1
WILL
Billion-dollar deals?Complicated.
Hot coffee when I show up? Not complicated. Cream, no sugar. The report I need to review on my desk before the meeting? It should be easy.
Yet here I am, coffee-less. Report-less. And pissed.
My private equity firm, Summit Equity, is in talks to merge with a larger organization.Mergeis a generous term. They’re the Goliath to my David. But David won’t mind losing much, not when he gets a cushy executive title and a nine-digit check. And a well-trained secretary, though you’d think I could acquire that for myself.
I can’t precisely remember firing my last secretary, but it could have happened. She was the last in a long line of secretaries. Did I fire her? Was it even a woman? I only have fleeting memories of people who are harried and terrified of me and who ultimately fuck things up.
Which means… no one’s out there.
My CFO gives me shit about not holding down a secretary for longer than two weeks, but if they can’t even get coffee, what’s the point? I stand behind my desk, too annoyed to sit.
“Hello,” I snap in the direction of my office door. “Coffee. Reports.”
A young woman appears in the doorway.
She must have been on her way before I shouted. I’m momentarily ashamed for shouting. For getting so pissed at her over a folder. And coffee, which she’s holding.
This isn’t my secretary from last week, though.
I barely remember who it was, but I would never have forgotten the full lips and wide eyes on this woman. Her photo could appear in an encyclopedia entry forbeauty,if an entry like that existed. She has full breasts that don’t look demure, even in a white dress shirt buttoned all the way to the top.
“I have your coffee, Mr. Leblanc. One cream, no sugar. Right?” She crosses the room with her head held high, never glancing at the mug in her hands. Her steps are smooth, not one of them jostling the coffee to the rim. In her perfect, cheap little skirt suit, she stops at the edge of the desk, leans in, and places the mug in the center of the waiting coaster. “Is that okay? Oh—here.”
She nudges the handle of the mug in the opposite direction.
It’s a tiny detail, and one I’ve never asked anyone to attend to. In general I’ve found it pretty fucking pointless to notify my secretaries that I’m left-handed. It should be obvious, given the arrangement of my desk, but all of them have insisted on putting out the coffee like some right-handed asshole is going to pick it up.
All of them except her.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Bristol Anderson.” A smile. “From the temp agency.”
Christ. We’ve resorted to temps now. “How long are you here for?”
“Two weeks.” She holds up a stack of folders. “These are for your meetings, sorted by schedule.”
Two weeks doesn’t seem like long enough. I catch the faintest scent of something sweet. And a hint of acidity. Oranges. That’s what she smells like, and it makes me want more. I lean closer, but she’s looking at me with concern. No more smile. A small notch has formed between dark eyebrows.
“Did something happen, Mr. Leblanc?” Bristol reaches out, and for a dizzying moment I have no idea what the fuck she’s thinking. What she’sdoing. What she could possibly be reaching for. And then: “You have a bruise. Here. Are you okay?”
Her fingertips are close enough to feel the air moving ahead of them when I jerk my head away, heart pounding. “None of your business, Ms. Anderson.”
She whips her hand back, her cheeks going red. “Are you sure you don’t want an ice pack?”
“Did I ask for an ice pack?”
“No.” A deep breath, and she lifts her chin. “But you didn’t ask for coffee, either. Or the reports. And you seem to want those.”
Her eyes are an absurdly breathtaking green. A moment passes, then another.
She wants confirmation on the goddamn coffee.