Chapter Text
Chapter One
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I should have left earlier. I hate being late, and I definitely don’t want to make a bad first impression. My best friend, Kat, asked me to do this at the last minute as a favor, and I can’t let her down.
But let’s be real, I’m not exactly booked and busy right now.
I sprint up the subway stairs at 72nd Street, September air heavy with the city’s leftover heat, and try to skim the dossier that was emailed to me last night. “What am I doing?” I groan, flipping through pages without absorbing a single word. I’ve never worked as a personal assistant in my life. I’m a writer, for God’s sake. But Hallmark turned down my last pitch, and as much as I’d love to call this a sabbatical, I also love groceries. So fine. Someone’s go-bitch it is.
So here I am, running down Central Park West toward 1 West 67th, a nine-story Gothic beauty from the turn of the century. For the next two months, I’ll be the assistant-slash-New York guide for some foreign celebrity filming a movie.
“It can’t be that hard to babysit a celebrity,” I say under my breath as I step into the lobby.
Thank God the concierge was expecting me. The last thing I need is to get accused of stalking some famous person I’ve never even heard of.
A binder and a manila envelope are waiting for me at the desk. Inside are a set of keys and an access card for the elevator.
In the elevator, I flip through the binder: floor plan, production schedule, employment agreement. The main entry to the apartment is on the sixth floor. When I step into the ornate hallway, I silently pray I’m the first one here. My shoes click against the marble, because of course it’s marble, as I walk to the door. Just in case I’m not, I knock, count to ten in my head, and finally use the key.
“Hello?” I call into the dark apartment.
As I step inside, the door closes behind me and the lights flicker on. Motion sensors. “Fancy,” I say to myself, wandering in. A faint hum from the city filters through the glass. The wood floors glow under the light, warm and rich, like the kind of space that makes you want to take your shoes off even if you’re not supposed to.
I wander into the living room, greeted by a two-story ceiling and chandeliers. Multiple chandeliers. You could fit my entire apartment between the piano and the dining table.
“Wow,” I whisper. “It’s nice, but who actually pays this much to live in New York?” A beat later, curiosity wins. “Okay, fine,” I mumble, pulling out my phone. “Let’s just check.”
A few taps on Zillow. Two commas. Nope. Absolutely not.
My phone buzzes in my hands. Text from Kat.
Did you make it?
Yes. This place is insane!
Who did you say this guy is again?
You’ll see. 😉
I roll my eyes at Kat’s reply and get to work turning on the lights and throwing open the curtains.
I pull the floor plan back out to get my bearings. Beyond the foyer, an open living-dining area stretches wide. A baby grand sits to the right beside a sweeping staircase that leads to the second level. The kitchen’s on the left, dark-wood cabinets, definitely not my taste, but I shrug off the owner’s choices.
The kitchen’s stocked with cookware and tableware, bottled water filling the fridge, and bulk pantry staples lined up like someone actually plans to cook here. I don’t. At least, not often and not well.
Upstairs, there are two bedrooms. The primary sits on the right with a king-size bed and built-ins. The en suite has double sinks and a glass shower, and I sigh longingly at the deep soaker tub.
The second bedroom has a smaller seating area, a queen bed, and its own entrance that connects to the seventh floor. The floor plan notes this room should be used as a dressing room. I open the closets. Built-ins from floor to ceiling. Whoever this client is, I’m betting I’ll spend hours unpacking and organizing their stuff.
The bathroom in the second bedroom has a larger shower but no tub. The binder says a cleaning service comes once a week, but I’ll handle daily cleanup. Great. Because keeping my 500 square feet in Brooklyn spotless clearly isn’t enough cardio.
Standing at the top of the stairs, I take in the view. Managing a household while managing a celebrity? Maybe I’m in way over my head.
I glance at my watch. His flight landed two hours ago. Where is he? I sit by the windows, flip open my phone again, and start plugging dates into my calendar.
I must be lost in thought, because I don’t hear the door open. Just a voice that cuts through the quiet and makes me jump to my feet.
Two men stand in the foyer, both Asian, one taller than the other. They look young, but then again, everyone looks young now that I’ve officially crossed into my thirties. Call it a midlife crisis if you must.
“저 여자는 누구예요 (Who is she)?” asks the shorter man.
I have no idea what he said, but judging by the confused look on his face, it’s probably a good time to introduce myself. “Hi there.” I smile and cross the living room to approach them. “The production company hired me to assist you during your stay in the city.”
The shorter man looks at the taller man, waiting for a translation, and I bite my lip. “Oh, here.” I remember the brief bio Kat asked me to write about myself. I pull it from the binder clutched to my chest and hand it to him, assuming he’s the manager. Handler. Whatever.
He scans the page. I’m not sure if he can read English, and I silently curse Kat for setting me up for this job without knowing whether we can even communicate.
I take this moment to really look at them. The taller man is handsome but too lean for an action star. The shorter one, reading my bio, is also handsome. His eyes are large and catch the light in the dim foyer. His nose is big but suits his face, and when he smiles at something on the paper, dimples appear.
“누나 (Nuna),” he says with a smirk. The word rolls off his tongue like he’s testing it. I don’t know what it means, but the way he says it makes me feel slightly off-balance.
Shit. How the hell am I going to do this job if we can’t understand each other?
“I’m so sorry. I know your team requested someone bilingual, but something came up last minute, and, well, I’m doing this as a favor for a friend. She’s one of the producers for the movie, and—”
He laughs again, and I can’t help watching his mouth, because of that smile. Yes, that smile. God, he must think I’m insane.
“I downloaded a translation app! Let me just—” I reach for my phone when he speaks again.
“I’m fluent in English,” he says, smiling, dimples deepening, lips distracting.
“Oh.” I glance between him and the tall man who still hasn’t spoken. “Will you be around to translate then?”
He looks surprised for a split second before his shoulders relax and that damn smile returns. “Don’t let him fool you. He speaks more languages than I do. But you and I will be working together for the next few months.”
He extends his hand, and I realize, oh God, he’s the client. My cheeks go hot as I juggle the binder, wipe my palm on my jeans, and finally shake his hand.
“I’m Chris,” he says with an easy smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you. I took this job last minute—”
“Right. The favor for your friend, the producer.”
“Yes.” I cringe, realizing I basically gave him my entire life story a few minutes ago.
There’s a knock at the door, and I blush harder when I realize I’ve been holding his hand this whole time. He drops it, and I tell myself to get a grip as three carts of luggage roll in.
The taller man finally speaks, directing the delivery staff in perfect English.
Perfect. English.
I blink, because of course he’s been standing there the whole time, letting me crash and burn. I step aside as the luggage parade begins. Louis Vuitton, Dior, Fendi. Dear Lord. My entire life fits in two suitcases. Three, if I bring my insulated Carhartt and boots.
Chris is dressed casually, the kind of casual that probably came from a stylist’s garment rack. Platinum jewelry, relaxed luxury. I recognize quality when I see it. I just measure it differently.
Different lanes, sure. But I don’t envy it.
I know how this world works. Stylists, brand deals, PR optics. Still, the sheer amount of stuff makes me curious about him. Does he actually like this, or is it just part of the uniform?
I glance down at my jeans and Converse. Comfortable, functional. Maybe not runway material, but I could muck a stall and still grab coffee after. I’ll take practicality over pretense any day.
“I’m going to wash up,” Chris says, pulling me out of my thoughts. We make eye contact, and he adds, “Hey, Nuna. Hyung will go over my schedule with you.”
“But my name’s—”
“I know.” His smile turns sly. “It was on the paper.”
Chris disappears upstairs, Fendi duffel slung over his shoulder. I open my mouth to correct him, then close it again. Probably not the hill to die on before breakfast.
Story Music:
Title Song - 'The Side Effect (to my loneliness) Is You.'