by Snow, Nicole
Well...that’s a little better.
But the fact remains that I’ve woken up late and still had to make a second run to the coffee shop. I’m going to be so late. When I tumble back inside, there’s a line forming. King Dickwad’s coffee is sitting there, getting cold.
I’m so fired, and only on my second day.
The barista has my drinks in a carrier. She swipes the card and pushes the cups out.
“Thank you!” I rush to the counter, snatch the carrier, and dart for the door. Somehow, despite lids, coffee sloshes on me.
Yep, I’m about to scream.
I have no clue why Heron hired me, but I’m not even close to fit for this job.
I don’t have the know-how or the warp speed. My shoes are borrowed. Coffee seems destined to land on my clothes in this life, whenever it doesn’t hit my employers. I’m a big fat floppy fish out of water.
“Good luck!” barista girl calls behind me, like she knows.
Thanks. I need it.
Once I’m back in the car, Armstrong asks, “You made sure you got a coffee with no sugar or sweetener, right?”
“I printed the instructions and ordered exactly what he sent. Two didn’t have sugar.”
He smiles. “The sugarless medium roast is mine. I’m diabetic. Could you pass it up here, please?”
Wow.
And here I thought Maggot was just a big anal jerk about his drinks like he’s a big anal jerk about everything else.
I lean up and hand Armstrong his drink.
He lets me use his company card to buy the cat food too, which is nice, because I probably couldn’t afford it either with my sad balance. In another week, I’ll be sitting pretty when the last payment from my old job shows up and the first deposit from this one hits, but for now, I’m effectively broke.
At the office, I set down the drinks and stack the cat food neatly on Maggot’s desk, hang his dry cleaning in his closet, place the new shoebox on the floor under the garment bag, and return to my workspace outside his office.
It’s almost a little like having my own office, which makes the hell hours into the night ever so slightly more tolerable. There are walls on two sides and my desk sits far enough away from the main hall so no one can bother me without making an effort.
But there’s also no way into his office without passing me.
How fun. I’ve gone from being an entry-level employee to a freaking gatekeeper.
When I check his inbox again, my gut pinches.
Even though I almost cleaned it out last night, he has another eight hundred messages waiting. I open his email, delete spam, respond to what I can, and start flagging urgent stuff.
He passes my desk without speaking to me a little while later. Probably for the best. Nothing he says is pleasant.
Ten minutes later, my messenger pings.
Magnus: Come to my office. Now.
Seriously? He can’t just open the door and talk to me like a normal person?
Sighing, I stomp over and tap on the door.
“Get in!”
Get in? What the actual hell? Is that even a command for entering a room?
I step inside his office, trying not to cringe. If I treat him like a wolf and show no fear, maybe I’ll survive this.
“Over here, Miss Bristol,” he says, his eyes never meeting mine.
Dude. Can’t you just tell me what you want?
A second later, I stand beside his desk, wondering what I’m in for.
He waves a hand in front of the items I placed there at five twenty this morning.
“What’s all this?”
“Your coffee and cat food,” I answer, feeling like there’s a trick question coming. “Everything you asked for...isn’t it?”
“Very well.”
“You’re welcome?” I venture, suspicious because it feels like there’s going to be a but.
And I’m right.
A second later, he says, “Do you think next time you could place the coffee away from this pet food?”
I stare at him, mouth slightly open.
Oh my God. Is he effing for real?
The cat food is tucked away in airtight, sealed cans.
But since I can’t afford to lose two hundred thousand dollars a year, I nod. “Yes, Mr. Heron. I’ll try. Sorry for the disappointment.”
“Are you sure?” He tilts his head at me. “Your lips say one thing, but your eyes say another.”
Guilty. I’m sure they say, You’re a ginormous moron.
My face always gives me away.
Somehow, I nod again, forcing a neutral smile.
“I’ll see to it that your coffee gets placed safely away from any objects pertaining to pets in the future. Also, I’ve forwarded you all the emails I couldn’t respond to last night, and if you don’t need anything else, I’ll return to work now.”
I smile and then, for added effect, I curtsy.
He does a double take, a faint lash of something like amusement cutting through those deadly blue eyes.
“What the hell was that?” he asks.
“It was just a—”
“Never do it again.”
“Um, okay.” I give him my best mock-innocent smile.
Innocence is a hard feat around this man. Aside from being an absolute jackass, he’s—okay, he’s divine. Undeniably delicious.
Like Sweeter Grind cinnamon latte delicious.
I can’t deny what’s right in front of me, plain as day.
A horrible part of my brain I wish I didn’t have would love to taste him. Right alongside a billion other women who’d die for the chance, I’m sure.
Of course, he’s an egomaniac and also my boss. So there’ll be no forbidden man-fruit tasting. Not today or ever.
“I take it you gave Armstrong his coffee too?” He ignores my request to be dismissed.
“Yes, sir.”
“I had you order three for a reason.” He picks up the cup with “C & S” written down the side and hands it to me. “I thought I should make up for your wasted drink last week.”
I smile and put the cup to my lips. The cinnamon infused brew smells heavenly and warm liquid pours down my throat, temporarily taking me away to a place where guys are as nice as they look.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “But how did you know I take cinnamon in my coffee?”
“You used the words cinnamon latte right before you spit on me. Also...the stench lingered.”
Against my better judgment, I smile.
There’s no polite response to that, and he deserved it.
In two strides, he stands in front of his window wall looking out over Chicago.
“Come here,” he says.
With my cinnamon coffee clasped in my hand, I join him at the window. Hopefully this drink will make his bullshit easier to tolerate.
“How did you know I’d like heavy cream and sugar, though?” I ask. I’ve never tried heavy cream in my drink before. It’s like lacing rich dark coffee with velvet.
“The so-called coffee you sprayed on my Italian leather shoes was almost white. It had to have a lot of something in it, and since The Bean Bar is known for the highest quality Kona beans available on the mainland, I feared it would be too strong for you without the cream.”
“How benevolent of you.”
The corners of his lips turn up into an almost-smile that he immediately pushes off his face.
Yeah.
Don’t let anyone dare think you’re human, Magnet—I meant Maggot.
Magnet might be more true. Even with his foul temper, he’s still too charming, too good at drawing people closer, before he swings his trap shut.
He stands so close to me his sea breeze cologne tinged with testosterone wafts around, overpowering my coffee.
Dear Lord. Here we go.
If anything could be more tempting than this man’s physique and those crystal-blue eyes, it’s his scent.
“Look out there,” he urges softly.
Weird req
uest, but I gaze out the window, trying to pinpoint what he’s looking at.
“What do you see?” he asks.
“Downtown.”
“Buildings, right? Skyscrapers?”
I nod. “I said downtown Chicago.”
“Here’s something you need to understand. It’s been clear you don’t respect me from the moment we met—”
“Which makes it pretty weird that you hunted me down and hired me,” I tell him. “Not that I’m complaining. I need the job.”
He cocks his head, his jaw tight.
“You’re gutsy. I knew we could use that. My point is, I won’t ask you to respect me, although you will act like it in my office. What you should respect—what every single person in this office, myself included respects—is the awesome power of Heron Communications.”
HeronComm has powers? I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
This man takes himself far too seriously. He really thinks he’s some gift to the world. The worst part is, in spite of his arrogance, I’d relish peeling that dark suit off his body.
Or maybe I’d just like to hang off him the way his jacket does.
Either way.
“Without this business—my business—so many of those buildings would be empty. They’d go bankrupt and their people would be out of work. Without marketing, a business is nothing more than a stalled engine. HeronComm has worked with two thirds of the companies you’re looking at right now. We’re jet fuel for everything that soars in this city. Even the fastest blip of a mobile ad or Instagram advertising another mindless game to download helps someone accomplish their dream. Advertisement’s the blood of the business world, Miss Bristol, and we’re the lion’s share of that market. It isn’t just a numbers game. We charge what we do because I guarantee conversions. We work sixteen hours a day to make their engines, their dreams, roar.”
Am I supposed to be impressed?
It’s a good speech, but it’s hard not to roll my eyes.
He’s got a high and mighty view of what he does.
Not that I think he’s wrong, exactly. Marketing is important.
If I could convince Mom to believe in it, get her to take a few self-publishing marketing courses, maybe I could quit secretly buying her books. But if HeronComm wasn’t providing the service, wouldn’t some other company just steal their clients?
I glance over, carefully avoiding his eyes.
Is he done? I’ve got too much work to do to stand here listening to big speeches all day.
But bits and pieces of what he said echo Armstrong’s words from this morning.
A driven man with a clear vision fits the crass grump in his glassy tower like a glove.
Maybe he’s not so bad after all.
So I take the olive branch, smile, nod, and turn my foot.
“I appreciate the introduction,” I tell him.
I’m about to walk away when he grabs my arm. It’s not some harsh power move. It’s gentle.
My whole body tingles.
Still, his unexpected touch stops me in my tracks. I take a deep breath, hoping he doesn’t realize I’m already hooked on his smell. My eyes lock on his face, every hard angle and the halo of a beard, which tells the world he’s not afraid of breaking the clean-shaven convention for most big city tycoons richer than Midas.
“Are you enjoying your drink?” he asks, his voice like low, pleasing thunder.
“I am.” I blink, wondering if I’ve unlocked some strange softer side.
“Good. I trust it’s the fuel you need to get your ass in gear,” he snaps, shattering the illusion.
Stupid me.
Forget maybes. He definitely is that bad. And just like that, any kind gesture with the coffee is erased by his acid words.
I’m starting to get why so many people quit this job. If I didn’t have to cover both my expenses and my parents, I’d be gone in a flash.
“What? No smart-ass comeback this time? You’re a quick study, Miss Bristol, and I like it. I’ve sent a new project list, also. You’ll need to go through it the same way you did yesterday’s assignment. Once you’re done with that, you can start making courtesy calls to clients who haven’t rebooked and let them know you’re offering them the chance before our calendar fills up.” He runs a hand through his sandy mane of hair.
“Okay. I’m on it.” I have to physically bite my tongue to restrain said smart-ass comeback.
“After that, there’s plenty of filing to keep you busy. Old records on paper as well as our digital system which desperately needs some TLC. Remember to answer my emails along the way. Finally, you’ll be happy to know there’s something else right up your alley...”
He leaves me in suspense.
“What?” I ask. What now?
“We have a meeting with a large pet brand at one o’clock this afternoon you’re expected at. You won’t be doing any talking, but I will need you to record what’s going on. Having a record makes it easier to keep everyone on the same page. Are you going to remember all of this?”
I nod, biting my tongue extra hard. “I’ll write it down as soon as I get to my desk.”
“Next time I call you to my office, bring a pen and paper, or have a notepad app ready. If you need supplies, ask Ruby. I’ll see you this afternoon. Don’t be late again.”
“Again?” I echo, unable to smother the edge in my voice.
He smiles like he’s caught me and he enjoys it. Prick.
“You weren’t here at five. Don’t pretend you were.”
“How would you know? You weren’t even here when I got in. Don’t pretend.” I fling his own words at him with a cheesy smile.
“Oh, I was here before four. I had a meeting with the creative team lead at five. I’m sure you remember Hugo from the park?”
Damn.
Busted.
Also, knowing he was here earlier than anyone else makes me hate him a sliver less. I can’t be angry at a supervisor who holds himself to the same expectations—even if those expectations are Joe Stalin worthy. “I won’t be late.”
“Good.”
He goes back to his desk, and I start for the door. Thank God.
“Wait, Miss Bristol,” he calls. I cringe. “One more thing I forgot.”
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
Ugh. Does he just want me taking extra steps? I head back to his desk.
He pulls a drawer open and hands me a black card.
“Armstrong said you needed this.”
My face warms. It was one thing for Armstrong to know my desperation, but it bothers me that Heron knows it, too. Not that I’m turning down a chance to use company credit for whatever insane snipe hunt he sends me on next.
“Thank you,” I say, trying hard to be sincere.
And then, before I realize what I’ve done, I curtsy again.
6
Bad Art Project (Magnus)
It’s almost time for the meeting with Woof Meow Chow, so I voice dictate the email I’m working on, press send, close my laptop, and grab my briefcase.
I have to say, things are better.
Before Sabrina Bristol, I couldn’t hold down an assistant to save my life, and the last girl wasn’t nearly as good as her first impression seemed. Finishing everything I dumped on her last night should’ve been impossible.
Somehow, she managed.
For the first time in over a month, my inbox isn’t overflowing. It’s like standing up from a weight machine after an hour at work, taking a deep breath with two hundred pounds of raw power still hanging over your head.
Miss Bristol is air. Room to breathe. And she’s whatever the hell else a man should say about a beautiful woman who does her job while looking like Venus incarnate.
When I arrive at the conference room, the entire C-level team is already there, including my new assistant. The dress she’s wearing today hugs her body the same way the sweater dress did the day I met her in an explosion of cinnamon rage.
But this is no sw
eater.
The creamy skin of her shoulder rests on either side of her delicate black dress straps.
Is it as soft as it looks?
Her face is expressive, this whirlwind of emotion and bright-eyed gumption.
I can always read her real thoughts in those big brown eyes, and I like it.
A grin spreads across my face. I wonder what her face would show if I ever traced my finger along the edge of the black fabric from the shoulder strap, diving right where it swoops above her cleavage.
Fuck.
Not thoughts I ought to be having about my new EA.
Not fantasies I should ever let myself have about any EA, especially this one.
When I realize I’m grinning, I set my face straight. I don’t need the CEO of Woof Meow Chow to come in and think I’m a pushover because I’m part Cheshire cat.
I’m also well aware I’ve been staring at Sabrina too long. She’s so alluring it’s hard to look away.
I tell my eyes I’m still in control, and as I peel my gaze off her, I notice her sleek black laptop has a sticker on it the size of my hand.
I shake my head.
We’re going to have a talk about office appearances.
She can’t come to an executive-level meeting with her laptop dressed up like it belongs to a damn college kid.
What is that thing anyway? It’s got pink feet and wide yellow eyes, but it’s...a bulb of garlic?
Why would garlic have feet and eyes? Who puts humanoid garlic on their laptop?
Shit. I’m going to be thinking about that all meeting long now.
Not the distraction I need.
There are three empty chairs across from me. I made sure my team left them so when Chester Stedfaust and his people get here, they’ll be right where I want them.
The man’s older, close to my father’s less-than-graceful middle age. In fact, they’re still friends, which doesn’t make this any easier.
He comes in flanked by two guys my age. The younger minions immediately take the leather seats across from me.
Stedfaust scans the table. His eyes linger on my twenty-three-year-old assistant longer than they should.
A biting urge to punch the guy burbles up, but thirty seconds ago I did the same thing.
He’s only human, and apparently, I’m only part jealous caveman.