“And, I’m his new assistant,” I announce.
“What?” She practically spits her drink out. “How did that happen?”
I tell her the story about getting lost and then running into him while asking for directions. “We went into his office and spoke for less than ten minutes. He barely asked me any questions and then hired me on the spot.”
Laurel eyes me over the rim of her glass and smirks. “Really?”
“What’s that look mean?”
She shrugs. “Nothing. I just think it’s interesting that he interviewed you himself. He’s a pretty busy guy so I’m thinking he saw something he liked.”
“Oh, my gosh, stop. He’s my boss. I would never…”
Would I?
“And, he would never,” I say. “We’re going to be working together and that means maintaining a professional demeanor at all times.”
“What fun is that? And, you’re blushing by the way.”
“No, I’m not. It’s just hot in here.” I look around and fan myself with a menu. “This drink is really strong. It’s probably the alcohol.”
“Or, maybe it’s your hot, billionaire boss getting you all flustered,” she teases.
What if she’s right? And every time I have to talk to him, I turn red and act like a besotted fool? How embarrassing.
“Can you imagine having billions of dollars?” she asks. “Buying anything you want and never having to worry about money again?”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure to me.”
“Pressure? Sounds like heaven to me.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. It would be nice to not stress over bills, but when people know you have that much money, they all want something from you.”
“I would not even care. Go ahead and use me. I can go cry in my mansion,” she says.
“You’re crazy,” I say and laugh.
We hang out a little longer, but then I want to go home and prepare for my first day at Carson Industries. I need to pick out the perfect outfit, take a shower, paint my nails and mentally prepare myself for the utter hotness that is Drew Carson.
And, I want to talk to Andy.
Later, after my shower, I send him a message and tell him that I got the job.
“Congratulations,” he writes back. “You need to celebrate now.”
“I already did,” I respond. “Met my bestie and had my favorite drink-- an espresso martini. It’s absolutely delish!”
“Sounds very girly,” he comments with a smiley emoji. “Maybe one day I can buy you one. But, me, I prefer Scotch. The older, the better.”
Scotch? I think and make a face. Isn’t that an old man’s drink? Maybe he’s more mature than I realize. Or, lying about his age.
I pull up his profile picture and study it closely. He’s got to be around 25-30, but what guy that age drinks Scotch? They usually prefer beer.
“What is Scotch, anyway?” I ask him. “And, I thought only rich, old men drank Scotch at their country club,” I write and add a laughing emoji.
It takes him a minute to respond and I wonder if I offended him or somehow hurt his feelings.
“It’s a type of whisky produced in Scotland,” he finally answers. “And, if having a refined taste makes me old then I guess I’m just a Grandpa.”
I laugh. Hmm, maybe he comes from Old Money or something and drinks Scotch with his Dad and Grandpa. Maybe he’s actually Scottish. For all I know, he could wear a kilt, too.
I tell him he’s funny and wish him a goodnight.
Morning comes fast and when my alarm goes off, I bounce out of bed. I take extra care with my hair and makeup. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, but I want to look my best. I use brown shadows to bring out the blue in my eyes and decide to wear my blonde hair loose and wavy.
I slip on a skirt that hits right above my knees and a cute matching jacket. Lastly, I slide my feet into a pair of stylish high heels and grab my purse.
Here we go, I think, and head out the door.
Chapter Ten
Drew
With a sour look on my face, I stare at my computer. It doesn’t look like today is going to be much better than yesterday.
First, traffic was ungodly. My normal ten minute commute straight down Broadway turned into a tangled, 60-minute mess. And, some idiot almost rear-ended me. That probably would’ve turned into another fist fight in the middle of rush hour. I didn’t have time to get my coffee and now my head pounds from the lack of caffeine.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Oh, and let’s not forget that Leigh now thinks of me as an old man. Which, technically, isn’t far off. Shit, in less than five years, I’ll be 50.
A new email lands in my inbox and I open my eyes. It’s from Dan McPherson and I open it up. “The Board of Directors at JD Unlimited just voted themselves an enormous bonus and James wants to update contracts to include a liberal severance pay for the management. He’s going to bankrupt the company before you can take it. Please, think hard on this, Drew, and advise how you would like to proceed.”
Sonofabitch. I scrub a hand along my jaw and glare at the email. How I’d like to proceed?
I’d like to hire a hitman and take James Douglas out. Or, better yet, murder him with my own two hands.
My extension rings and I swipe my phone up. “Yes?” I snap.
“I have Tabitha on line one for you,” Becca says.
As if this morning couldn’t get any worse now I have to talk to my ex-wife. “Put her though,” I say with a sigh.
I hear the calls connect and hope I sound halfway civil when I greet her. I don’t want to fight with her right now. “Hello, Tabitha.”
“Drew,” she says in that smooth as chocolate voice I know so well. “As you know, the charity event is next week and I’m wondering if you’ve done anything yet? Or am I the only one working on it?”
I roll my eyes and strive not to let her get under my skin. “I’m in the middle of a takeover so things have been extremely busy. But, I did just hire a new assistant so I’ll connect the two of you. I’m sure she’ll be able to help with anything you need.”
“I’m not training your new assistant, Drew. You need to handle the specific details yourself. In case you’ve forgotten, this is a big event with an elite guest list. If you want people to donate huge sums of money then you need to impress them and make sure everything is first class all the way. From the venue to the appetizers to the alcohol to the donations.”
I hate when she talks down to me. Like I’m still some hick from the Midwest who has no idea how to interact in a social situation with uppity rich assholes. Hell, I know better than anyone because I am a rich asshole. “We’ve already sent out the invitations and secured the venue so you can check those off your list,” I say, my tone a little smug.
“Thank you, I’ll be sure to do that. But, I’m calling about the auction items. You are supposed to be getting a number of them and, knowing you, I doubt that’s happened.”
Shit. Of course, she’s right. I have at least a dozen things I’m supposed to get and I haven’t secured one of them yet.