, I dreamed of a Hollywood-style makeover montage where I'd emerge totally transformed - like that lady from The Princess Diaries who takes off her glasses or breaks her glasses - my mind is confused. But I really wish to go from frumpy assistant to hot stuff, ready to take on the world.

It was a nice thought, shattered the second I limped into the grand washroom. Good lord, this place was fancy! As fate would have it, this opulent space had everything but a red carpet runway. The marble floors glittered brighter than my future if I didn't fix this situation.

The gleaming chrome fixtures( that probably cost more than my car) put my smudged windshields to shame. And the plush hand towels monogrammed with a fancy "DH" - did that stand for Daniel Hunter or Duct-tape Handyman?

SHUT UP EMILY

But I had bigger issues than my new boss's bathroom accessories.

Standing precariously on one leg, I grabbed for a towel, only for my elbow to touch something for the automatic dispenser to spray me like a sprinkler. Before I could dogpaddle out of the way, the terrycloth tentacle whipped around my face, catching my nose and nearly knocking me into the luxurious Jacuzzi.

That's when I heard them - the ominous clicks of expensive dress shoes approaching the office. My heart turned to stone in my chest. Daniel Hunter was here. And I, precariously one-legged and wearing a wet hand towel as a turban, was nowhere near ready for my close-up. The door swung open, a slash of gold sunlight silhouetting a tall, dark figure. There he was, Hollywood's leading man, come to inspect his domain. He scanned the room before his electric blue gaze landed on my sorry state. And that's when he saw me.

I came hustling down the hallway, my soaked pants making unpleasant squelching noises with each step. What a mess this day had become! As I rounded the corner picking up the tray of coffee I had made for him( that must have gotten cold now), I spied Mr. Hunter standing ramrod straight by the entrance, no doubt judging every grain of dust that dared lurk within.

"Mr. Hunter...g-good morning. I was making you an espresso.... then my shoe heel broke so I had to change...but Mr. Hunter... I'm so sorry, I had a bit of an incident in your... bathroom..I...uh".

He did a leisurely scan of the room, no doubt taking inventory of all its flaws and failings. I braced myself for the onslaught of criticism that was surely coming. But then— horror of horrors— his laser eyes of judgment landed directly on my sorry excuse for a human form. I was like a wounded animal caught in the headlights, desperately wishing I could crawl under the nearest furniture.

In that moment of panic and peril, my one brain cell decided the best course of action was to shift my weight from my precarious perch. But instead of regaining my balance, I only succeeded in losing my grip on the tray of coffee. And like some demented game of Cup Pong, the contents went sailing through the air towards its unsuspecting target. You can probably guess how this story ends.

For a moment, all was silent but for the dripping of expresso down Daniel Hunter's no doubt very expensive shirt. I half expected his head to start spinning like that creepy girl in The Exorcist. But to my surprise, the corners of his perfect mouth slowly turned upward in amusement.

Had I,...dared I hope..., finally amused the dour Mr. Hunter? Desperate times call for desperate expressions of humor, it seems, even in his stern presence.

Instead, something unexpected happened. A slow smile spread across his face like melting butter. He raised an eyebrow in a way that said "Well, well, well" without making a sound. Amusement was dancing in his eyes the way ants dance after stumbling upon a dropped jelly donut.

"Well, Ms. Watson," he said, his voice a deep, husky rumble that sent shivers down my spine like someone poured an ice cube down my back. It was the kind of voice that makes middle school girls squeal and roll their underwear into tight balls.

As I stumbled to apologize, the soaked tile floor proved slippery beneath my lone soaked pump. My foot slid out from under me and I started to topple backward, arms pinwheeling. But his powerful hands shot out, catching my flailing arms before I crashed to the floor. "Careful there," he said gruffly, righting me with ease.

I tried to steady myself, leaning heavily on my good barefoot. But the floor was treacherous and my other foot skidded on a puddle, sending me lurching sideways. Once again, his reflexes were lightning quick. He grabbed my waist, yanking me firmly against his hard body before I could fall a second time.

And then, before I could even choke out an apology through my clenched teeth, his strong hands remained wrapped around me, holding me securely to his chest. They were hands that had done many things both legal and not-so-legal, with knuckles well-acquainted with roughness. I landed squishily in his chest cavity, his warm scent of musk and something undeniably fragrant enveloping me in an unwanted hug.

My eyes locked with his, mortification and strange flutters doing jazz hands in my stomach.

Instead of being mad about me slipping into his muscular arms like a slug onto a banana peel, Mr. Hunkywood gave me a sly smile that showed off his perfect movie star teeth. His eyes twinkled in a way that said "You sure are a clumsy gal, but that ain't such a bad thing."

"Easy there, kitten," he murmured, a Mona Lisa smile playing on his otherwise handsome but vaguely smug face. "Seems we both have a knack for leaving bad impressions ".

When he talked, it was in a voice deep it sounded more like an Arabian Nights character than a man. Like some dark creature from another world, speaking with a rumbling, seductive drawl laced with danger and desire. I got the shivers up again at the realization that this was just another one of those moments where I should get away from him and run like the hounds of hell were after my heels.

As I stared up at him, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set in a way that clearly suggested I shouldn't try anything funny. He released a low growl, one so deep and threatening, my skin tingled with goosebumps. With his warm hands on me and his woodsy smell all over, it was taking all my willpower not to get lost in his dreamy movie star gaze.

~