“I mean, what would you do on a date night? Read Shakespeare together?” He chuckled.
“No, we’d act it out,” I snapped.
“Well, you must be one of the most fun dates in all of New York City.” He stood up and straightened his already-straight jacket.
“Like I said before, Mr. McAllister, do we have any work to do? Or should I go back and sit at my own desk?”
“Miss Waldron.” He walked around his desk to stand next to me and looked down.
I had to repress the urge to jump up. I didn’t like to be at such an unfair advantage, sitting below him, staring up like I was his subject and he was my ruler—which in this setting, he kind of was, but it still didn’t make it right.
“Yes, Mr. McAllister? What can I do for you now? Would you like me to go to Columbia and get you some fresh Colombian coffee beans? Or maybe you’d prefer that I go to Guatemala. Or maybe you’re someone that prefers an African bean. I could go to Kenya and get you some Kenyan beans. And then I’d fly right back, and I’d buy the best coffee grinder that I could find. And I would grind those beans so that I could make you a freshly brewed cup of coffee. While I’m at it, why don’t I also go ahead and take a class in France at a culinary institute from some of the best French pastry chefs in the world? Then they can teach me how to make the best croissants. And then I will wake up at three o’clock every morning so that I can bake you fresh croissants.
“And maybe, just maybe, I can find a farmer somewhere in the city who has some cows. And maybe I can go to the farm and they can teach me how to make butter. And once I make the butter, I can give them to you with your freshly baked croissant. And oh, perhaps, perhaps I could also on the weekends, in my spare time, go down to Philadelphia and pick fresh strawberries and make you fresh jam. How would you like that, Mr. McAllister?”
“Are you done now?” he asked cooly.
I stared back at him, not quite believing that I’d just gone off on him. I’d completely lost the plot and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d fired me there on the spot. It was completely inappropriate. I knew it, but I just couldn’t help myself.
“You didn’t tell me that you were an actress as well, Miss Waldron.”
“Excuse me?”
“I see you’re prone to the dramatics.”
“What dramatics?” I said.
“What dramatics?” he chuckled. “Hmm. Hopping on a plane to go to Guatemala and Kenya to get coffee beans to make me coffee in the morning? Is it really too much to ask you to stop at the coffee shop that is five minutes down the road, in a car that I will provide to you, just to get me some freshly brewed coffee? Also, may I add, on a corporate credit card. Hmm. I guess that’s too much. Are you going to go to the EEOC and complain about that one as well?”
“Oh, you’re so frustrating,” I muttered under my breath.
“I’m frustrating?” He grinned. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Miss Waldron.” He sat down again, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a mini recorder, and handed it to me. “I suggest that you tape this just in case you don’t catch everything the first time. I expect you to do everything on my list, and I expect it to be done by today. You do not leave work until you have completed every task. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” He handed me the recorder and I looked at it thoughtfully “So do I press record now?”
“That’s up to you, Miss Waldron. Use your brain.”
I pressed my lips together. He was the most infuriating, aggravating, narcissistic asshole I’d ever met. And yet there was something about his snark and his banter that made me wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
I was crazy. I was absolutely crazy. No wonder I was single. If I was attracted to assholes like this, I was never going to find Mr. Right.
I pressed record and sat back. “Okay, you can go, sir. I’m ready whenever you are.”
Chapter 7
Abby
* * *
“I hate him. I hate him. I hate him!” I screamed into the apartment as I opened the front door. Hopefully, some of my roommates were home because I needed someone to complain to. “Is anyone home? I hate him!”
“We’re in the living room,” Emma called, amusement in her tone. “Come on through.”
“I’m coming.” I slammed the door behind me, dropped my handbag on the floor, and flounced into the living room.
Dylan McAllister’s words popped into my mind as I realized I was being dramatic—not that I was going to let him stop me from being who I was.
“Uh-oh. Good first day?” Isabella said sitting on the couch and staring off at me, a glass of wine in her hand. “Would you like some?” She nodded at the open wine bottle.
I nodded gratefully. “Yes, please. Oh my gosh. I’m going to need ten bottles tonight. I didn’t know you were coming over tonight,” I added. “I thought you’d be with Jack.”
“Oh, Jack had a business meeting tonight,” she shrugged. “Plus I wanted to hear how your first day went.”
“Oh, it was horrible. I hate him.”
“We gathered that,” Emma said dryly. “Want some crackers and Brie?” she said nodding towards the platter.
“Oh yes, please.”
“I got prosciutto as well.” Chloe held up a plate.
“Ooh, yummy. I’m so hungry.”
“Wow. You’re late,” Isabella said as she looked at her watch. “It’s ten. Your first day went that long?”
“Yes,” I sighed loudly. “I just don’t know what to do. I can’t deal with this man. He’s infuriating. He’s rude. He’s—”
“Uh-oh,” Emma said, “what happened?”
“Let’s just say that he is the worst boss to ever exist in the history of bosses.”
“Oh no. That bad?” Isabella handed me the glass of wine.
I closed my eyes and took a long, deep sip. The warm liquid poured down my throat. And I could feel myself starting to relax. I needed this. I really, really needed this.
“Um, let’s just say that if Mussolini and Stalin had a son, his name would be Dylan McAllister.”
“Oh, shit.” Emma raised an eyebrow. “That bad huh?”
“You have no idea.”
“But I thought he was really good-looking,” Chloe said. “You were so excited. I thought it was going to be amazing.”
“Well, he is very good-looking, but obviously he knows it. He’s like some spoiled rich kid, I think. He has to be born with a silver spoon in his mouth or something.”
“I don’t think so,” Isabella said shaking her head. “I’m pretty sure I read an article on him in the New York Times last year. It said he was self-made.”
“Really?” I was surprised. “Hmm. I could have sworn that he was the son of rich parents and inherited everything.” I pulled out my phone. “Let me see.” I quickly Googled him and read his Wikipedia page. “Huh. I guess I was kind of wrong.”
“Oh?” Emma said. “Tell us. What’s his background?”