“You tampered with my brew,” he grinds out, his eyes shifting around suspiciously.
“Whatever.” I shake my head. “You’re nuts.”
The elevator doors open. I step inside, punch the button to shut them, and immediately burst into a manic fit of laughter.
Oh my God.
His face.
His stupid, arrogant, chiseled, upset face.
In no time, I’ve ordered his triple espresso the same way I did his black drip this morning. Decaf.
Too bad he asked for a Red Bull, too.
No way to fake that one.
Since he’s decided to torture me with impossible workloads, inhuman deadlines, and yes—I’ll admit it—those deliriously good looks that keep showing up in my dreams, I’m fighting fire with fire.
I’m going to do everything to this jackass Brina should have done to Heron before they had to go and ruin their fun by falling in love—okay, except maybe the pie to the face.
He deserves a nice thick banana-caramel cream pie, but I might actually get fired over that one. And I want to keep this job, even if it means putting up with a tyrannical lunk stuffed into the world’s sexiest suit.
At lunch, he passes my desk, heading for the elevator. I look up from my work. “How was your coffee this afternoon? Any improvement?”
He glares at me. “Awesome.”
I spot the Red Bull in his hand. Has he figured out the rest of his drinks were decaf?
“Y’know, if you need two coffees and an energy drink by lunchtime, maybe you should get to bed sooner. Don’t stiff the Sandman or you’ll pay!” I call.
He stops, his huge shoulders rippling with a sigh.
“Don’t you have work to do? Or do I need to assign you more?”
I flash him a smile and turn my eyes back to my screen.
He sent me half a dozen “special assignments” on top of my normal load yesterday. But they’ll all be done before I leave today because I rock and roll.
Take that, Wardhole. I’m too good at this and you suck at getting under my skin.
Around four, I submit the last of his projects and open an email from Beatrice that makes me gasp.
She...she wants feedback on her latest designs. I mean, sure, it’s sent to the entire creative team, but she CC’d little old me.
Beatrice Nightingale Freaking Brandt wants my input.
This woman is so amazing I’m not sure there’s anything I could tell her. You can’t improve on genius, and even if I’m educated in art, I’m not a licensed architect or designer.
But part of feedback means weighing the feeling, the mood, the soul of her creations. We’re also going to work through the process, how she makes revisions, and I’ll be there at the same table with her entire team.
That’s worth more than any salary or any appalling bosshole.
My computer pings again with something less exciting in my Inbox.
To: Paige Holly
From: Ward Brandt
Subject: Your Capable Hands
Miss Holly,
I have a new use for your hands away from the keyboard. See to it that the scale models in my office are dusted and shined before 5:30. I’m expecting a meeting with a VIP client tomorrow. Try not to break a nail.
Thanks,
Ward Brandt
Senior Partner, Brandt Ideas Inc.
What the eff? See to it? Break a nail?
Ugh-city.
Still, Beatrice doesn’t need immediate feedback before tomorrow and five thirty p.m. comes first. I suck in enough air to puff my cheeks and blow it out slowly. I don’t even know where to find cleaning supplies since I didn’t realize I was part of the janitorial staff now.
Freelancing might not have been so bad.
Not knowing what else to do, I go to the bathroom, unroll a sheet of paper towels the length of my arm, and wet them.
Ward’s office door is flanked by two tables of imposing models cast in what looks like pure silver. I start at the left table, dusting his stupid models.
Yes, they’re beautiful buildings.
No, the phallic symbolism isn’t lost on me, especially when I wind up stroking up and down a tall skyscraper the company worked on refurbishing years ago.
“Make sure you get the ones in my case, too. Nice and slow so you don’t miss a spot,” he says, emerging from his private bathroom.
Oh, God.
I whip around, letting out a squeak as I catch my balance. The bastard smiles, one hand fixing his tie, a hot glint in his eye.
How long has he been watching me?
My only response is a dagger-eyed glare.
He leans against the doorframe with one dark-brown wave hanging in his eye. I’ll admit, the purple tie and silver suit looks good on him today.
“It’s a pleasure working with you sometimes. You’ve been a decent hire after all,” he says slowly.
It’s an odd, sincere burst of praise I’m not expecting.
I try to come up with some quip, some joke to throw back, but I’m actually speechless.
Again, he hits me with that Hercules smile that could hold up the world—and I’m a little afraid it’s captured my heart.