“Then teach me, Winny.”
I cringe at the name he used to call me when he was a toddler. The same name he took to calling me at fifteen years old just after Dad was killed, when he’d sob and ask why God would take his daddy away.
“Winston,” I correct, unable to meet his sad stare.
“Give me a job. Let me pull in a salary. I won’t have to bleed my trust fund so much.”
I scoff at his words. “You want to work here? You quit college last year. You’re barely qualified for the mail room.”
“Then let me work the mail room,” he grumbles. “I can work my way up.”
“A Constantine doesn’t work the mail room,” I snap. “It’s embarrassing to our family name.”
“There’s something I can do. Just let me.”
“What about your business venture?” I demand. “Suddenly not so important?”
“Not if I can work here.”
I can’t believe I’m about to agree to this.
“Associate economic intern,” I concede begrudgingly. “You’d have to work with Nate a lot, but I could involve you in some of my projects. It’s a paid internship for a year. I’ll write in the contract you’re not allowed to pursue any business ventures for the duration of the internship.”
He grins, boyish and fucking goofy. “Seriously?”
“I’ll only pay four hundred grand for the year.” I lift a brow, waiting for him to argue.
Though he flinches slightly at the smaller amount, he doesn’t argue.
“After the one-year internship, if you do a good job, we’ll offer you a senior economic analyst position that pays three times your internship salary.” I drum my fingers on the table. “Travel to London, Reykjavik, and Moscow will be required and expenses reimbursed. You’ll be given a company car budget of five hundred grand and your own company-approved secretary. Do we have a deal?”
“Hell yeah!” He offers me his hand. “Thanks, Winny.”
I shake his hand, irritated by the fact I’ve given this toddler a job. But it sure beats the alternative of him getting himself into trouble out of boredom, especially with the Morellis. At least by him working here, I can keep an eye on the reprobate.
“Have Deborah call my tailor. Whoever you use, frankly sucks. If you work here, you have to look the part.” I rise from my seat and grab my bag. “Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t,” he vows.
At least he seems to believe his words.
It’s nearing five, and I’m agitated beyond words. Meeting after motherfucking meeting today, all of which I’ve had to lash out and threaten each person. I’m on edge and tense as hell. To make matters worse, Perry has popped into my office no less than fifty times to ask questions. I know Nate gets off on this shit. He enjoys the hell out of seeing me frazzled.
I’m so over it.
And I didn’t even get to play, not once today.
My thoughts drift to Saturday night. I’d been surprised at how far Ash went with me. She may be a shitty maid, but she was born for this job. To please me. My dick twitches at the reminder of her riding my thigh and the way she whimpered when she came. I thought she needed space after that, especially after our argument afterward, but then she shocked me again by texting me.
Now that I can take a fucking breather, I text her.
Me: I want you to become my full-time house maid.
Ash: Is that all?
The sarcasm drips in her text, making me smile for the first time today.
Me: Among other things. Name your price.
Ash: Your place is immaculate, Win. You don’t need me.
Me: Incorrect. I need you available at all times. We both know calling you a maid is a ruse and a way to get Harold off my back later when he discovers how much money I pay you.
Ash: Harold sounds like a real hardass.
Me: Most accountants are.
Ash: You seriously want to pay me to hang out in your condo all day waiting for you to come home like a sugar baby?
Me: When you talk dirty, my dick gets so fucking hard.
Ash: Gross. I’m not talking dirty!
Me: But you could, and I’d pay handsomely for it.
Ash: I’m not in the mood today.
Me: To talk dirty?
Ash: To talk to you period.
I smirk at her response. Testy.
Me: Name your price so we can agree and move on.
Ash: My bird comes with me.
Her fucking what?
Me: Is this teenage slang for your friend? Because I only want you.
Ash: No, my friends all got scared off by the Terror Triplets. I’m talking about my bird. A real one. His name is Shrimp. He’s a good boy.
This girl is serious.
Me: Send me a picture. If I like it, I’ll pay you for it.
Seconds later, she sends me a selfie with her and a goddamn pink bird. Her smile is broad and happy as she looks at it. Fuck me. I hate animals. But I don’t hate how pretty she is, and I certainly don’t hate that smile. I shoot her a hundred bucks.