“No,” Jake said quickly, “no, that’s fine. Whatever you prefer is okay with me.”
It sure as hell was. He’d never had an assistant like this one. When he looked ahead, he could see Emily Taylor by his side well into the distant future. Emily wouldn’t find a man, get married and quit her job. Her career meant as much to her as his did to him.
He was fairly certain she never even dated.
He supposed he ought to feel guilty for being happy she didn’t, but why should he? Emily was just one of those women who wasn’t interested in men. There was a long and honorable list of them, going back through the centuries. Betty Friedan and the women’s libbers. The Suffragettes. Joan of Arc. They’d all devoted their lives to Causes, not to men.
How could a man feel badly if a woman made a choice like that?
Emily wasn’t even a distraction.
Some of the women he’d interviewed before hiring her had been stunners, but the word for Emily was “average.” Average height. Average weight. Average face. Average brown hair and average brown eyes.
“A little brown sparrow,” Brandi had said after meeting her, with what Jake had recognized as a little purr of relief.
An accurate description, he thought. On his runs through Central Park, he saw lots of birds with flashier plumage but it was the little brown sparrows who were the most industrious.
Emily, Jake thought fondly. His very own little brown sparrow.
He smiled again, folded his arms and hitched a hip onto the edge of his desk. “Emily, how much am I paying you?”
“Sir?”
“Your salary. What is it?”
“Eight hundred a week, Mr. McBride.”
“Well, give yourself a hundred bucks more.”
Emily smiled politely. “Thank you, sir.”
Jake smiled, too. He liked the no-nonsense way she’d accepted her raise. No little squeals of joy, no bouncing up and down, no “Oooh, Jake...” But, of course, she wouldn’t call him “Jake” any more than she’d squeal. Squealing was for the women he dated, who greeted each bouquet of long-stemmed roses, each blue-boxed Tiffany trinket, with shrieks of delight.
“No.” Jake strolled towards her. “No, thank you, Emily.”
He clapped her lightly on the back. That was another thing he liked about his P.A. Her posture. She stood ramrod straight, not slouched or with her hips angled forward. So many women in New York stood that way, as if they were about to stalk down a runway at a fashion show.
Not his Emily.
Idly, he wondered what effect Emily’s perfect stance had on her figure. Did it tilt her breasts forward? He couldn’t tell; summer and winter, she always wore suits. Tweed, for the most part, like this one. Brown tweed, to match her brown hair, with the jacket closed so that her figure was pretty much a mystery. For all he knew, her breasts were the size of Ping-Pong balls. Or casaba melons. Who knew? Who cared? Not him. Yes, it was a definite pleasure to work with a woman who was both efficient and unattractive.
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re the best P.A. I’ve ever had.”
Emily cleared her throat. “In that case, sir...”
“Yes?” Jake grinned. Evidently, the raise he’d just given her wasn’t enough. That surprised him a little; Emily was never pushy but if she thought she deserved more money, she could have it. “Give yourself two hundred more a week. Is that better?”
A light blush suffused her cheeks. “One hundred is fine, Mr. McBride.” She stepped back, her chin lifted, her eyes on his. “But I would much prefer to be called your E.A. instead of your P.A.”
“Huh?”
“Your executive assistant, instead of your personal assistant. It’s a more accurate description of my duties.”
“My exec,” Jake mused. “Well, sure. You want to be called my E.A., that’s fine.”
“Thank you again, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” Jake smiled. “Just as long as you assure me you aren’t changing your title to make your resume look better.”
“Sir?”
“You’re not thinking of going job-hunting, are you?”
Emily looked horrified. “Certainly not, sir. I merely want an appropriate title.”
Well, well, well. His little sparrow had an ego. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.
“And you deserve it.”
Oh, the sickly-sweet benevolence in his tone. Emily smiled, not an easy thing to do when what she felt like doing was throwing up on Jake McBride’s shiny black shoes. The egotistical goon. If only she could tell him what she thought of him. But she couldn’t. Jobs as good as this one were impossible to find. She had lots of responsibility; the pay was excellent; and, she supposed, as men went, McBride was easy enough to work for. She just wondered if he had any idea, any actual idea, of how invaluable she was to him. Of what a mess he’d be in, without her.