His Secretary: Undone and Unveiled (The Complete Series Collection)

by Melanie Marchande

  I can actually feel the air getting more expensive as I walk. This part of town is surprisingly close to where I live, just by the skin of my teeth, but I suppose that’s the wonders of gentrification at work. I don’t belong here. My “professional” outfit came from Ross Dress for Less. The bargain bin at Ross Dress for Less.

  It doesn’t matter. For once, I’m in a position of power. Mr. Risinger is desperate for an assistant, maybe even more desperate than I am for a job. These guys are basically incapable of running their own lives, in my limited experience. And I have to figure, the richer they are, the more helpless they’ll be.

  Bad for him. Good for me.

  People like him are drawn to me. I’m like a flickering porch light to the asshole moths of the world, and occasionally, it comes in handy.

  This will be a great jumping-off point for me. If I can hang for a few years, I’ll be able to move on to something much better, with a tenure at a prestigious, difficult company to add to my resume.

  I can be whatever Mr. Risinger needs me to be. And barring that, I can at least pretend.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t accept that.”

  The woman at the front desk of Risinger Industries is completely unimpressed with me. After setting down a dog-eared romance novel when she saw me walk in, she seems irritated that I’m interrupting her reading time. I’ve placed my resume on the smooth marble surface while two security guards eyeball me suspiciously, but the receptionist is completely unflappable, and she won’t touch it.

  “I just wanted to…”

  “Understand, if you leave that here, I’ll have to send it to the shredder.” She blinks, her icy-blue eyes setting piercing right through me. “We can’t accept applications off the street. We only hire through vetted agencies. I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t sound sorry.

  “I’m not just off the street, I have…” One of the guards is really looking at me, now, and I realize my voice is slightly elevated. “Okay. All right. I just thought…I was tipped off to the fact that there’s a job opening here.”

  Wow, way to sound shady as fuck.

  “If you have a reference within the company, I suggest talking to them about your options for applying. None of them involve…this.” She glances at my resume like it’s a dead bird I just deposited on her doorstep.

  “It’s for the job as Mr. Risinger’s assistant,” I blurt out.

  The receptionist’s eyes widen slightly.

  “Mr. Risinger’s…I’m sorry?” She’s still staring at me, but with a little more focus this time.

  “Mr. Risinger’s assistant,” I repeat. “He…he needs one, right?”

  “Like he needs oxygen to breathe,” she says, snatching up my resume. “But I can’t give him this. Can you mail a copy? Address it directly to him.”

  “…sure,” I respond, slowly, trying to make sense of her sudden about-face. “Thank you.”

  The receptionist looks me up and down, smiling. It’s somehow more unnerving than her dismissiveness. “Don’t mention it,” she says. “Hope to see you back soon.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ADRIAN

  I’ve been pacing this tiny room, like a rat in a cage, for….

  Ninety seconds. Seriously?

  This is about to be the longest twenty minutes of my life.

  I have no idea what’s taking Meg so long to get ready. I just wanted to come here to this charmingly run-down wedding chapel for a quickie affair, but it’s turning into an all-day thing. She insisted on a white dress, which I managed not to laugh about, considering what we did last night. And probably white lingerie, too. Well, that’s not so bad, but I wish she’d learn to fasten her garters a little bit quicker. Between the shopping and the traveling and the last-minute paperwork, I’m starting to wonder if I’m ever actually going to say “I do.”

  I don’t like it when she jokes about changing her mind. Whenever I think about the possibility of her leaving me, the beginnings of a headache pound to life behind my eyes. I know she’s not going to, just the same way everyone thinks they do…and yet, most relationships fail. I know I can’t rest on my laurels. And maybe this is just a piece of paper, but I feel like it means something.

  The one thing I can’t do, can never do, is go back and change the past. As much as I wish I could, as much as she deserves that. In a way, I suppose this proposal was an apology. Not that I don’t want to marry her - of course I want to marry her. I’ve wanted it for years. But I felt like she needed to know that. To understand my urgency, to feel some small part of what I’m feeling.

  From the moment she first walked into my office, she’s been an unstoppable force. I couldn’t ignore her even if I tried. And after spending five years denying my feelings, after wasting so much time we could’ve had together if only I wasn’t such a stubborn, dysfunctional idiot - I just want to make it official.

  I need her to be mine.

  As much as I’m hers, as much as I’ve been hers, I need her to be mine.

  I just don’t know if that’s possible.

  There is some part of her, I think, that is always out of reach. Something I’ll never understand. Meg is one of the most sensible people I know, rejecting superstition and pointless traditions. But when it came to getting married, to marrying me - holy fucking fuck she’s marrying me - suddenly she had to have the proper dress, the proper traditions, the proper everything. As much as the circumstances allowed. I’ve become painfully aware of the fact that her father won’t be here to walk her down the aisle, which is ridiculous. She was never his to give away in the first place. But I know his support would mean the world to her. She gets so little.

  I realize there’s so much I don’t know about her, still. She guards herself carefully with jokes and sarcasm, and I’ve done the same, but she’s smart enough to see through all that. There’s no hope of me understanding anything about her that she doesn’t want me to know.

  There’s a quiet tap at the door.

  “Yes?”

  One of the employees sticks his head in. “It’s almost time, Mr. Risinger. You’ll want to take your place at the altar.”

  Shit.

  Is this actually happening? I consider asking him to pinch me, but that would be childish. Obviously, it’s happening. Against all reason, I asked Meg to marry me and she said yes. It’s complete insanity but at least we’re in it together.

  There’s some tinny recorded music playing in the chapel. I’m pretty sure I know the song, but I can’t place it, and I feel incredibly drunk for someone who’s stone-cold sober. Wouldn’t it be terrible if I burst out laughing right now?

  I barely stifle it, just moments before the loud creak of the main doors signals that my bride is coming.

  Radiant. She’s radiant. People always say that about brides, and I never knew what the hell they were talking about until now. There’s a little arrangement of tulle in her hair which I suppose is meant to symbolize a veil, harkening back to the days of tradition where a man wouldn’t even see his bride before their wedding day. If we’d lived a thousand years ago and our match had been arranged for us, somehow - if I saw that face, those lips, those eyes looking back at me for the first time today - I’d be thinking the very same thing I’m thinking now.

  God, how did I get so lucky?

  She gives me a cheeky little smile as she glides toward me, a little faster than brides typically do, because it’s not like she’s putting on a show for anybody. We’re in Hawaii and there’s nobody here who knows us, and even if there were, who would come?

  The senior partners from Risinger Industries will probably send a fruit basket, but nobody really cares. It’s just us.

  When she gets to the altar we face each other, and she reaches for my hands. I’m not sure if this is what we’re supposed to do, if there’s some set choreography for this particular chapel, but it feels right.

  Last night, at some point in the afterglow, we discussed the idea of writing our own vows, and then decided that i
t sounded like an awful lot of work. Instead, we echo the words that the officiant reads out for us, lost in each other’s eyes.

  I couldn’t write this into a book. People would complain that it’s unrealistically sappy. Especially for us. So out-of-character. I mean, what happened to my spine?

  No idea. But I’m pretty sure it’s still here, because I can feel something tingling.

  In a good way. Just to be clear.

  The officiant’s words cut through the fog:

  “…kiss the bride.”

  Right, that thing.

  I’m suddenly very conscious of everyone watching us. It’s just a few people, and none of them know us, but they’re the only ones bearing witness to the most important moment of our lives. It doesn’t quite feel right, but it’s what we have.

  I don’t think I have ever kissed her quite like this. Long and slow, and passionate, but chaste enough for a wedding chapel. Just barely. The less-than-ideal details of the situation quickly fade away, and my chest swells with the knowledge that I finally have the one thing I’ve wanted for so long.

  Yes, I know it’s just a piece of paper. But it’s our piece of paper.

  Five Years Ago

  My intercom buzzes.

  “Fuck off, Cora,” I mutter to myself as I hit the button.

  “I heard that, sir.” The Golden Girl on the other end sounds about as nonplussed as I’d expect. She’s damn near unflappable, which I suppose comes with the territory of being about a hundred and forty. “I’ve got some mail for you.”

  Glancing at the overflowing inbox on the corner of my desk, I grimace. “Set it on fire. If it’s important, they’ll sent it again.”

  “You know that’s against the fire code regulations. It’s just one envelope. I’ll send it up with one of the interns. It’s addressed right to you. Handwritten. It could probably use some personal attention.”

  Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

  I swear the kid who knocks on my office door a few moments later is about twelve years old, but whatever. It’s a flat-rate priority mail envelope. I flip it over and look at the address. My name’s on the top, in a neat, precise hand.

  ATTN: Adrian Risinger

  Shrugging, I tear it open. The envelope’s light, it must not have more than a few sheets of paper in it.

  No, just one, actually. And it’s a resume.

  Bypassing HR. This Meghan Burns has balls.

  I pick up the phone and call Cora.

  “You realize this is a resume?”

  “Is it?” Cora’s probably shrugging. “I didn’t want to invade your privacy, sir.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake…why would somebody send a resume directly to me?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”

  “Cora?” I drum my fingers on the desk.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When are you going to retire already?”

  “Never, sir. This place just brings me too much joy.”

  I hang up, and stare at the paper. I should just toss it directly into the garbage, and yet…

  And yet.

  I go back to combing through my email, setting the vexing paper off to the side on my desk.

  A few minutes later, my intercom buzzes again. “What?”

  “She just called, Mr. Risinger,” says Cora, sounding the most excited I’ve ever heard her. “Meghan Burns. Said she mailed in her resume - so I’m assuming it’s the same girl. Can I put her through?”

  “She should be talking to Kelly,” I protest. “Why are you bothering me with this?”

  “You took her resume,” Cora points out. “This is your problem now.”

  Of course, she’s right. I never should have taken the fucking envelope, but I was curious. It’s like being served papers. I can’t go back on it now. Besides, Kelly’s about to murder me anyway.

  I pick up the phone, pulling out the single page of her resume.

  “Mr. Risinger?” she says, before I have a chance to speak. She must’ve heard the click.

  “Ms…” I glance at the top of the paper. “Burns?”

  “I just wanted to see if you’d received my resume.” Her voice sounds clear, calm, and straightforward.

  “I did.” She’s…what, twenty-four at the oldest? Christ. “Are you aware of the stipulations of the job, Ms. Burns?”

  “I am,” she says. “Is the position still available?”

  Good God, this girl is determined not to let me take charge of the conversation. I realize I’m fiddling with one of my Montblancs, the ballpoint one that I hate but can’t ever seem to get rid of. I keep leaving it in people’s offices, and it keeps making its way back here. “I’m not sure if HR is interviewing anyone. You really should talk to them.”

  “Your receptionist transferred me to you,” she says, sensibly. “Anyway, it’s your decision, isn’t it?”

  I’ve managed to set the pen down, but I’m drumming my fingers on the desk and she can probably hear. “I only do the final round of interviews. It sounds like you’re trying to circumvent the official process. We don’t just hire off the street, Ms. Burns.”

  I can hear her take in a deep breath. “I’m not off the street. I’m with Haldiman Resources.”

  Right.

  “Then why’d you send your resume to me yourself?” It’s meant to be a challenge, but I realize a little too late that I’m really the one on trial.

  She’s only silent for a moment. “Cutbacks.”

  It’s all I can do not to snort audibly. So - she got my information from Haldiman, but Haldiman wouldn’t place her with me. Surely, they must’ve told her why.

  This Meghan Burns actually wants to work for someone who has a reputation for being impossible. Her resume is anemic, she doesn’t have the minimum required experience, and she doesn’t know the first thing about the proper protocol for being hired at a multi-billion-dollar corporation.

  I have to meet her.

  “When can you come in?” I ask her, because lobbing the ball back into her court seems like the logical course of action here.

  She doesn’t sound as surprised as I would’ve guessed. “Tomorrow afternoon? Two o’clock?”

  My fingers have stilled, but certainly not through any deliberate effort on my part. “I have a meeting.”

  “Well, sir, when do you not have a meeting?” By this point, a lesser human being would be displaying obvious irritation. I’m turning what should be a simple scheduling process into a game of Battleship. Basically, I’m acting like a child. And she seems to be…not only prepared for that, but expecting it.

  Resigned, I flip open my calendar. “What about ten?”

  “Great. I’ll be there.” There’s a hint of triumph in her tone that I decidedly don’t like. “Thank you, Mr. Risinger.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Burns.” I drop my desk phone back into its cradle.

  Well.

  Well.

  This is going to be interesting.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MEG

  When Adrian breaks our first kiss as husband and wife, it takes me a minute to catch my breath.

  The staff is all clapping for us, and he’s smiling at me and we’re married. We’re married.

  Holy shit we’re married.

  “There’s a taxi waiting outside,” says the officiant. “No rush, but…we do have five more weddings today.”

  “Thank you,” says Adrian, shaking his hand. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

  The taxi is, indeed, waiting outside. Adrian opens the door for me, and I slide in.

  “Hi,” says the driver, when Adrian appears next to me. “So it went well, huh?”

  “You could say that,” Adrian replies, grinning. “Peter took me to the pawn shop last night. This morning. Whatever. Do you ever sleep?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Peter shrugs. “Congratulations, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” I feel strange, giddy and lightheaded, and almost like I’m watching myself in a dream. “Is this the first time
you’ve assisted a shotgun wedding?”

  “It’s not a shotgun wedding,” Adrian insists. “You’re not pregnant. Yet. And nobody’s here with a shotgun.” He gives me a look. “Wait, do you think ‘shotgun wedding’ just means ‘really fast?’ Because I’ve got some bad news for you about some of your high school friends, if that’s the case. They didn’t actually just have really, really miraculously short gestation periods.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Forgive me. I misspoke. Let’s not make plans to knock me up just yet.”

  “That’s all?” He glances out the window. “Not bothering to criticize me for mocking your upbringing?”

  “I’m picking my battles,” I tell him, sweetly. “Thought I’d get this marriage off on the right foot.”

  “Yeah, well. It’s no fun if you don’t get upset.” He slides his arm around my waist, pressing my hip close against his. “The fact that you grew up in The Dukes of Hazzard just adds to your overall charm, trust me.”

  I snort. “You’re such an asshole. And a bridge-and-tunnel asshole, at that.”

  He feigns a shocked look. “Who told you?” he hisses.

  “Babe, everyone knows you grew up on Long Island. It’s on your Wikipedia page.”

  “I have a Wikipedia page?” His eyes widen even further.

  “Here we are,” says Peter, pulling up in front of the hotel. After Adrian hands him a wad of money and pulls me out of the car, he pauses before shutting the door.

  “On a scale of one to ten, how hot would it make you if I slid across the hood of the taxi right now?”

  Shaking my head, I clasp his hand tighter. “Unless you paint it red first? Zero.”

  Peter rolls down the window.

  “Can I give you some advice, as somebody who’s been married longer than you have?”