She’s not a tiny girl—not toothpick thin—which makes me relish the thought of taking her over my knee even more.
Fuck.
I scan the length of her and my gaze catches on her boot.
So she’s not limping from pain.
A missing heel, actually. For some unholy reason, I want to know the story behind it.
I swallow a chuckle and shake my head. The day’s taken a strange turn. I can’t help being curious about the hellcat who might’ve used her claws like she threatened, rather than that cinnamon dreck pungent enough to strip paint.
She turns to look back at me as she shuffle-retreats. Deep mocha-brown eyes connect with mine for a split second. A crease lines her forehead.
“Go to hell,” she mouths, if I read her lips correctly.
Damn.
She’s this territorial over a park bench?
I stand by my mouthy description.
“Mr. Heron? Do you want me to get the park police?” Hugo asks. “She...she’s crazy! I’m worried she’ll come back the second your back is turned.”
“The cops?” I shake my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve stepped in far worse on these streets than coffee spit. Get back to work and pretend this never happened.”
Hugo Little may be many things—awkward, whip smart, and always so high-strung I worry about his blood pressure—but the man’s a loyal workhorse to the end. No sooner than the words leave my mouth, he’s bustling around, calling for our camera people to get to their places, directing them to move everything over to the vacated spot with better light.
I realize I’m still holding something that doesn’t belong to me. I remove the papers I stuffed back in the pink folder after collecting them off the ground. Thumbing through them again, I nod, muttering to myself.
Apparently, Miss Llama Spit works in advertising. Her work speaks for itself. Hard to believe she’s developed the same defense mechanism as a shaggy camel if she’s ever called an office home.
Cats aren’t my thing, and neither is purr-niture, but her work is clean. About as good as the polished work my creative team sends across my desk every week for approval.
The cartoons are witty and the color contrast says she knows her stuff.
This isn’t novice work.
I smile. My latest assistant cracked and quit a few weeks ago. Executive assistant duties are far more demanding than graphic design, however...
What if this woman brings the same guts to a meeting I saw on a park bench?
She could be what I’m looking for. I need someone with a backbone, and any girl with a sharp, acid-spit mouth like hers could really—
No.
Shit.
Those lips just became completely unkissable, if I’m seriously considering this insanity.
I don’t mix business with pleasure. Ever.
She’s left a rare impression, though, and there’s no denying the stone-cold fact that I want her.
On my team. In my bed. At my desk. On all fours.
I can’t decide which I’d enjoy more.
Hell, for now, I just want to see her again, talk to her, preferably without the turf war or anything liquid she can hock up.
“Hugo?” I ask as soon as he’s circled back.
“Yes, sir?”
“Track her down. I need to talk to her about the assistant job,” I say.
Hugo stares at me with a blank face, adjusting his spectacles like there’s something wrong with them.
I inwardly groan. Come on, man. I don’t need you questioning my sanity, too. Not after the routing that chick just put me through.
There’s a reason I relate so well to Louis XIV. I am the company.
People follow my orders, and not just because I have CEO, Owner, and President as job titles. They do it because I’m the beating heart of this leviathan that spins them gold.
“You mean...latte girl?” he finally whispers, batting his eyes in disbelief. “Mr. Heron—”
“Did you see another girl with no filter here?”
“R-right. But you’re serious? I still think we should call security, just to be on the safe side. She’s unhinged. You really want to give her a job for...for spitting on you?” Hugo asks.
Phrased like that, it does sound strange.
“Yes. She’s perfect for the open EA position. I have no doubt she has the energy to fill my shoes when I’m otherwise occupied, and that’s what I need. No excuses, no nonsense, no endless babysitting.”
Hugo shakes his head.
“Energy. Because that’s the only skill required...” he mutters under his breath, then goes quiet for a minute. He shifts his weight, rocking gently at my side. “Mr. Heron, with all due respect, you go through assistants like tissue in a sick ward. Wouldn’t we be better off finding someone with more qualifications besides a bad—um, uncooperative—attitude?”
“No.” I look at Hugo and narrow my eyes. “Get it done before she’s gone.”
“But the shoot, the lighting...”
I flash him a cutting look. “The cameras are flashing, our model’s smiling, and you’re wasting time.”
He nods at me, then cups his hands around his mouth as he takes off at a run.