“I believe you’re lost, young man,” I clip out in my no-nonsense tone.
One of the editors, Sherry, who sits near Tasha’s old desk, stiffens. That’s the response I’m used to when I’m in business mode. The lost kid only grins harder. It’s…off-putting.
“Your one o’clock called. They’ll be running late.” He holds up a pink slip. “Sherry says the story for February’s issue won’t be ready because her source disappeared, but we have a brainstorming session at three for us to consider what piece could take its place or if the piece she has is even salvageable without that source.” He waves the pink slip at me, a slight rise of an eyebrow as he implores me to take it. “At five, we really need to discuss the state of these files at this desk. I’ve already penciled it into your calendar in the shared folder.”
I frown, a wave of confusion washing over me. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”
All typing ceases. Eight pairs of eyes glance my way, a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. The ninth pair of eyes—brown and glittering with amusement—remain locked on me.
“Your assistant, silly.”
My assistant?
And silly?
No one, and I mean absolutely no one, has ever called me silly in my entire life. I’m not silly. I’m serious and measured. I’m certainly not playful. Which is why I’m already over this little game.
“I don’t have an assistant,” I growl, the muscles in my neck and shoulders going tight with tension. “Sir, this is trespassing—”
He rises from the chair, sending a whiff of hazelnut my way. I’d always been a black coffee kind of guy until Dante’s sister Shelly forced me to drink hazelnut creamer one day. I was surprised that I enjoyed it. Ever since, it’s been a favorite flavor of mine. Something about the creamy nuttiness—
I give my head a slight shake, chasing off the confusing, distracting thoughts to focus on my delightfully scented problem in front of me.
“Mr. Frost, I’m Rylan,” the man says, leaning forward to offer his hand. “Rylan Moore.”
I stare at his hand as though it’s a snake. This can’t be. My assistant didn’t show up. Connie never called me to meet the new hire. The résumé was for a woman, not a man. Right?
My brain conjures up the paper inside my mind and I quickly scan back through the memory of reading it, looking for clues to indicate the sex of the person. I’d assumed it was a female because the name sounded feminine to me. However, nothing actually proved this line of thinking.
It was a slip.
A small mistake.
Not that I’m opposed to a male assistant, it’s just that I’d assumed it was a female. Now, my brain is trying to play catch-up, piecing together this entire morning to make sense of the situation.
He drops his hand that I never shook, his head tilting to the side as he studies me. The office remains deathly quiet as though they’re all watching and waiting.
“It’s nice to meet you, handsome,” Rylan says with a wink that sends a jolt of something spasming down my spine. “I look forward to working with you.”
Handsome.
The word sends blazing fire lashing across my skin, burning at my neck and lower stomach. Humiliation, I suppose. Whatever it is, it’s a feeling I’m unfamiliar with. My hands begin to tremble. All I can think about is getting him out of here. And fast.
“A word in my office,” I growl, my voice like icicles hammering down and piercing anything in their way. “Now, Mr. Moore.”
Rather than balking at my words or cowering like most people do, he laughs. This infuriating, delicious smelling, fire inducing man child laughs. “You’re bossy, Mr. Frosty. You know that?”
Someone snorts nearby. Tad. I should fire Tad. If he weren’t so proficient with social media, perhaps I would. I shoot Tad a firm glare that has him withering and the amusement draining from his face, leaving the room once again silent.
Rylan rounds the desk and clasps a hand on my shoulder. His smile falls as he begins to dig his fingers into my tense muscles.
“They said your heart was made of stone,” Rylan says, his brows furrowed, “but they failed to mention your body was hard too.”
Another snort from Tad.
I shake off Rylan’s hand, turn on my heel, and storm into my office. Seconds later, he follows me inside.
“Close the door,” I command.
His brow arches high. “Say please.”
I scowl at him, refusing to utter the word, and instead study him. He’s fit in all the right places, though not nearly as cut or thick as I am. Despite him wearing a suit, there’s something about his suit that feels…inappropriate. Perhaps it’s the bowtie. Or the tiny coffee stain on his slightly wrinkled white shirt. Maybe it’s the pink slip he’s shoved into his jacket pocket. It could be the fact that he’s wearing tennis shoes with his suit.