by Roxy Reid
Yeah, I can make a fresh start here.
It takes about two weeks to get the hang of being Wade St. George’s administrative assistant. As per his recommendation, I don’t waste time trying to figure out how to fit in, and he doesn’t waste time trying to break me, although he does kick me out of meetings until I can, quote, “get my face and vocal cords under control.”
I do spend time figuring how to how to do my job really well. It helps when I find my predecessor’s cheat sheet of whose calls to transfer, whose calls to block, and whose calls to send to voicemail.
I also implement a system borrowed from years of concerts, and start giving Wade call times before important meetings. Must be in the office doing easily interrupted tasks starting twenty minutes before internal meetings, and forty-five minutes before meetings with external partners. Wade grumbles, at first, but when the system works, he stops complaining.
Wade, for his part, keeps sending me job applications for every drum teaching gig within a fifty-mile radius. And let me tell you, I didn’t think there were any drum teaching gigs within a fifty-mile radius, so either I’m bad at the internet, or Wade’s putting more time and energy into this than he should.
Either he really likes me, and wants to help … or he really doesn’t like me, and wants me to leave.
I try not to take either option personally, even if the first option puts warm butterflies in my stomach, and the second sucks all the energy out of me.
But none of that matters, because I’m not taking this personally.
Today Wade’s offsite at a meeting with some of the higher ups at Home Sweet Home. For lack of anything better to do, I’m organizing all the files on my computer when I come across a folder titled R.A.W.S.G. filed in a weird place. I click on it, curious, and am fucking delighted by what I see.
It’s a folder of Rants About Wade St. George from a string of previous administrative assistants, and it is fabulous.
Today, W.S.G. blew off a five-way conference call I spent LITERAL MONTHS SETTING UP because some soccer mom with a crying baby had a flat tire. YOU DON’T HAVE TO HELP EVERYONE, WADE. THAT’S WHAT TRIPLE A IS FOR YOU FUCKING IDIOT.
Last night I missed a second date because W.S.G. dragged me to a dinner meeting with a funder. Today, he’s throwing up in his office because he got food poisoning. KARMA’S A BITCH, WADE. AND NO, I WILL NOT BE PACIFIED BY THE FACT THAT WE GOT THE FUNDING.
As I keep scrolling back, it’s clear at least one of his assistants had a crush on him.
He’s wearing the blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up again. WHY AM I SO ATTRACTED TO MY BOSS’S FOREARMS? HE’S A NERD. A BROKE, ETHICAL NERD WITH AMAZING FOREARMS.
I blink at the “broke” part. Ok, clearly that one was written a while ago.
Reading through them—and there’s a lot of them, years and year’s worth—it’s clear that they respected Wade and liked working for him. It’s also clear that sometimes, they wanted to strangle him, and the secret rant file was a way of burning off steam.
Given some of the ways I’ve burned off steam, typing out a rant semi-anonymously and rebelliously saving it in the deep files of your office’s shared network drive seems like a relatively tame way to do it.
I’m gleefully reading the wisdom of my predecessors when Wade storms in, head down.
I hastily click the window closed. “How’d the meeting go?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Wade says, slamming his office door closed like a sullen teenager slamming his bedroom door.
I hesitate, looking back and forth between his door and my computer.
On the one hand, Wade said he doesn’t want to talk, and I’ve got a folder of amazing reading material ahead of me.
On the other hand, Wade’s been digging up job postings for me, and he’s Duke’s best friend, and he didn’t fire me when I threatened to unplug his computer.
I stand and knock on the door gently. “Wade? Do you want to talk about it?”
“I said go away,” he answers, his voice muffled by the door.
Ok, that’s twice. My conscience is clear after two tries, right?
I chew my lip. I should probably stop pushing it. After the blow-up on my first day, we’ve actually gotten to a pretty good place, and I don’t want to risk it on something that isn’t my business.
I pick up the phone and dial Wade’s extension.
“WHAT?” he barks when he picks up, and I can hear his deep bellow through the wall and the receiver.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk it through? Because you were in a really good mood before this meeting. You figured out the problem with the file compression. I thought this was just supposed to be getting to know the head producers for the movie arm, and talk about what programming it made sense to run on our platform.”
Wade heaves a heavy sigh, and I can practically see him rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Well, I was wrong. It turns out it’s very easy to piss off a head producer.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask gently.
“This does not fall within the purview of your job, Stella.”
“At least tell me which producer it was. I don’t want to say something wrong if someone from his office calls.”
“Her office. It’s Clara Covington,” he grumbles, and I let out a low whistle. Clara Covington is more than a producer. She’s the creative director for all of Home Sweet Home Entertainment’s programming. She’s been with the company for forty years. It’s basically like pissing off the Queen of England when you’re trying to make a trade deal with Britain.
Not necessarily prohibitive, since the Queen doesn’t make trade deals, but definitely Not Good.
I’d planned on trying to cheer Wade up, but I don’t know what to say.
“See! This is why I didn’t want to talk about it,” Wade says, and hangs up on me.
I glance at the phone, then at Wade’s office calendar.
I might not know what to say, but I think I know what to do.
I track down Clara Covington’s assistant’s phone number, and give her a call.
I drum my fingers on the desk. Just like getting a gig at a bar, I tell myself.
“Hello?” Clara’s assistant asks suspiciously.
She must have caller ID.
“Hello!” I say brightly, pouring every drop of southern pageant-girl warmth I have into my tone. “It’s Stella Harrington, Mr. St. George’s assistant. I’m calling because he just got back from the meeting with Ms. Covington and, between you and me, he feels just awful that there might have been some misunderstanding between them.”
“There was no misunderstanding,” the assistant says primly. “He told her there was no difference between a Christmas romance and a New Year’s romance. He said, and I quote, ‘all of those movies are the same.’ He belittled Ms. Covington’s life’s work, and everything this company stands for.”
Apparently it wasn’t only Ms. Covington he offended.
“And he feels just horrible about that,” I lie. “He only meant to admit his own ignorance about the genre. He knows so much less than Ms. Covington about what exactly it is that makes a hit romance.”
“It’s not about getting hits. It’s about warming hearts,” the assistant says, somewhat hysterically.
“Right. Absolutely. Just one more area where you and Ms. Covington know so much more about this than we do. Which is why what Mr. St. George meant to say is that he is aware of his own ignorance, and would like to defer to Ms. Covington’s extensive expertise, until he’s had time to learn more about the genre and the important, heartwarming, work you do.”
There’s a moment of silence, and I hold my breath.
“Well,” the assistant says after an extended pause, “then he should have just said that.”
“Absolutely. Which is why he’d like to apologize, and clarify what he meant in person. How does next week sound? Mr. St. George has a busy week, of course, but I could absolutely rearrange it for someone as impor
tant as Ms. Covington.”
“Well …”
“He’d also like to go into this meeting a little more prepared, if you know what I mean.” I lower my voice conspiratorially. “So if you could do me a favor, and send me a list of your twenty favorite Home Sweet Home movies, he’d like to watch them all.”
“My favorites? What about Ms. Covington’s—”
“I have absolute faith that your taste is on par with anyone in the company’s, even Ms. Covington’s. Have you seen Mr. St. George?”
“Well, from a distance, of course…” she says, clearly confused.
“Look up Wade St. George, Berkeley panel right now. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
I hear typing in the background, and then a soft gasp. “Oh my.”
“A man like that should not go un-tutored in the act of heartwarming,” I say. “He’s counting on you.”
“Oh. Oh yes, absolutely. I’ll get that list to you right away—”
“Wonderful! We’re both waiting with bated breath. Now if you can just tell me when Ms. Covington has time in her schedule …”
“Hmmm. She’s pretty booked right now, but if we skip a few weeks ahead …”
We get the meeting booked, and I hang up feeling pretty satisfied with myself.
I barge into Wade’s office without knocking, almost walking over Wade, who is lying on the floor staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Jesus, knock woman!” He scrambles his long limbs into a seated position.
I look down at my grumpy billionaire, and tap my toe, hands on my hips. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
It takes a moment for him to answer, and the way he’s looking at me … if he was anyone else, I’d think he was having dirty thoughts about me standing over him. But it’s Wade, so that’s obviously not what’s happening.
He jerks his eyes up to mine.
“Um, the good news,” he says, doubtfully.
“The good news is, I got you a private meeting with Clara Covington so you can grovel and smooth things over.”
“What?!” Wade scrambles to his feet and crushes me in a hug. It’s warm and strong and safe, that hug. “That’s amazing. Thank you. How did you …?”
“Well, that’s the bad news,” I say, reluctantly, leaning my face away from his chest and breaking the hug, even though he smells like heaven. Pine scented, hot-man heaven.
“You have to watch twenty Home Sweet Home romantic comedies. Hand-picked by Clara Covington’s secretary.”
“Administrative assistant,” he corrects me automatically, and the rest of what I said hits him. “Twenty? Jesus. What I said wasn’t that bad.”
“Have fun,” I say, and head back to read more Rants About Wade with a clean conscience.
“Oh no,” he calls. “If I have to watch these, you’re watching them with me.”
“Wade. I don’t think that falls within the purview of my job,” I say, sweetly, and close the door on his moody, charming ass.
5
Wade
A few days after my Clara Covington fuck-up, I’m wandering the grocery store late at night when I spot a distinctive pink-haired woman clutching a folded stepladder and having a breakdown in the home goods aisle.
It actually takes me a moment to recognize Stella, because instead of wearing that black pencil skirt that is slowly burning visions of her perfect ass into my retina, she’s in mini-shorts, cowboy boots, and a man’s shirt that shoots me through with jealousy.
No, not jealousy. Protectiveness. I am merely feeling protective of my best friend’s little sister. Especially since she’s …
Holy shit, she’s crying.
I hurry over to Stella and a very befuddled looking teenage boy who doesn’t look old enough to be wearing one of those employee vests.
“But I already bought this ladder,” Stella says, shaking the ladder she’s holding. “And it didn’t work. Don’t you have anything taller?”
“No ma’am, that’s as tall as we carry. Maybe if you try the hardware store—”
“They’re closed,” Stella says. “I’ve been living in the dark for weeks. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Um …” the boy tries. “We sell some very nice lanterns in the camping aisle.”
“What’s wrong, Stella?” I ask.
She looks over her shoulder at me and frantically shoves a palm across her cheeks, wiping her tears away. “Oh. Wade. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I am completely fine.”
“She can’t reach to change the lightbulb in her apartment,” the sales associate says helpfully. “Her ceilings are too high, and we don’t sell any ladders tall enough.”
I look from Stella to the paltry ladder section.
“It’s fine,” Stella says, her voice bright and thin. “I’ll just … I’ll just do what this helpful young man says, and get a lantern.”
She flashes a smile at the sales associate. “Where’s your camping aisle?”
“No,” I say. Taking the stepladder from her. “I am changing your lightbulb.”
It’s the brotherly thing to do, I tell myself. It’s definitely not because Stella Harrington crying makes me frantic to fix any problem she’s ever run into.
I hand the sales associate my basket, put the ladder under my arm, and walk out of the store.
“Wade!” Stella chases after me. “Wade, you don’t need to do this. I’ll just ask my apartment super again. I’m sure he’ll get around to it.”
“How long ago did you ask him?” I load the ladder into the back of my car. I’ve seen the tiny thing Stella drives. I’m surprised she managed to fit a stepladder into it in the first place. I have no idea how she thought she’d handle a bigger ladder.
“Two weeks ago,” Stella admits as I shut the trunk. “And every day this week. But I’m sure tonight’s the night he gets around to it.”
“Stella,” I say.
“Wade.”
We stare each other down in the parking lot.
“I’m not helpless,” she finally says. “I can take care of myself.”
“Of course you’re not helpless. Just vertically challenged.”
She narrows her eyes at me, like she suspects me of ulterior motives.
“I’m just doing what Duke would do if he was here,” I say reasonably.
“Duke couldn’t reach it either,” she says.
“Well then, good thing he’s not here. That would be awkward.”
Stella throws up her arms. “Fine! If you’re determined to throw your Friday night away, then follow me to my place and help me change a lightbulb.”
She lives in an old but well-kept apartment complex in an area of town that hasn’t been gentrified yet. Stella apologizes the whole time she’s letting me in.
It really is dark in here. If it weren’t for the hallway light spilling in from the open door, I wouldn’t be able to see a damn thing.
“Is there any light in this place?” I ask.
“It’s a studio apartment. This is the whole place,” she says. “The bathroom light still works.”
“Right.” I set up the ladder underneath the light fixture in the center of the ceiling. It’s got places to screw in four lightbulbs, but only one spot has a lightbulb. I try the first step, but she’s right, the ceilings are high, and even I can’t reach it.
I go up to the next step of the ladder. “If I fall and break my neck, my mom gets all of my stock options.”
“Don’t joke about that,” Stella says, and I smile, because she sounds genuinely worried. I reach up and unscrew the lightbulb, passing it down to her. “Here you go. Where’s the new one?”
She grabs something off the window sill, and returns with a lightbulb she passes to me.
“Hey Stella,” I say. “How many billionaires does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
“Please be careful,” she says. “I bought that ladder on sale. In the as-is section.”
I shift my weight, and there’s an ominous snapping sound, right on cue.
“I’m almost done,” I say, trying to screw in the lightbulb without shifting my weight. Or breathing. “Besides, I’m not leaving you in the dark.’
“It’s not so bad. Cooking is a challenge, but the lack of light does wonders for my sleep cycle.”
“There. Done.” I take a step down the ladder, and as the whole thing gives in on itself, I fall on my ass.
“Wade! Are you ok?” Stella hurries to help me up, but she trips on my feet and lands on top of me.
I can’t help it. I start laughing.
“What are you laughing about?” Stella asks, her voice so close in the dark it sends shivers down my spine. Don’t think about that. Duke’s sister. Employee. Don’t think about it.
“It’s just, this is exactly like something that would happen in those horrible romcoms you’re making me watch,” I say. “I thought they were unrealistic, but …”
I try to get up, but that turns out to be a mistake, because I just end up pressing upward into her softness, reminding my body of how long it’s been since I’ve had a woman’s weight on top of me.
“The unrealistic part is where it happens to someone you’re attracted to,” Stella says, and it might be my imagination, but her voice sounds breathy. “Someone you’d never let yourself touch like that unless you literally crashed into them.”
“Right. Totally unrealistic,” I say, hoping she gets off of me before my dick gets unrealistically hard.
And also, if I’m honest, really hoping she won’t.
“Stella …”
“Wade,” she answers, and I’m not imagining it. There’s a definite breathiness in her voice.
If this was anyone else, I know exactly what I’d do. Slide my hands through all that pretty pink hair and pull that pretty pink mouth down to mine. Nibble and suck until neither of us want the light to go on ever again.
But it’s not anyone else. It’s Stella Harrington, and I can’t do shit like that.
No matter how much I want to, with her sweet weight pressing down on me and the scent of gardenias and Stella fogging my brain.