On Monday, I jump into action. I am going to do everything in my power to make this guy love me. He will be so enamoured that he will hand me the millions when I ask for them. Oh, that sounds wonderful. 

First step: find common ground. Make him like me.

As I wait for Remington to come out of another meeting in a remote building, I take out a book, hoping that when he comes back, he will ask me about it. If he turns out to be an avid reader, it would make my job much easier. I do like reading, and always have. 

Predictably, Remington slides into his seat and says "What are you reading?"

Delighted, I open my mouth to say my pre-rehearsed answer to that question, complete with prompts for him to talk and blah blah blah stuff like that. But then Remington follows his question with an irritated "Please close the book. Drive. I'll be late."

I slam Mansfield Park close with a vengeance and snap "What's with the paranoia? Don't you have nothing on today?"

He laughs. It isn't a laugh of pleasure, though. It's a sarcastic laugh. "Lady, have you seen this?" Remington proceeds to wave the black book he always carries around in his briefcase at me, and flips open the pages. I can see cramped handwriting on all the previous pages, and he stops at one page- today's page. "See. I have to complete five essays, call my parents, set up a business meeting, call the bank..."

I yawn. "That's so interesting."

Sighing, he says "When will you be nice to me?"

Is this the time to insert a sappy "always"? Or do I ignore him?

Instead, my mouth moves on its own and I let out a frustrated "Argh!" At the same time, my foot accidentally presses down on the accelerator, and the car zooms forward. 

"Sorry!" I spin the steering wheel madly and release some pressure. The car slows, and I grin sheepishly. "Actually, I'm not sorry. It's the car's fault. Plus, now you won't be late for all your crap!"

Remington grits his teeth and forces out "Just wondering, did you sign any contract to be my driver?"

"In fact, your stupid housekeeper assigned me to be your driver," I grumble under my breath. Aloud, I say "No."

"Great! You're fired."

"What? No!" I panic. "For what?" 

"Hmm...I don't know. Do you? Maybe it's the bad driving, or the lousy attitude. No, it can't be those. Let me think, then."

I want to scream at him, but like with Boss, I stop myself and instead say humbly, hanging my head in shame "I'll improve. I'm sorry."

Remington gives me a shrewd glance while tapping on his phone. "Will you do anything to stay in the job?"

"Definitely."

He grins wickedly. "Good to know."

---

Two hours later, I'm sorting through piles and piles of documents. In fact, Remington is very neat, and his office attests to that fact. His bookshelves have rows of different coloured and labelled files. Unfortunately, his documents are just never ending. That's when I realise Remington is a criminal lawyer, too. He's just taking an online course for his Master's degree in Law instead of physically being at an university. Each client has thick folders with tons of classified information. This information, however, is sealed tightly in a folder, so I can't take any peeks, although I want to very badly.

It doesn't bother me in the slightest that Remington is a criminal lawyer and that I am technically a criminal. He doesn't have concrete proof that I con people for a living, and I think I can argue up a storm if he ever accuses me of being a criminal.

Still, he really is clever. Making me do all the laborious work while he is probably watching Netflix in his room. That makes me even more determined to finish my task in half the time he gave me, so I can show him I'm capable.

Bad idea. When Remington comes to check in on me, he claps his hands slowly at my progress, then says "You're very efficient. Do this too, then." And promptly dumps a cartload of stuff onto me again.

I stare at the papers falling onto my lap in despair. I'm simply flooded in official documents and papers. This guy is so annoying! 

I think I'll tell him that. Yes, I think I rather will.

Knowing this is impulsive but still not bothering to think too far ahead (i.e. to think of the consequences), I get up and leave the office. Maya is walking in the corridor and she waves. "Hey, Maya!"

"Oh, hey! Do you know where your brother is?"

Maya nods solemnly and points. "Two doors down." Then giggling, she continues on her way.

I fling the door open.

Remington's head snaps up. "Get out." His voice is hard.

My mouth hangs open. What is he doing? Just sitting there on the floor, curled up in a blue quilt, with the television off and the air conditioner blasting. And his face is dry, but his eyes look wet. The different coloured eyes: one blue, the other a stunning shade of grey.

But no. It isn't the eyes that attract my attention now. It is his sorrow that makes me hesitate to leave the room. I've seen this sorrow before. This kind. The dark, dark, dark grey kind. And what follows after this intense feeling is almost never good.

I promised never to let my past mistake haunt me. So I take a step forward, tentatively. "Remington- let me stay with you."

I'll just stay until he feels better.

He shuts his beautiful eyes and hangs his head slightly, eyelashes touching the cheeks and dark curls falling over his forehead. "Please just leave."

"Remington-"

"You're fired," he sighs.

"No, no, I'm not. The employee gets to decide when she's fired. It has always been that way in this world."

He chuckles slightly. The grey cloud lightens, but only marginally. "Then there wouldn't be any jobless people, Angel."

"So, can I sit down next to you?"

"No. You're fired, remember?"

"I-" I try to pour as much sadness as I can into that. To seem as if I'm really miserable. It works.

Remington sighs again. "Very well. Come here. Are you okay?"

Oh, gosh. Never. But thanks for asking. The real question is, are you okay?

Instead, aloud, I say "Fine. Can I see your eyes?" Anything to distract him from whatever is on his mind.

His eyes flutter open and Remington is staring right at me. I shift away slightly and shiver. It's kind of cold.

"Wow, your eyes are pretty," I comment lightly.

"Which one?" He asks. "Which one do you like better?"

"Ooh, that's tough," I say absentmindedly, peering into his eyes. The left one is grey, with streaks of gold like the remnants of an exploded star. But the right eye, the blue one, that's what takes my breath away. It's like the ocean, with golden waves rippling across the surface.

Remington quirks an eyebrow. "Done?"

"Yes. I've decided. The blue one is much much better."

"Oh," he says, surprised. "I thought you'd go for the grey one. Everyone thinks it's cuter."

"No way," I protest. "I mean, the blue one is just breathtaking."

He smiles. Shuts his eyes and leans his head back on the bed, which is behind him. "Yeah. I like my blue one too."

"Why can't I have such pretty eyes?" I cry in distress, clawing at my eyes dramatically.

Remington leans forward, and cocks his head to look at my eyes. I blink, surprised from his closeness. "You have the eyes of an angel," he says softly. "Purple, aren't they?"

I laugh. "Oh gosh. Don't go down that road. Every guy who knows my name uses some form of Angel pun on me. Or a lame pick up line."

He grins. "Let me guess- it's the one that says: did you fall from heaven? Because you're an angel. Or something along those lines?"

I can't help it, he's right, and a smile grows on my face. "Gosh, yes. It's horrible. I've heard it too many times."

"Guys must like you," he says casually. The gray and blue in his eyes somehow expand and grow darker, and the gold sparks fade slightly. I can't help it. Once I noticed his eyes, I just keep looking at them.

"No," I explain. "But they think it's funny to use an angel line on a girl called Angel."

"I won't do that, then," he replies.

"So I'm not fired, right?" I ask eagerly. "Or I'll cry. Boo, hoo."

Remington laughs. I keep an eye on his sorrow indicator. It's lessening, turning less grey and closer to white than black. I can't help but feel relieved. Prevented a messy incident.

Suddenly I feel the quilt being spread over me. "You looked cold."

"I'm not! I'm so hot," I grin. "I'm an Angel."

He frowns. "Are you using an Angel line on yourself? That's sad."

"Shut up."

Remington laughs. "So are you done filing my stuff?"

I glower at him, good mood vanishing. "You think? You think?"

"Hmm...I'd say yes."

"You jerk..."

Just then, my phone buzzes. I pick up, seeing it's Jay. Although I don't really want to pick up, it's better to pick up than to ignore him. The last time I ignored Jay's call, he broke into two houses looking for me. So much for calm and rational Jay.

"Do you want to go out for dinner?"

"You know I can't. I'm going to see her today."

"Oh, yes. Do you want me to come, then?" Jay asks cautiously.

"No. Bye."

I shut my eyes. I want to visit her, but at the same time, I don't. Because she reminds me of another girl, one that I used to care for deeply.

Readers: remember to vote and comment. Thank you. ♡

Does anyone have heterochromia like Remi? (Yes, I call him Remi. Remington is the name I gave him because it sounds rich and stuffy, the sort of name he would have. But Remi is his proper cute name.)