It was nearly 10pm when my phone chirped. Work had been stressful at my counseling practice since my assistant had decided not to come back after her maternity leave. We'd agreed that she would come in part-time after six weeks, which would have been fine since my appointments slowed down once Covid-19 reared its ugly head. But months later, depression cases were on the rise, and half of my clients were couples who needed help due to being stuck alone together for weeks at a time. In addition to providing therapy, I now had to handle all the scheduling, billing, and disinfecting the entire office between each appointment. I needed help.
I was already halfway through my second glass of scotch when I looked at the phone to see who had texted. I was surprised to see it was my sister-in-law asking if I was still looking for help at the office. I initially wondered how she knew, then why she would care. The first answer was easy; she'd obviously talked to my mother. The second was harder to puzzle out.
Though my older brother and I were only a few years apart, we've never been all that close. In addition, we'd had a bit of a falling out years ago when he'd slept with my fiancée at the time. We both ended up marrying other women, but I never really forgave him for it. Now he works for a pharmaceutical company and his wife is a corporate attorney, which made it confusing why she was asking whether I was hiring.
Nevertheless, I responded that I was having trouble finding part-time help since the college students in town had been sent home. My business relies primarily on word of mouth, so most of the applicants were friends or relatives of clients whom I couldn't consider due to privacy concerns and conflicts of interest. My sister-in-law in law told me that she knew all about the university shuttering, since her daughter was a senior there. I'd nearly forgotten that my niece attended, since I only ever saw her every few years as she grew up. Though I barely knew Rose, I'd always liked her; it wasn't her fault that her parents were wankers.
My brother's wife explained that my niece hadn't moved home when the university went to all online classes because she couldn't get out of her apartment lease. Now she was looking for work since her retail job played her off indefinitely. I told my sister-in-law to give her daughter my number and we would schedule a time for an interview.
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My phone buzzes and I see your name come up on a text: "I'm here."
I text back for you to come up to the office and the door opens immediately. I know it's you immediately despite the mask you're wearing. I'm not surprised by your aqua hair. I see a lot of brightly colored hair in a college town. However, I'm a little taken aback by the way your leggings accentuate your curves. You've clearly developed quite a bit since I last saw you in high school. Even the hoodie you wear doesn't do much to hide the swell of your breasts, and I need to remind myself to quit ogling my own niece and potential employee.
"Right on time, I see. Thanks for being punctual," I muster as I reach out for a handshake. Instead, you quickly step toward me and embrace me in a tight hug. I don't remember you ever hugging me so affectionately before and I silently wonder if it's gratitude or if you're lonely from self-isolation.
"Oh, sorry," you squeak out as you step back, "should I not do that here your office?"
"Maybe not at work," I respond with a grin.
"Look," I continue, "I know I said on the phone that we'd have an interview, but I haven't had many reliable people applying for the job, and I know you're smart and capable, so I'm willing to give you a chance and we'll see how things work out."
"Thanks, Uncle...." you beam, "You won't regret this."
"It might be best not to call me uncle or by my first name when clients are around. It doesn't sound very professional," I state. "But I understand if it seems weird to call me 'Mister ......', since we have the same last name. So at the office, I think it's best if you just call me 'Sir'."
"Yes, Sir," you reply. I can clearly see that you're smiling beneath your mask. After you assure me that you've been quarantining, I inform you that you should only need to wear a mask when clients are in the office - as we thoroughly disinfect between each appointment. I mostly need help in the afternoons and evenings, and the job includes mostly taking calls, filing, and signing in clients and screening them for Covid symptoms. I'll train you on our billing software over the next few weeks.
"I think your hair color is fine, it's common enough these days for young people to dye their hair. Dress is business casual, so dresses, skirts, slacks, blouses, sweaters, you know...," I trail off as you nod.
"Okay, then. I guess I'll see you tomorrow around 2 o'clock?" I tell you.
You grab me again for an even longer, tighter hug, saying, "Thank you again...... Sir."
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The next month passes quickly, and I'm impressed by how quickly you learn the ropes. It's also a welcome change to have someone else in the office to talk to between appointments. I'm not sure if I imagine it, but it seems that more of the women in couples counseling are complaining about their significant others and their 'wandering eyes', though only one mentions looking at you specifically. I can hardly blame them, after all. Whether it be the skirts that expose the smooth skin of your legs or fitted pants that emphasize the curves of your hips behind, everything you wear makes you look amazing.
At the end of a particularly long day, in which the same woman storms out accusing her husband of "eye-fucking the receptionist out front", I decide that I need to unwind and offer to take you out celebrate your first month on the job.
"Where can we go, though? No place is open," you casually remind me.
"There's a decent Indian place near my house that delivers," I suggest.
"Are you sure it's no trouble?" you ask.
"I'd be glad for the company," I reply, "My wife is visiting her sister, so you'll be saving me from eating alone. I can drive you home afterward."
A short car ride and a phone call later, I'm cursing myself. "Well, shit. I forgot that they're not open on Monday. Y'know what? I can make a butter chicken curry that's almost as good as theirs. Open up one of those bottles of pinot and I'll start dicing chicken," I suggest.
"It's okay. You don't have to cook for me," you protest. I'm not listening, though. I'm craving curry and I won't hear any argument. Once you realize I won't be swayed, you pour us each a glass of wine as I prepare the chicken for the pan.
As the chicken cooks, I tell you to open the pantry and get some rice. I shamelessly take in the sight of your rounded ass as you bend over to reach down to the shelf. When you quickly turn your head to ask me which kind, I know I'm busted. You play it off as if you don't notice, even though we both know better, as I reply, "Uh... the basmati."
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We made small talk through dinner, mostly me asking how classes are and how you like working in the office, and you complimenting the meal and remarking how seldom you get good home cooking. One bottle of wine flows to a second bottle, and the question comes: "How come you and my dad don't talk much?" I clumsily attempt to evade the question by asking what you mean, but you roll your eyes. "I'm not sure that's something your dad wants you to know," I reply. You bite your lip and coyly twirl a lock of your aqua hair, saying, "Come on... I'm really good at keeping secrets."
You continue your inquisition until I relent and explain how, before he ever met your mother, your father had sex with a woman I was engaged to marry. Your eyes widen in disbelief, then your face splits into a grin and you ask, "Whoa. Does mom know?"
"I seriously doubt it. I can't imagine that your dad told her, and Grandma and Grandpa don't know either, though they know there's something keeping your dad and me from being as close as they'd like," I explain.
"I thought there might be something, but I never thought it would be anything like that. I can't imagine him doing that," you ponder. "Did you ever think about getting revenge?"
"You mean like with your mom?," I ask. "No. That thought never crossed my mind." At that thought we both burst out laughing as we drain our glasses. As I get up to get another bottle, I notice you watching me and biting your lip again. I hold up the bottle as if to ask if you'd like more.
"I'm a little drunk," you say, "Are you sure you're still okay to drive me home?"
After thinking for a moment, I reply, "I will be in an hour or two... probably not if we open this. You're welcome to stay in the guest room if you'd like."
"Open it," you say with a mischievous smile, then inquire, "Hey, can I use your bathroom?"
"Of course. Upstairs, first on the left," I direct as I uncork the bottle, "I'll be in the living room with your wine." My eyes are glued to your swaying hips as you saunter up the stairs. Again, you turn our head and catch me looking. This time, you don't pretend to not notice, instead giving me a sly smirk before continuing upstairs.
I pour us each another glass and set them down on the table next to the sofa as I sit, grabbing the remote. Waiting for the tv to connect to the wifi so we can watch something, it occurs to me that I don't really know what kinds of shows you enjoy. My musing is interrupted by movement at the top of the stairs. I'm astonished to see you step silently down toward me with bare feet and wearing one of my wife's nightgowns.
"I raided your closet. Hope she won't mind," you say playfully.
