William Stevenson had what the people of the Triad called, "old money." His family was one of the many successful tobacco growers that profited millions of dollars before companies were scrutinized for making their products addictive.
He sat in his study behind his desk and stared at a picture of his late wife Diane that passed away three years prior from breast cancer. He ran his strong hands over his silver hair and then rubbed his chin. He looked at a picture of his children. He had two daughters and a son.
His daughters were both married to men that were successful in their careers. Yet, there was his son. He had given him practically every opportunity to follow in his footsteps, yet his son refused. He sighed.
The door opened and in walked his housekeeper Alma, a chocolate delight with a mane that lions would envy. "Mr. Stevenson, do you need anything else?" she asked.
He smiled, "I'm fine Alma. I'll be headed to bed shortly."
"Goodnight, sir," she responded before she turned to leave. Alma admired Mr. Stevenson. He had looked out for her after her mother was sent back to Colombia for overstaying her visa. Alma's status was similar, which made it difficult to find work. He hired her as a favor to her mother.
When the morning arrived, Alma had served Mr. Stevenson his breakfast and proceeded to do the rest of her work in the enormous house. There was a loud sound outdoors. The sound of an angry motorcycle roared, which made Mr. Stevenson enter the foyer where Alma was dusting, "What in the dickens--"
The doorbell sounded, "I'll get that," she said as she walked over and opened the door. When it opened, she looked into the soft brown eyes of a young man in his mid-twenties, beautiful creamy skin, chiseled jawline, and some scruff of his chin. She recognized him from the pictures in Mr. Stevenson's office.
"Jack?" Mr. Stevenson commented.
"It's me, dad." He stepped inside, Alma shut the door and turned to witness Mr. Stevenson embracing his son.
"Are you home for good this time?" he asked.
Jack didn't respond. He only smiled. He wasn't one to divulge all of his plans upfront. He did what he wanted when he wanted, which is why he spent two years backpacking through Europe and Asia.
"I see you hired a new assistant to help out around the house." He turned and looked at Alma as she stood in her black pants and white top, her hair fluffed out in an array of kinky curls. Her skin was smooth and looked velvety. Something inside of him sparked.
"This is Alma, she's been with me for a little over a year."
"Hello Alma," he said with a smile that almost, made her blush, she kept her composure in front of her employer.
"Hello Mr. Stevenson," she responded. "Would you like anything to drink?" she asked.
"I'm fine," he replied.
She smiled and excused herself and the men went into the study to chat.
The day had faded and it was time for dinner. Alma prepared stir-fry steak with vegetables and jasmine rice. The two men sat at the table as Alma served the food and poured them drinks.
"A golf buddy of mine has a daughter close to your age, she's gorgeous and single. We were thinking--"
"Dad, no. Just no."
"She's a beautiful woman."
He shrugged. He didn't care. He hated when people tried to set him up on dates. He liked natural chemistry. The spark of meeting someone casually and seeing where things led. Besides, he was a great-looking guy and it wasn't like he needed help. Women were constantly offering him their cookies wherever he went.
"I want to focus on my music."
His father grunted, "I had all that equipment put in the basement. I didn't know when you'd be back and it was just taking up space in the garage."
"It's fine, dad, I can get it later."
They continued to eat and just as Alma was bringing out dessert, Mr. Stevenson received a phone call. He excused himself. She looked at Jack, "Would you like a slice of chocolate cake?" she asked.
He nodded, but that wasn't the only chocolate he wanted on his tongue. She handed him a plate and went back into the kitchen. Moments later, Jack arrived with all the dirty dishes that were on the table. He started loading the dishwasher, she turned and said, "Mr. Stevenson, I'll do that."
"But I'm already doing it." He smiled.
She walked over to him, "You don't have to do that."
"I know, but I want to and call me Jack."
She chuckled, "I can't do that."
"I just said you could. Go ahead say my name, Jack."
"Jack," she said with her mild Colombian accent. His name sounded beautiful rolling off of her tongue.
"Where are you from?"
