Exposed Obsession

A NEW JOB

Anabelle

"Ana, come downstairs," my father's rough voice calls.

I tie off the long, red braid behind my neck and adjust my top, feeling ready for the day ahead of me. My father doesn't know it yet, but it's my first day of work. While most fathers would be excited for their only child to be launched into the world, he probably won't take it very well.

Even though I'm twenty-three years old, my father, Irving Reese, treats me like I'm twelve. My mother passed away when I was a teenager, which is why he can be so overbearing at times. Nevertheless, his little bird is ready to leave the nest. He just doesn't know it yet.

"In the den, sweetheart," Irving grumbles.

I scamper into his office, lined with mahogany furniture and a thick cloud of cigar smoke. I try to sweep it from the air while my father's assistant, Padgett Myer, stands at my father's side with a thick cigar rolled in his fingers. He offers me a kind, handsome smile. There is something so calming about having him here for the conversation I'm about to have with my father.

"Good morning, sweetheart," my father hums. He regards me with deep black eyes streaked with gray, matching his salt and pepper hair that is combed back with too much grease. "Padgett just told me we have a clear schedule for today. My next shipment isn't due until late tonight. I wanted to see if you and I could spend the day together."

I lean back in the taut leather chair, my fingertips throbbing with pins and needles. "Well, there was something I wanted to talk to you about too, Father."

His brow furrows and he sits up, easily a foot and a half taller than me even while we're sitting. His presence is always thick and looming, much like the cigar smoke hanging in the air around all three of us.

"Is everything okay, Anabelle?"

"Everything is fine," I blurt out, breathless already. "I actually start my new job today."

My father gives Padgett a quick look and his broad-chested assistant walks out of the room at once. He shuts the double doors on his way out, leaving the office in a dim yellow haze with smoke still lingering in clouds before us.

I tense, trying to get ahead of what I know he will say. "I'm twentythree, and I should have a job, Father. It's important for me, too, because I want to have friends, and I haven't really been on my own since high school when Mom . . ."

He tenses and I shut my lips at once, knowing I'm not helping my case anymore. When he finally leans back and forces a position of relaxation, I exhale, watching his hefty tobacco stick come to his pursed, peach lips and then back to its resting position on the desk.

"Sweetheart, you don't need a job. I have plenty of money to take care of you. Besides, you have friends from your school years," he claims with a nonchalant shrug of his hunched shoulders. "Padgett is a good guy. Why don't you be friends with him?"

"I don't want your work friends, Dad," I groan. "I want to be normal. I want to be twenty-three and . . . and free."

He winces like I've slapped him but ultimately shakes his head. "Well, what's the job?"

"Waitressing," I say, speaking through my excited grin. "It's at this beautiful hotel downtown, and I'll work in the bar and-"

"Absolutely not," he cuts in, his voice stern and low-the kind of tone that leaves no room for argument. "I will not have my daughter bartending in downtown New Orleans. I refuse to allow it. It's too dangerous, and you will call them today and tell them you won't take the job." "But, Dad, I-"

"But nothing," he bites. "You aren't working in this city, and that's final."

My mouth hangs agape, partially in shock at his dismay at the news of my job, but also how hard he denied my request. Having a job is typical for girls my age, but in his eyes, his precious daughter doesn't need one, so she shouldn't have one.

Either that, or he's just being the overprotective father I've only known since my mother died. Whether he agrees to it or not, I'm going to work today. I just hope his forgiveness is gentler than his refusal.

He stands from his seat and adjusts his jacket, pinning it together in front of his chest. I lean back, still in a state of shock, while he comes to my side and flicks his cigar ash onto the edge of his desk. His dry lips press into my forehead. If I were a stubborn woman, I would yank myself away, but I stay put.

"I'm going shopping for the work party I'm throwing for the guys in a few weeks," he says, straightening up to take another inhale of his smokey stick. "Do you want to come with me, sweetheart?"

"No," I bite, looking elsewhere. "I will probably just make plans with Madison later."

He pats my shoulder and leaves his office, leaving me to my dismay as per usual. I feel a small pang of guilt already for lying to him, but his reaction to my news proves that there is no other way to get around his dictation.

I run my fingers through my hair and exhale.

"You're still going, aren't you?" Padgett asks from somewhere behind me in the doorway of the office.

I only nod, knowing there's an equal chance he will tell my father or sweep it under the rug and pretend he never asked in the first place. Either way, I know that I should be normal and spread my wings. A little waitressing job seems harmless to me.

"Just be careful, Ana. Your father has reason to be concerned."

I glance over my shoulder, seeing him lean accentually against the doorframe. "It's a waitressing job at an upscale hotel, Padgett. What's the worst that could happen?"

MY NERVES ARE WORN out by the time I make it to the York Resort. It's a lavish hotel with a spa, a two-story bar, and even business offices for people to use during their extended stay near the coast. I have seen it before, inside the New Orleans magazines, but even after my phone interview to get the job, I've never been inside.

I stare up at the magnificent glass windows that frame the entire main entrance and the white marble columns decorating the outside architecture. I can't help but gawk, feeling a light buzz in my stomach while I let myself inside. The doorman smiles, his outfit pristine and neat; hopefully mine will look the same.

"I am here to see Kayla Maroney," I announce, stopping at the front desk. The man behind the counter nods and picks up the phone, repeating the name into the receiver. "Thank you."

I turn, seeing a petite woman with wide eyes practically sprinting up to me. She looks me over before she skids to a halt, eyeing me over like she wasn't expecting me to be here on time on the day that she requested.

"You're Anabelle, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She nods sternly, taking my arm in her grip and tugging me into a back hallway. We skate through the inner workings of the resort before entering a locker room. She flicks one of the doors open and points to the outfit inside.

I lean back, a little concerned by the lack of fabric.

"Oh . . . um, is this the-the uniform?"

"Yes, it is," she answers tersely, staring at her watch. "I have a short staff today, so you have experience, right? You can do this by yourself. I am far too busy to train."

I gulp down the forming lump in my throat and feel lightheaded. Perhaps lying on my resume was a bad idea, but I needed an edge. The choice seemed clear between being the daughter of the wealthiest man in New Orleans or being a lowly twenty-three-year-old lady looking for modest work with prior experience in service . . .

It seemed wise at the time. Now, I'm not so sure.

"I can do it," I meekly reply.

"Good," she barks, motioning to the outfit. "Black skirts need to be connected at the waist, no higher, no lower. The tops are meant to accentuate your chest so," she mumbles, her eyes taking a second dip of my appearance, "you should have no problem filling out the cleavage rule."

My brows furrow. "Cleavage rule?"

She rolls her eyes, headed for the door. "You're serving rich men who want to golf, be served drinks, and look at all the pretty waitresses while their wives are at home, sweetie. If you don't like that, then you will be eaten alive out there."

The door slams shut behind her abrupt exit.

I look at the scanty outfit, already knowing that sneaking out to come to work could get me killed by my father. But if he saw this, it would be a million times worse. Kayla was right, though. I fill out the uniform well at least, my breasts tied in a black bra that is supposed to be a top, while the skirt flutters in pleated sections to my mid-thigh.

The heels inside the locker fit as well. Now I understand why they asked for my measurements and shoe size on the online application. I see myself in the mirror, my hair unfurling over my shoulders and down to my bare waist, my face sprinkled in freckles that hide my blushing, pale cheeks.

After a moment of reflection and thinking about how my father would burn the world down if he saw me working in this particular outfit, I hurry out to the lobby and make my way into the restaurant and bar inside. Kayla is waiting behind the service well, filling out drink tickets and entertaining a man at the edge of the bar top.

She waves me over and slides over a tray and a pocketbook with a pen already fixed to the inside. "You're alone on the floor today. Shift ends at midnight when the bar closes."

I pause, a little stunned by that timeframe. If my father catches me sneaking in past midnight, I'll be in so much trouble. I decide to deal with that later, crossing the marble floor into the dining room, framed with clean, tall windows and what appears to be the golf course right outside.

This place is a haven, so calm and stunning but also bustling with customers. I take their orders and just write down everything they say, meandering past questions that I can't answer or issues that I pull to Kayla's attention.

"Go up the stairs with these," Kayla barks. "Be careful, too. That bottle in the middle is worth over a thousand dollars."

Kayla hands me a tray full of drinks and bottles and ushers me back to a table of golf-wives and socialites. I attempt to make it upstairs to the second dining room when a broad chested man turns the corner in front of me. As I begin to fall down the stairs, his arm snatches mine. The tray falls down the stairs, glass and liquor scattering all around the floor below.

I gasp, ready to thank the man, but my heart stops when I see his outrage at the mess.

"Mr. York," Kayla breathes.

I stare at the handsome man in question, his hand still around my elbow. Mr. York is the man who owns the hotel, and I just created a colossal mess.

INSUBORDINATION

Anabelle

I feel like a deer in headlights, or in the clutch of a hunter, his eyes like gray fire. He's stunning, physically, but it's easy to feel his rage twirling through the air between us, lacing around my throat, and readying to tie a bow around my lungs.

I struggle to breathe, to even stand up straight in these heels, feeling my balance threaten to rip me away and send me to the floor below where the glass shards and fuzzy alcohol chaotically spread.

He yanks me sideways, pulling me through the dining room without a word, his grasp a little tighter on my arm than I would prefer. I try to stay calm, to remain unflinching on the surface, but he pulls me into the nearest hallway and releases me at last with a subtle push.

I stand under his gaze, feeling so small and helpless.

"Mr. York, I'm so sorry," I breathe. "It was an accident. I can clean it up right away and-"

"You're fired," he barks.

My breath hitches. He doesn't seem concerned at all over the fact he's already short staffed according to Kayla. A man with a mop and bucket scurries past us to clean up the mess in the dining room. I want to plead my case, but he doesn't seem keen on letting that happen.

"And you're going to pay for those drinks you just dropped."

My mouth falls open as I think of the cost of the entire champagne bottle and top-shelf liquor I just dropped on the floor. It's easily worth a few hundred dollars. While my father likes to tell me I can use his money as I please, he will ask what it's for.

If today has taught me anything, it's that lying isn't my best asset.

I shrink back from his intense, fuming storm cloud eyes. "Please, sir. I will work off the mess, I swear."

He rolls his eyes, glancing at his luxurious, diamond encrusted watch. He owns a hotel, golf course and a vineyard, so he can pay for the diamonds in his upscale watch, but he expects me to pay for the drinks I dropped when running into him? He has to be joking!

"You won't work as a waitress, that's for sure," he remarks, adjusting his coat and staring down at me in more ways than one. "You owe me money, girl. How do you anticipate working this debt off?"

I swallow hard, not sure what to think, but thankfully I don't have to. A little girl comes bursting through the doors into the back hall, coming right up to Mr. York and I. An older woman comes behind her, throwing a small backpack on the ground on top of his expensive, polished loafers.

"I quit!" the woman snarls, her hair disheveled and her face bright pink. "I just endured nine hours of constant screaming and tantrum-throwing for no reason!"

The woman turns to leave, but Mr. York ushers her to halt, and she does, though begrudgingly.

"Please, Tammy, you can't do this to me," he begs, suddenly so humane and apologetic, begging for mercy when it seemed like I wasn't worth giving the time of day to. "She's just a little girl, you can't seriously expect me to-"

They get into a back-and-forth argument about the little girl's behavior, while she seems rather enthused with my presence. She waves me down to her height and I kneel, noticing her bloodshot eyes. She wipes her cheeks with her little fists. She couldn't be more than three years old.

I take one of her hands from her eyes and see her focus on rubbing it has turned the surrounding skin pink. When I pull her arm back, I can see a little fuzz stuck to the white of her eye. Thankfully my fingernails are just long enough for me to swipe it out.

She smiles in appreciation, squealing as she comes into my arms, practically knocking me on my ass from the force of her unexpected hug. I look up, seeing Mr. York and Tammy both staring at me in awe. I hold up my finger, showing the small piece of fuzz I pulled from her eyelid.

"She had this in her eye," I say meekly, patting her back softly while she clings to me. "I think it might explain the screaming."

Mr. York glances at his watch once more and shakes his head, dismissing Tammy with a flick of his wrist. "I accept your resignation. Scram."

He stares down at me, pulling his little girl back by her small, delicate hand that she's clenched behind my shoulder. She looks up at her dad with admiration, though I can't imagine why-he's kind of an asshole in my opinion.

I stand to my full height, wondering if I could just grovel and ask Padgett to borrow the money from my father to pay off the mess I made.

The little girl glances up the side of her tall, curiously silent father.

"Is this my new nanny?"

We both freeze, hearing her sweet little voice raw from exhaustion. She must've yelled for hours, along with rubbing her eye red over that little obstruction.

"She is," Mr. York groans, looking me up and down for a moment. "Just

. . . not in that outfit."

I look down at my breasts caving from my top and my exposed midriff. That, along with the tiny skirt hiked up damn near over my ass and the heels that went with it, didn't work for a job as innocent as a nanny.

Then again, I don't recall ever asking to work as his nanny.