by Penny Ward
She blinks at me with those long, slick eyelashes, blushed-up cheeks, and red lips, and for a minute I truly believe she is the most stunning version of myself that I’ve ever seen.
“Damn girl, you’re looking F-I-N-E,” Brooke suddenly exclaims, walking into my room. “So are you excited? I know I would be!”
But excited doesn’t quite cover it.
Just the thought of walking into that office and seeing Clint Townsend again makes my stomach lurch into flips. And not just because he’s my boss and we’ve slept together—it’s also because I still can’t get over the two embarrassing falls I’ve had in his presence.
“Not exactly,” I say, looking at Brooke’s reflection. “I feel sick.”
“Oh you’ll be fine,” she assures me, putting an arm around my shoulders and squeezing them tightly. “You look gorgeous, and this is what you have experience in. You’re a great PA. You got this.”
She flashes me a genuine smile and then goes to leave. “Oh, and he’ll practically liquefy when he sees you, by the way. Trust me.”
I glower and wave her away.
Believe it or not, I’m actually not trying to impress Clint Townsend any more than I need to.
In fact, I’m trying not to think about how he’ll react when he sees me. I already know he finds me attractive; he said so at the bar that night.
But I also looked only half as good then as I do now.
There’s nothing wrong with finding someone attractive, but at the same time, it also doesn’t mean you need to act on it…gosh, I’m overthinking this.
Anyway, I wouldn’t even be looking like this if Brooke the bank manager/fashionista/makeup artist hadn’t stepped in.
There’s no way I could’ve pulled this off by myself. I’m way out of practice with that sort of thing, which is strange because back in Colorado I used to have to do myself up all the time for my job. It’s funny how things gain and lose importance over time.
Well, according to the clock on the wall I have exactly thirty minutes to get to Townsend Investments, so less thinking and more action is required right about now.
I quickly check myself in the mirror one more time and then make a beeline for the front door.
“Wish me luck,” I call to Brooke as I swing it open.
“Go get ’em, tiger!” she shouts back with a ravenous roar.
I sigh and laugh at her lameness, closing the door firmly behind me, before I’m half jogging it to the subway.
When I finally make it on the train, I take a long and deep breath in…then out.
In…then out.
You can do this, Lauren.
Clint Townsend doesn’t remember you so just don’t mention it and you’ll be fine.
Just put one foot in front of the other, smile, and do what’s expected of you. Surely you can do that?
Yes, I can do that…
Part Two
Chapter One
There’s no sign of Mr. Billionaire when I walk into Townsend Investments.
Instead, it’s just the girl at the main desk, Hannah, throwing me a pity look before handing me an itinerary with all the things that I need to do for the day.
I’m totally freaking out.
I don’t even know how to go about doing half of this stuff.
I thought someone was at least going to run me through the process first, perhaps even Mr. Townsend himself?
I mean, what kind of employer doesn’t see his PA first thing in the morning, on her first morning?
I think Hannah can tell I’m in the process of shitting myself. She’s giving me this meek little smile now, as if to suggest that she’s been in my position before and it sucks.
“Um, so do I have a desk or something?” I ask awkwardly, beginning to rethink my acceptance of this job. This is not a good way to start things off.
“Oh, yeah,” she says like it’s something I should already know. “Wow, you really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”
“Nope,” I say, pushing my lips into my mouth. “I’m at a complete loss here.”
“Well…I guess I can leave the desk for a few minutes.” She pushes her chair away from her computer and stands. “Follow me, newbie. I’ll give you a quick once-over.”
Hannah leads me down the same route as Penny had for the interview.
When we come to the air bridge, I find myself once again in awe of the incredible view. It’s like the whole building is floating up here in the sky, the rest of Manhattan soundless below and completely out of reach.
We continue past the boardroom and to a different part of the building that is made up of glass offices occupied mostly by men. As we walk through the aisle between them, a few of the men peer at me from their desks, sizing me up like I’m some rare exhibit on display.
“Don’t mind them,” Hannah sighs, tilting her head back at me. “Mr. Townsend hasn’t had a PA for a while. They’re just intrigued as to whom he chose for the position. He’s very particular about who works for him. You’re lucky; you were the twentieth girl interviewed for this gig. What’s your secret?”
I fucked him, I want to say.
But I tell her, “I don’t know. My experience, I guess.”
She laughs like I’ve said something entirely facetious. “Oh, I’m sure. Now, here we are.” She stops at an office triple the size of the others. “This is Mr. Townsend’s, and that over there is your second home. I hope you like late nights.” She points over to a small brown wooden desk located to the right of the office door.
“Thanks,” I mutter, walking over and dumping my bag on it.
“Don’t get comfortable just yet,” she burbles, picking my bag up and passing it back to me. “Your first job as Mr. Townsend’s PA is to fetch his coffee and bagel.”
I should’ve known that.
Congresswoman Connolly couldn’t function without her double-shot, nonfat soy latte with one artificial sweetener, either.
“Okay.” I nod. “What does he usually have?”
“Check your itinerary. I’d said I’d give you a quick once-over, not a step-by-step walkthrough.”
I can’t quite decide if I’m going to like Hannah. Just when she seems to be nice, she says something completely the opposite. I clear my throat and take the itinerary poking out of my bag, reading the first few lines:
Good morning Lauren,
Welcome to your first day at Townsend Investments. Let’s hope it’s a productive one.
The following itinerary is a standard template for all PAs employed by Townsend Investments. The structure of all itineraries will be your responsibility to draw up at the end of every day, ready for the following day. Thus, at the end of today I expect a full itinerary for tomorrow’s business schedule.
All tasks and appointments on the itinerary must be completed by the allocating times given, or, if there are no allocated times given, by the PAs discretion but within an adequate time frame.
Please direct any questions concerning the itinerary to Penny or Hannah. I do not have the time to personally deal with any of your concerns, unless it is absolutely necessary.
Time is money is this business.
CT
Well he’s direct; I’ll give him that.
I keep reading on to the first section labeled Morning Duties.
8:30 a.m. Pick up long black and cream cheese bagel from Miguel’s.
8:45 a.m. Sit down with president to go over itinerary schedule.
9:00 a.m. Attend to phone duties.
I stop at that point to look at the clock.
Crap, it’s 8:35 already.
I’m screwed.
“I have to go!” I half yell at Hannah, who judging by the smirk on her face already knew this was going to happen.
“Hold it!” she calls, just as I begin to pace away. “Mr. Townsend phoned earlier. He won’t be coming in until nine o’clock. You got lucky, newbie.” She clacks her tongue haughtily before walking past me and back up the aisle. “Oh and just for the record, Miguel’s i
s a coffee shop one block down. Have fun,” she says, her voice trailing off, swinging her hips intentionally like a peacock trying to lure a mate.
She reminds me of Peggy out of Mad Men, the same fiery hair and voluptuous figure, and skimming her eyes at the men in their offices.
Seriously, who are these people who work here?
They’re either cold as ice or bogusly polite. This is going to be one kamikaze of an assimilation process.
Chapter Two
I return from Miguel’s with five minutes to spare and still no sign of Clint Townsend.
Thankfully.
The whole way back from the coffee shop, I’d been running through scenarios of finding him glaring at me from his office chair, telling me how my counter-productivity had already cost him thousands of dollars and that he had no choice but to fire me.
I know I’m being a touch dramatic, but the concept is not entirely out of the ballpark given the way things seem to operate around here.
As I walk toward the main desk, I realize that despite making it back in time, I now have no idea where to even put his damn coffee and bagel.
Should I put it in his office, ready for him when he comes in?
Or should I hand it to him as soon as he gets off the elevator?
I know it seems like a small thing to be worried about, but I get the impression that he’s the kind of guy who cares.
“Um, Hannah,” I say quietly, sauntering over to her desk. “Do you know where—”
“In his office,” she interrupts, presuming what I was going to ask but not even bothering to look up from the computer screen. “And he’s on his way up so I’d hurry, if I were you.”
“Thanks a lot,” I sigh, before I’m basically legging it all the way to his office.
When I finally reach it, I try to keep my cool with steady breaths and a soothing mantra: You are an ocean of calmness. Nothing can defeat you.
Okay, Lauren, you can do this.
I ease the glass door open with my back, making sure not to drop the cup of coffee and brown paper bag with the bagel as my hands continue to shake.
But once I’m inside all bets are off, my steady breaths and mantra turning into a jaw-dropping O that follows me all the way from the door to the long, mahogany desk positioned in front of the three arched bay windows.
New York is once again flaunting itself at me, only this time in even higher definition than the view from the air bridge.
I put the coffee and bagel down on the desk, my eyes almost at a loss to describe the rest of the furnishings in a way that will do them justice.
There are cream tasseled curtains hanging on the edge of the windows, a large prominent pewter sculpture to the left, two black leather lounges and a coffee table to the right, a liquor cabinet, a tall antiquated bookcase, and a painting of Clint’s grandfather, Richard Townsend, hanging on a bottle-green accent wall at the very end of the office.
Oh, and then there’s Clint Townsend’s desk itself, standing alone in front of the windows in all its stateliness, with a fancy gold penholder, two MacBook Airs, some papers, a bonsai tree, a beige leather swivel chair, and two simpler chairs for clients, all of which match the curtains impeccably. So this is what a billionaire’s office looks like, huh?
Lavish, lavish, lavish.
“Good morning, Miss Swift,” his voice suddenly reverberates from across the room. I gasp and turn to see Clint Townsend standing in the doorway, mouth taut and eyes concentrated on me. “Admiring the view?”
“Um…yes. Sorry,” I stutter, helpless to prevent the heat from rising to my cheeks. How is it possible that he looks even better than the last time I saw him? “Good morning. I…ah…got your coffee and bagel.”
“Indeed,” he states boldly as he strides over, his blue eyes alight.
He stops merely inches from where I stand by the windows, motioning with one hand to the two client chairs in front of the desk.
“Please take a seat, Miss Swift. We have much to discuss.”
Chapter Three
I stare at him nervously, twiddling my thumbs on the itinerary as I wait for him to speak.
A part of me wants him to just confess that he remembers what happened between us so it’s no longer hanging over my head in this thick, gray disorientating cloud.
But then there’s the other part of me that is more than happy for him to go on pretending, lowering the chance of me losing this job that I critically need right now.
“So Miss Swift, I’ll need you to cancel all my appointments for today and reschedule them, including a dinner engagement I have this evening,” he says economically, eyes down and already scrawling on some documents.
“Okay,” I say, glancing at the itinerary to see how many appointments we’re talking about here. It’s roughly about twelve. “And what shall I say is the reason?”
He stops writing and looks at me, the expression on his face inferring that I’ve said something highly irregular. “Pardon me?”
I tremulously repeat myself. “Your, ah, appointments. What should I tell them if they, um, ask why you’re cancelling?”
He sighs and sits back in the chair, peering over at me closely, his forehead creased with scrutiny.
Well, this is awkward.
Whatever could he be thinking about?
It’s a straightforward enough question.
“I have to fly to Chicago at the last minute. Will that suffice, Miss Swift?” he says irritably, pressing his hands together in midair to form a triangle.
Is he mocking me?
“Ah…yes.” I drop my gaze again and feign another read of the itinerary.
I can’t believe how rude he is.
Well actually, I can.
It kind of fits his profile.
“Good. Then I expect a full agenda for tomorrow’s business day by five o’clock. Make sure to send it through to my email, as I won’t be back from Chicago until later tonight. That will be all.”
“Yes, Mr. Townsend,” I say before promptly getting up.
It feels strange calling him that, though.
I still think of him as James, the hot, cocky guy I took back to Brooke’s apartment for a quick fuck.
Okay, maybe not that quick.
When I pull open the office door he suddenly speaks again, my eyes shifting back to see the faint hint of a smile carved on his lips.
“Oh, and mind your feet won’t you, Lauren?” he brays, his tone now more personal than authoritative. “We wouldn’t want any more stumbles now, would we?”
I give a weak laugh but walk out clandestinely mortified that he has brought back my fall in the interview.
If anything is going to make me trip over my own feet again, it’s me thinking about how he’s expecting me to.
I sink into the chair behind my desk and try to calm myself down.
It had taken all my effort not to look back at him through the transparent glass, and as my hand wavers over the first appointment on the itinerary that I have to reschedule, I cannot help but get the feeling that his eyes are still on me.
No doubt he’s still chuckling to himself, looking at the back of my head with that philandering stare of his, and wondering why he chose to employ a clumsy girl that gets embarrassed at the drop of a hat.
Well, that makes two of us.
I spend the rest of the morning cancelling Mr. Townsend’s appointments and taking calls. When it finally gets to midday I have only one call left to make, the dinner engagement.
7:30 p.m. Dinner with Elsa. The Lion.
Elsa could be his girlfriend…or a date?
I don’t know why, but either one disappoints me.
I feel like a helpless schoolgirl who’s just found out that her crush likes someone else.
But then again, of course Clint Townsend would have a girlfriend. He’s a confident, handsome, and successful billionaire. Hell, women must flock to him like moths to a flame.
When I look up Elsa in his list of contacts on the compute
r database, it comes up with a small profile and her picture. Her full name is Elsa Louisa Huber and she’s a Victoria’s Secret model (of course she is) with long, shapely legs and shimmering golden hair that even Brooke would look stark against.
Just as her name suggests, Elsa is German, and was crowned Miss Germany, becoming the first runner-up last year in the Miss Universe pageant.
Hmm, I guess that dashes any hopes of Clint and me rekindling things.
Not that we would’ve, anyway; after all, he is my boss and you kind of need to remember a girl in order to rekindle things with her. It’s kind of offensive actually—that was some of the best sex of my life, if not the best.
Oh well, I guess I’ll just keep on hoping that his memory stays elusive and that this job doesn’t end up biting me in the ass. Nonetheless, time is ticking and I still have that dinner appointment to cancel.
But something tells me that I’m going to enjoy calling this one.
Chapter Four
The last two weeks at Townsend Investments have been some of the most grueling of my life, from Mr. Townsend’s coffee not being hot enough and demanding I go get another one, to writing up the itineraries wrong, to hours of note-taking for conferences, to picking up dry cleaning, to lunch runs across town, and now to finding a present for his mom’s fiftieth birthday this weekend, which I have to hand-deliver to his apartment by seven o’clock.
Honestly, I wish I’d never said that whole “above and beyond” spiel in the interview. Clint Townsend is literally milking it, for all it’s worth.
On the upside, my first paycheck came today.
Four thousand dollars for two weeks’ work is pretty sweet, and given that I’m working for the devil incarnate, I think my annual salary is an appropriate one as the personal assistant of hell.
Okay, so maybe I’m being a tad melodramatic again.
Clint isn’t that bad.
In fact, since working with him I’ve managed to taper him down into having three distinct shades.