by Nicole Snow
“Ward Brandt,” I answer.
“I know you’re still at the office,” Grandma says.
I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, how?”
“Security camera. Go home, Ward. It’s past eight o’clock. You can work your life away tomorrow.”
“I’m finishing the bid.”
“The bid will be there tomorrow.” She pauses before saying softly, “I worry about you, Ward.”
What? I worry about her.
She’s in her seventies and running around with a workload and social life meant for a woman half her age.
I’m thirty-two, fit, and healthy.
There’s no reason for her to worry about me. Even if Grandma seems more unbreakable than anyone on the planet, she drives herself too hard.
“You know I appreciate your concern, Grandma, but I’m not twelve years old anymore. I can keep a sleep schedule, thank you,” I tell her.
“Someday you’ll have kids of your own, I hope. You’ll understand then,” she says quietly.
Nah. I’m married to Brandt Ideas and that’s the way it’s staying. The company is more loyal than any woman I’ve been with.
“Maybe so,” I say, keeping her hopes up. “But that’s not today.”
“Go home,” she orders again. “Don’t make me come down there myself.”
Dammit, the worst part is, she would.
“Let me wrap up and I’ll find my way home,” I say with a heavy sigh, pushing the phone back into its cradle.
Lucky for both of us I was about to head out anyhow. Better to let her think she won.
Old people, right?
Downstairs, I climb into the sprawling backseat of the souped-up Lincoln and lay my briefcase on the floor. I stopped bothering with the pomp of having drivers load it up for me years ago.
“Welcome back, Officer Warden!” Reese quips with her usual smart-assery, then smiles at me.
“I’m in a firing mood today,” I warn.
“Aw, learn to take a joke, bossman. They’re finding more benefits with laughter every day, you know.” She flashes me an awkward smile.
“I don’t joke.”
Or laugh, for that matter, I think to myself.
“You ain’t lyin’, tiger.”
No, but I do grin at her bullshit. Sometimes I halfway get how Nick was oblivious to her for well over a month when she started.
She’s fresh-faced, intelligent, and in her early twenties with a nice figure, but Reese could be one of the guys. On the plus side, any man on our staff looking for an easy date knows not to fuck with her, or Nick and I will be there to back her up.
“Have you met Paige yet? I think we’ll like her.” Her cheerful eyes smile at me in the mirror and only deflate after I go a minute without answering. “What? Was it something I said?”
I roll my eyes. How does this insufferable ass-sistant have everyone wrapped around her finger already?
“Count me out of your fawning. She’s a drunken fool, and as soon as Beatrice lets me, I’m firing her.”
“Eww. I’m telling your grandma you called her Beatrice.”
I don’t say anything, just snort.
“Seriously though, what happened? She rubbed you that wrong? She thought it went well today.”
I could go into it, but the less Reese knows, the better.
“I simply don’t think she’s an appropriate fit for the company. She has ample opportunity to prove me wrong,” I say.
“Why?”
I sigh. “She got drunk at the Art Institute and made a scene.”
Reese laughs and flashes a thumbs up. “Good for her! Somebody had to riot. That wine they sell at the café is some high-dollar crap. Ain’t worth it if you can’t get buzzed off fifty bucks.”
Okay. I take it back. Reese can’t be one of the guys unless we’re talking frat boys...or Nick, I guess.
“Who gave you a Mountain Dew IV drip today?” I ask.
“Oh, I get to babysit my niece tonight, so I’ve been slamming it back all evening. How’d you know, boss?”
I shake my head. “I can just tell.”
She nods. “Well, be nice to Paige. Pretty please? She’s a cool lady, and if she goes to art galleries on her time off, that seems like a good fit to me.”
“No, Reese. A woman stumbling through a museum with some dickwad hanging on her and loudly declaring her affiliation with my company isn’t a good fit. Granted, the rotten date wasn’t her fault, but as for the rest...” I trail off, wondering why I bother.
She won’t get it.
So far, no one does, and I hate it.
Makes a man wonder if there’s something to his permanent stick-up-the-ass reputation after all, but now isn’t the time for reflection.
Reese’s face in the rearview mirror narrows, sucking her cheeks in.
“Bad fit. Right. Whatever.” She takes one hand off the wheel and stabs a finger back at me. “This is out of line, but here goes. Have you ever thought of being less of a judgmental prick? You forget I’ve seen you throw the shots back and nobody gets drunker than your brother.”
“Just drive,” I bite off.
It’d be easier to be less judgmental if I could get Paige’s weaponized grin out of my head. She enjoyed implying I serve purely at Grandma’s pleasure.
I should have told her it was only because her own grandmother knows her too well to hire her.
Shit. Why didn’t I think of it in time?
Oh well.
She’s about to regret the potshots she took in so many ways. If I can’t fire her, then I can make my new enemy’s life very, very interesting.
I pull out my phone to tap out an email.
To: Paige Holly
From: Ward Brandt
Subject: Marching Orders
Miss Holly,
I hope this email finds you sober so you’re up to the task at hand.
As you know, the big pitch with Ross Winthrope is coming up, and it’s critical. I’ll be sending you all the information for the bid presentation in another email. I’ll need you to organize it and start putting together a slideshow that will hold his attention.
When you’re done with that, you can catalog the other Winthrope properties for comparison. Be sure to leave no detail out. I’ll send you a catalog created for another client you can use as an example.
Also, please grab our coffee when you come in tomorrow. Grandmother and I drink black coffee or double shots of espresso, and Nick likes his mochas.
Thanks,
Ward Brandt
Senior Partner, Brandt Ideas Inc.
Reese pulls up to the curb in front of my building as my phone dings.
“Thanks,” I say to her and climb out of the car.
I tap on the screen to open the email and read it as I walk.
Mr. Brandt,
I would be happy to oblige but I’m kinda sloshed. I decided to unwind after a long day with—go ahead and guess—one devastating glass of wine.
However, that shouldn’t be a problem, seeing as you don’t own my personal time.
But I adore your grandmother, and I’ve never met Nick, so I’ll make sure their coffee is steaming hot and on their desks tomorrow morning.
Ciao,
Paige Holly
Executive Assistant, Brandt Ideas Inc.
I knew pain-in-the-ass is her state of being.
My teeth clamp together. Why the hell did Grandma insist on keeping this girl around?
My fingers go to war.
Miss Holly,
You’re not hourly. You’re salaried. That means you’re responsible for having all projects completed by their deadlines, no matter whose clock you’re punching to complete them.
I’ll enjoy our meeting with HR tomorrow with my double shot espresso.
Ward Brandt
Senior Partner, Brandt Ideas Inc.
I haven’t even made it into my penthouse when her next email comes in, my phone pinging like a restless hornet in my ear.
Mr. Brandt,
It’s a very good thing you have an EA to check your correspondence. You forgot to close your letter out with a proper goodbye. Oopsy doopsy.
When’s my deadline?
I look forward to our meeting with HR tomorrow too. Turns out, calling an employee names is considered harassment. I’m sure you didn’t know that, considering certain “allowances” are probably made for you.
No worries. Most employees aren’t fired without three strikes, but you probably didn’t know that, either. I’ve attached the applicable section of Illinois employment law for your bedtime reading. It’s absolutely riveting.
Night-night, Mr. Brandt. Always happy to be of service.
Not Yours,
Paige Holly
Executive Assistant, Brandt Ideas Inc.
I open her attachments, half expecting to find a malicious virus or a crudely drawn dick in MS Paint, but she’s literally attached a snippet from the state’s labor code.
She researches well and fast and it infuriates me.
Still, that could be an asset. She’s also lying about being sloshed, or else she’s a very functional drunk.
“Woman, you’re as annoying as hell, and you have a fucking lot of nerve,” I bark at the screen. Still, I have to answer the question.
Madame,
Your deadline is eight a.m. tomorrow. Sharp.
My EA will properly close this email and check for any mistakes like retaining you for this position.
Mr. Brandt.
I scoff. Let’s see how long it takes to respond to that.
The silence on the other end is deafening and enjoyable.
Even if I’m glad I’ve schooled her smart mouth for one night, something tells me it won’t last.
When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is check my email.
I’m expecting Miss One Glass to send back some whiny message about how unfair it was for me to bury her under an avalanche of projects.
There’s nothing like that, but a slideshow of the final bid in its current form attached to a blank email with the subject line Done.
Damn her.
It’s incredible how she maintains her scathing sass with a single word.
At the office, Nick stands in front of Miss Holly’s desk, sipping his sugar rush mocha and leering over her. Probably trying to look down her blouse.
Careful, you idiot. This girl knows Illinois employment law by heart. She’ll have your balls stapled to your jacket.
Muttering silently, I stop on the way to my office and my eyes meet hers. “I take it my coffee’s waiting on my desk?”
She looks up and glares a second too long, those green eyes glittering like a jungle cat’s.
“Nope.”
“No?” I spit back.
“Shocking espresso shortage. The Bean Bar only had enough left for a mocha and one double shot, and Mrs. Beatrice Nightingale Brandt takes seniority. If I’d waited for them to resupply, I’d have missed your oh-so-important deadline. Mrs. Brandt told me to let you know you could see her if you had a problem with it, though.” She flashes me a murderously triumphant “gotcha” grin.
“The Bean Bar does not run out of espresso,” I snarl through clenched teeth. The coffee shop has its shit together better than anything else in this city—the whole reason we love it and treat ourselves to Chicago’s finest dressed-up caffeine overload a few times every week.
“Sorry. We’re one cuppa joe short, but I figured the project was more important, so...” Holly just smiles and shrugs like a schoolgirl who’s gotten away with cherry-bombing a high school toilet.
The motion sends my eyes lashing down her face to the low cut of her blouse.
For a tortured second, I’m no better than my idiot brother, my eyes glued to a pair of ample tits I’d like to boss around with my tongue, my teeth, my—
Damn her to the moon.
With nothing else to say, I turn around and nearly slam into Nick.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” He greets me with his usual lopsided grin.
“Nowhere, apparently.” I level a glare at him. “Shouldn’t you be in your office working?”
He holds a hand up. “Bro, if you’re jonesing that bad for coffee, I can run down to the bar downstairs and get you an espresso. My treat.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
I need to move it before my humiliation is complete, so I push past him, go to my office, and slam the door shut. Then I remember, I’ve only seen one completed project this morning.
Where’s the other?
I open the frosted glass door and stick my head out. “Where’s the Winthrope comp catalog?”
Miss Holly looks up, twirling her blond hair like spun gold. “I’m working on it now! I can send you what I have. The final should be ready before lunch.” She points to her computer.
My eyes narrow and I fold my arms.
“It was due at eight a.m.”
Nick watches us for a minute and huffs loudly. “Yo, Ward, give her a break. It’s still her first week.”
“No excuse to miss deadlines. She has the credentials and work ethic, when she applies them,” I say.
“Aw, c’mon, the last girl took at least a solid week to make those catalogs,” Nick fires back. “There’s so much crap in them—”
Miss Holly jumps in. “Most of it I’ve been able to copy and paste, which is why I’m done with the North American hotels for comparison. Since Mr. Winthrope is coming by for a check-in this week, I thought the slideshow was more important. I’ll be done with the catalog today, like I said.”
Nick’s eyes trace from Paige—Miss Holly—to me.
Get her the hell out of your head, I demand inwardly. Yes, she’s beautiful, but she’s a wine-sloshing trouble maker with a whip for a tongue. Stop feeding her.
“She made a slideshow for you, too?” Nick asks, looking over at her, seriously impressed. He lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. Beauty and brains. I like you already.”
“Not me. For the Winthrope bid,” I correct sharply.
“Ah. Sure.” He nods but his eyes are glued to one particularly annoying fallen angel.
“Leave her alone so she can finish up,” I bark right before I slam the door and stomp back to my desk.
It’s the only way to end this, leaving them to their own devices.
And as much as I may crap on him, Nick isn’t a total idiot. He knows not to fraternize with any pretty ladies in this office unless he wants Grandma coming down on him like a ton of bricks with me right behind her.
Miss Holly sends the Winthrope property catalog at eleven a.m., before her new noon deadline, and Winthrope comes in at two for his “check-in,” as he calls it.
For a man who’s loaded beyond belief and routinely shows up on the world’s Top 100 list of billionaires, Ross Winthrope is in a class of his own.
If someone uploaded Willy Wonka’s brain to a Victorian hotel mogul, you’d get something pretty close to the stuffy, demanding, and utterly eccentric man who’s come all the way here from London.
I try not to stare too hard at the royal purple suit he’s decked out in today, complete with an antique gold pocket watch sporting a chain that looks like it could leash a polar bear.
He loves Grandma’s designs, and that’s all that matters.
Fortunately for us, her rare aesthetic seems like one he wants to add to his portfolio of stunning properties around the world. If we can just close this out, he’ll pay more zeroes than any of us have ever seen.
I let Grandma do the talking.
They’ve been at it for over an hour when he looks at her and says, “Your concepts are always transcendent, Mrs. Brandt. Your office is clean, sleek, soulful, and modern, and you’re every bit as gracious and responsible as Godfrey was. God rest his soul.” He bows his head. “I’m glad to see you’re still running the place. If there’s one thing I loathe about newer firms, it’s the immature, money-grubbing bachelors who steer them. They
’re always too high on dreams, low on discipline, and lack the dreams big enough to ground them.”
I stiffen in my seat like a stone.
His peripheral vision captures my brother and me.
Message received.
It’s disguised as a backhanded compliment, but what he really means is, “I like your firm since you’re here to babysit your Peter Pan grandsons.”
In fairness, Nick might need a babysitter.
I damn sure don’t.
Once Winthrope’s in the elevator with the doors firmly closed, I let out a low, exasperated growl. It was an exercise in restraint holding it in this long.
Grandma and Nick both give me odd looks, but I’ve got nothing to add.
Making this dream come true for Brandt Ideas won’t be easy.
Then again, putting up with Ross Winthrope suddenly feels simple compared to the blond bombshell with a destroyer mouth I desperately need to stop aching to ruin.
The next morning, Miss Holly conveniently forgets my coffee. Again.
Of course she remembers Grandma’s and Nick’s drinks.
And the day after that, she waltzes into my office with stilettos clip-clopping against marble, announcing her arrival like a black cat catching its claws on a shag carpet.
I glance up from my work. “There should be laws against you wearing heels. Buy new shoes before you endanger yourself and half the office.”
Her full-pout, flirty pink lips open and she looks at the floor.
I die.
All because I’m torn with regret for not kissing her when I had the chance, and relief that I didn’t.
She sighs. “I thought they were cute. You don’t like them?”
Oh, I like.
Her black pencil skirt hugs the curve of her ass and the hem bobs up and down, just above her knee, revealing perfectly shaped calves any man would kill for. I try not to think about those legs, wrapped around me in nothing but heels, spurring me to render her speechless.