Ice Cold Boss (A Paradise Shores Standalone Book 2)

by Olivia Hayle

  Christina stops beside me, Rykers’ assistant. Her features soften into a smile. “Good first day?”

  “Yes. Although… it’s a lot.”

  “It is,” she says with a laugh. “This firm is busy. It’s no place for slacking, trust me.”

  “I believe you.” I resist the urge to release my hair from the tight ponytail. My head is killing me. “Have you worked for Rykers long?”

  “Eight years. Nearly as long as they’ve had the firm.”

  “Wow.” She must know all the ins and outs of this place. “And how many assistants has Mr. Marchand had in that time?”

  We step into the elevator and Christina presses the button for the ground floor. Her face turns thoughtful, and uncertain, and I can’t read her expression. “Six,” she says finally. “And I’m not saying this to discourage you, but they don’t tend to last long.”

  Wow.

  What have I agreed to?

  I give her my winning smile. “Why not? I wouldn’t want to make the same mistakes.”

  “He’s… exacting,” she says. “Not all assistants can keep up or have the strength to handle it when he corrects them.”

  It’s not exactly a stretch of the imagination to picture that. All day, I’d only seen the blank, expressionless mask he seemed to wear. Nothing of the man who had enjoyed provoking me during my interview.

  “Is that why people didn’t bother to introduce themselves today?” I ask, realization setting in. “They don’t think I’ll last?”

  “Well, I don’t know their motivations.” Her voice is careful. “But it could be, yes.”

  I shiver, despite myself. I had thought getting an assistant job was beneath me—that I’d be twiddling my thumbs all day. But according to Christina, I might count myself lucky to survive past my six-week trial period.

  “Wow.”

  “But don’t let that discourage you. I’m sure you’ll do great. He hired you himself, didn’t he? He usually outsources the interviews to HR.”

  I have to fight to keep the laughter off my face. There was no way I would’ve been hired if HR had properly read my cover letter. “You’re right.”

  Christina bids me goodnight as we emerge on the busy New York street. It’s past seven p.m. and I’m too tired to function. I commute on autopilot—down into the subway, in with my earphones, up the stairs, unlock the door to my building—and finally kick off my shoes in my little apartment.

  I ignore the pile of laundry in the corner and head straight for the kitchen instead.

  “Hi honey,” I say to my palm tree. “I’m home. How was your day?”

  He doesn’t respond, but the leaves look a little bit less droopy than the day before. “That good, huh?”

  He silently agrees, and I sigh at my own silliness.

  Six assistants in eight years. They rarely last more than a year, then. I wonder why his previous assistant left. Judging by her fastidious notes, she seemed like an excellent assistant. I’ve got big shoes to fill.

  I lie down on my couch with a bowl of noodles. My place might be small, but it’s mine, every inch of it. The first piece of mine I’ve ever really had. The walls are lined with artfully framed blueprints. It had taken me years to find each one, some of them replicas of old versions, other complete fabrications. A side view of the Colosseum in Rome, showing off the impressive columns and the ingenious design that allow it to stand today, two thousand years after its creation. The Empire State Building. The Sagrada Familia. All of them designs that I love, and have loved for as long as I can remember.

  It used to be my dream to design my own monument one day. These days, it feels foolish. Very few architects ever achieve something like that.

  My phone dings with a text from Jessie. She’s a bartender uptown and always works evenings.

  Jessie Moore: I know you said not to ask, but I did it anyway. Travis would definitely be down for a blind date with you. And before you say no, you haven’t been out with a guy in ages!

  I toss the phone away. She’d been nagging me about her cute co-worker for months, telling me I should focus less on my career and more on happiness, that I needed work-life balance and love in my life.

  As if I have time for that. I’m smack-dab in the middle of the most important years in a person’s career, and I’m struggling. There’s absolutely no time for flings or affairs, and certainly not full-blown relationships. Hell, if I’m going to keep up with Henry Marchand’s apparently exacting demands, I’ll find it difficult to even make time for my friends.

  I’m nearly asleep on the couch, a bad Netflix show on the TV, when my phone rings. The name on the screen jolts me awake.

  “Hello?”

  Henry’s voice is deep with irritation. “My calendar is gone.”

  “What?”

  “It’s wiped entirely from the system. Did you accidentally press something? Delete instead of sync?”

  “No.” I think back to earlier in the evening, when I had made the changes I wanted to. What did I press…? I can’t remember. I’ve never worked in that system before, but it had seemed easy, intuitive even. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, it’s gone. All of it.”

  “I’ll fix it,” I vow, though I have no idea how. “I can do it now. I can come in—”

  “I’m still at the office.”

  He’s still in the office? It’s nearly midnight. I’m already reaching for my pants, my phone locked between my shoulder and ear. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t worry—”

  But he’s already hung up.

  5

  Henry

  I sigh and resist the urge to run a hand through my hair. This was a complication I definitely didn’t need. The coming days were going to be busy enough without suddenly second-guessing where I was going and who I am meeting.

  Maybe hiring Faye had been a mistake. I had assumed that learning to be an assistant was easier than learning architecture; that she could learn on the job. But maybe I’d been wrong. I had been, often, when it came to assistants. Damn Rykers had been lucky on her first try.

  I return to the architectural model on the screen. There’s something missing, something in the curve of the outer fixtures that doesn’t work. At first, I’d thought it was a problem with proportions, but balancing that hadn’t helped either.

  The elevator dings. I click away the project, switching instead to the office building we’re developing in the Bronx.

  Faye is standing in the doorway to my office. She’d worn a black dress to work today, complete with matching pumps, but that’s gone now. She’s in dark-wash jeans and an oversized sweater. Her face looks bare somehow… no makeup on. And her dark hair frames her face, falling long down her back.

  I frown at her. She looks beautiful, which is yet another distraction I don’t need. Sure, I’d seen it before, when I interviewed her. But then she’d worn her beauty like armor, with sharp eyeliner and hair swept back. This time it’s disarming—seeing her like she’d look on a Sunday morning.

  She steps into my office uninvited, laptop under her arm. “I’m sorry again. Let me double-check this and I’ll have it fixed in no time.”

  “See to it that you do.”

  She takes a seat at the large conference table in my office, still uninvited. Few people spend time in here apart from me. I can see how her eyes drift as she fires up her laptop, running across the bookshelves I have to the large model in the corner. It’s covered by a sheet, but I still feel unsettled as she looks at it.

  That project is for my eyes only.

  She works away on her screen, fingers tapping occasionally against the keyboard. I try and fail to focus on my own screen.

  “Do you always work this late?” Faye asks, voice cheery. I can’t tell if it’s fake or not. “It’s midnight.”

  “Often, yes. A lot of people rely on us meeting our deadlines.” I frown again. Why am I volunteering more information?

  She nods, clicking away. “I can im
agine.”

  “Which is why things like calendars can’t go missing.”

  Faye’s shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t say anything. We both work in tense silence for another few minutes before she sighs. “It’s back. I accidentally unsubscribed us both to that particular calendar. It was a simple fix. Everything’s still intact.”

  I open the email and scheduling program. She’s right. All the information about my eight o’clock meeting is readily available to me again. My fingers fly across the keyboard, quickly taking a screenshot in case she does the same thing again.

  “Don’t let it happen again.”

  “I won’t,” Faye says. Displeasure is clear in her voice—like she’s disappointed in me. I frown at her and find that she’s wearing the same expression as well. “I’m sorry. It was a simple mistake.”

  “No mistakes are ever simple.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, the sleeves of the sweater long enough to cover her hands. It’s a vulnerable look, completely at contrast with the fierce determination on her face. “I’m sorry, but I think a mistake on one’s first day is allowed.”

  “They are. Which is why I’m not making a big deal of this.”

  Faye rolls her eyes—actually rolls her eyes at me!—and heads toward the door. “Is this why you go through assistants so fast?”

  I stare at her. She did not just say that to me. Talented or not, beautiful or not, that’s just… well, it’s too close for comfort.

  She stares right back at me. One of us is going to have to give in, and I can tell from her gaze that she’s not planning to.

  But if she thinks I am, she doesn’t know a thing about me.

  This goes on for a long time.

  Faye doesn’t look away, but her lips curve into a smile. “I didn’t think I’d have a staring contest with my boss on my first day.”

  “Neither did your boss.”

  Her smile turns full-blown. It’s a thing to behold, transforming her face from fiercely beautiful into something that’s nearly luminous. Fucking hell. Why did I think it was a good idea to hire her?

  “I don’t think either of us likes to lose,” she says.

  “That’s fairly evident.” I lean back in my chair, trying to find some level of authority in this situation, not breaking eye contact. It’s silly—so damn childish—but I still can’t look away.

  “Let’s make a deal,” she offers.

  “While you have me hostage in this game?” I ask. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

  Her smile turns, impossibly, even brighter. “I know I might make mistakes again. Not get your sandwich whole-wheat, for example. Prepare too hot coffee. But I want you to give me the full six weeks of this trial period. A proper chance.”

  “And not cut it short?”

  “Exactly.”

  I pretend to deliberate, tapping my fingers on my desk. The deal she suggests is pointless. I hadn’t planned on cutting the six weeks short anyway, especially not after this little performance. It was insolent… and very entertaining. Faye Alvarez is unlike any assistant I’ve ever had. There is no fear in her eyes and no dislike of my frank manner.

  “All right,” I say slowly. “If you agree to my tasks. You have more experience in the field than any assistant I’ve ever had before.”

  “Use me,” she says in agreement, and as if on command, a lovely blush blooms on her cheeks. Yeah, she heard how that sounded—just like I did. I ignore it.

  “Very well. You have your six weeks, Miss Alvarez, despite any mistakes you might make along the way. Now get out of my office before I’m forced to stare at you until sunrise.”

  Faye nods and grabs her laptop. She walks backwards out of the office to avoid breaking eye contact. I raise an eyebrow at her, and she gives a delicate shrug. The movement shifts more of her thick hair over her shoulder. It gleams in the light.

  “I’m competitive,” she says, voice apologetic. “Goodnight, Mr. Marchand.”

  “Goodnight.”

  The door closes behind her, and I stare at it for a few more seconds in disbelief at the interaction we just had. Well, Faye Alvarez. I’m competitive too.

  And I always win.

  She’s exemplary the next day.

  “Here’s your cortado, Mr. Marchand, from the place down the street that you like. I’ve ordered lunch for you—a poppy-seed bagel with light Swiss cheese and pastrami.”

  I look down at the coffee in my hand. How did she know that?

  “And Tanner called from the Exon project. They have to push back your two p.m. meeting by fifteen minutes. I’ve re-scheduled your meeting with the architects afterwards to fit.”

  “Did you book a Town Car for tonight?”

  “Yes. It’ll pick you up at 6:45.” There’s a faint pause. “And you’re sure you don’t want a dinner reservation?”

  “No. I’ll handle that on my own.” I glance over at my schedule and at the new meeting she’d set, every Monday morning. “You added a recurring meeting for us?”

  Faye nods, standing straight and proud in front of me. She’s wearing a navy dress today, her hair swept back in a complicated updo. She looks entirely professional—no trace of the dressed-down, combative woman she’d been last night. It’s for the best. Any more of that and I wouldn’t… well. For this to work, there needs to be absolute professionalism between us.

  “Yes,” she says. “To go over your schedule for the week and for me to ask you what’s on your mind. It will make me better at anticipating your needs.”

  Anticipating my needs? “All right.”

  “Good.” There’s faint relief in her gaze—did she think I would object?—and then she sweeps out of my office in a pair of nude heels. Not only had there been no trace of the casual Faye, but there had been no trace of the silliness she’d displayed. That I’d played into—even enjoyed.

  I shake my head and return to my emails. Get your head out of your ass, Marchand.

  Two hours later, her voice chirps out of the intercom. “Your mother is on the line. Would you like me to patch her through?”

  Damn it. I’d been avoiding this call for two days, but there’s no hiding forever.

  “Yes.”

  My mother’s satiny voice rings out. “Hello, chéri.”

  “Maman.”

  “I’m glad you had the time to talk to me. Always so busy, Henri. It can’t be good for you.”

  “I always have time for you.”

  She laughs at the empty flattery. “Now I know you’re lying.”

  “Is everything all right at home? Dad is good?”

  “Yes, yes. He just closed on some big deal in the Midwest, I forget where.” I can almost see her waving her hand in dismissal. In Detroit, I want to say. He finally closed the Rhett project. But it’s no use. “He’ll be there for a week, hammering out the details. Always working, always working… So like you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t been home for a while now. You know we all miss you.”

  Paradise Shores is only a few hours’ drive to New York, I feel like saying. Everyone is welcome to visit.

  “I’ll come home soon. I’ll be home for the wedding, you know.”

  “Yes, but that won’t be just us, just family.” Mom sighs. “That’s what I was calling about, you know. Your sister is a mess of nerves, trying to organize all this. I told her—how many times did I tell her?—to hire my party coordinator, but no, this had to be her show… Small, she kept saying, intimate… We have too many guests for that!”

  “Lily wants it her way,” I say. “Let her and Hayden plan their day however they want it. If they want it small, that’s okay.”

  “Yes, but there are expectations on the family. Oh, I thought you’d understand, Henri…”

  “I do, but we both know that you can’t change Lily’s mind about anything.”

  She sighs again, ever the dramatic. I’m reaching the end of my patience.

  “Who are you bringing? I’ve bee
n asking and asking, but you don’t seem to have an answer. We have you down for a plus-one, of course. Your brothers are both bringing dates.”

  Yes, my little brothers had both found dates—as pressured by Mom as I was.

  “I’ll bring someone. Stop worrying.”

  “Fine, fine. You know your grandmother will worry otherwise. You’re nearly thirty-six, Henri.”

  Thanks for enlightening me.

  “I’m aware. Mom, I have to go. I have a meeting in five.”

  “Oh, do you really?” No. “Take care then, Henri. Tell me as soon as you have a name. Lily needs them for place cards, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Bye, chéri.”

  “Bye. I’ll call soon.”

  I lean back in my chair. A headache is coming on—not surprising. There is no way my little sister is concerned about who I’m bringing. This was all Eloise Marchand, our mother, and her perfectionist, scheming ways.

  She might mean well, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant to bear.

  The worst part is that she wasn’t wrong, either. I don’t have a date for the wedding and haven’t taken a woman out in months. My last relationship, if you can call it that, had ended poorly. Avery wanted more than I was willing to give, even if I had been clear with her from the beginning.

  You love your work more than me!

  Yes, I’d had to tell her, because I didn’t love her at all. And I needed to finish my build and the architectural model before the deadline, which was now only a few weeks away. I hadn’t spent nearly two years on a design only to give up at the finish line. Which was exactly why I didn’t have time for women. It was never just simple—and my attempts to simplify things just left them hurt, instead of enlightened, which was my aim.

  My mind drifts to the dark-haired woman sitting outside my office. At the fire in in her eyes when she challenged me last night to give her a fair chance. To her obvious ambition and competitiveness. Her quick tongue and the way her body curved beneath the office-appropriate dresses.

  I halt that train of thought. It has clearly been far too long if I’m finding myself drawn to my own assistant. Not once have I lusted after my own assistant, and I refuse to start now.