by Cat Carmine
I rush out into the living room, hoping to see Lucy’s encouraging smile, but her bedroom door is still closed. She’d offered to make me her famous ‘good luck pancakes’ this morning, but I had stupidly told her not to bother getting up. Now I wish I’d accepted. It’d be nice to see a friendly face this morning.
Instead, I head directly downstairs and hurry off to the subway station. It’s likely for the best, anyway. With the kind of luck I’m having lately, I probably would have found myself with syrup all down the front of my dress. And maybe pancake batter in my hair, too, for good measure.
When the train comes, I climb on, surprised to find it reasonably empty. I’d expected the rush hour train into Manhattan to be packed, but there’s actually room to maneuver. Maybe my luck is turning. I grab onto a pole and settle in for the ride. As the doors slide closed, I mentally pat myself on the back. At this rate, I’ll make it downtown with plenty of time to spare.
My smugness ends abruptly when the next stop is announced. I let out a strangled scream, and a man in a grey suit raises his eyebrows at me.
“Is this the train to Manhattan?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. My stomach twists into a knot.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Right train, wrong direction.”
“Noooo.” My voice is a whimper, but Grey Suit just gives me a lecherous grin.
I stumble my way toward the doors. I’m still not used to balancing on these moving trains, never mind in the three inch heels I’m wearing. I clutch the pole closest to the doors and stand poised, ready to hop off the second they open. I can’t believe I got on the wrong train. Again. This is the fifth or sixth time I’ve done that lately — I had no idea before I moved here that I was so directionally challenged. There’s something about being in the underground that messes with my sense of direction.
As soon as the train comes to a stop, I’m shoving my way out the doors. This time, I get lucky and am able to hop on another train going in the opposite direction almost right away. I ask about six people this time, to make sure I am, indeed, heading towards Manhattan, and I watch the stops count down like a hawk, as if at any moment the train might decide to take a completely different route. I don’t breathe normally until I’m climbing the stairs from the underground and emerging onto the bustling sidewalk of Wall Street.
I take one brief moment to appreciate the fact that I’m in downtown Manhattan, about to start my first real job. No sobbing loan delinquents. No sketchy plastic surgeons. And best of all, no semen puddles. Cartwright Diamonds is the kind of place I dreamed of working when I moved to New York — some place busy and prestigious, where I could wear smart little suits and maybe even have an expense account. I could finally be a real grown-up, just like my sisters, instead of living at home with my parents and puttering away as an assistant in their flower shop.
I glance down at my phone and do a little hop and a skip when I realize I made it downtown with ten minutes to spare. That means I even have time to grab a coffee.
And a muffin, I decide, as my stomach growls. For the second time, I regret turning down Lucy’s offer of pancakes.
I find a coffee shop just a couple of buildings down from the Cartwright Diamonds offices. It’s busy, but I guess that’s not surprising for this time of day. I get in line and keep an eye on my phone as I inch closer to the counter. By the time I actually place my order, I’m cutting it hella close.
I grab my coffee — black with four sweeteners — and my muffin — lemon poppyseed — and hightail it at a full run over to the address Georgia had given me yesterday. My heels clack against the pavement, and I say a silent prayer that I don’t break one. That seems to be exactly the kind of luck I’d have right now.
But I make it to the office with my shoes intact. I ride the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor, where I’d been told to report to HR. I burst out of the elevator in a breathless whirl of sweat and coffee — and ten minutes late. Very professional, Blake, I chide myself. Way to make a first impression.
Georgia meets me at the entrance to the HR department. She doesn’t acknowledge my lateness or my disheveled appearance, for which I’m grateful, especially since she seems so no-nonsense. She has one of those tight spiral perms that was popular in the eighties and wears a frumpy skirt that hits mid-calf. The smell of menthol drifts off her as we cross the HR offices to her cubicle. She moves quickly on her sensible shoes, and I have to scurry to keep up.
“Oh dear,” she mutters as we approach a cubicle in the far end of the office. There’s a handmade banner tacked to the grey fabric walls. I read Congratulations — you survived!, written in red and blue sharpie, before she yanks the whole thing down and stuffs it into her desk drawer.
“Ignore that,” she tuts. “Now, have a seat. I just need you to sign a few documents.”
I sit in the faded peach guest chair across from her. We go through the paperwork quickly, she makes a copy of my ID and my banking info, and then she extends one meaty hand out to me. “Welcome to Cartwright Diamonds.”
A little thrill runs through me. This is really happening.
“I’ll show you upstairs,” Georgia says, and I follow her back out to the floor’s main lobby.
“What’s he like?” I ask softly, once we’re ensconced in the elevator. My nerves are starting to get to me. Every floor we go up brings me closer to my new reality.
Georgia laughs. It’s a high-pitched, slightly deranged sound. “Mr. Cartwright?” She purses her lips over what appears to be a cough drop. “He’s … tough.”
“Oh.” My stomach sinks. I’m not sure what I was expecting … he’s the best boss ever? He’s known for giving his employees bonuses for no reason at all? “How tough?”
Georgia just laughs that same maniacal laugh. My stomach sinks further. I clutch my coffee and my unopened muffin bag. I force myself to breathe, but when the elevator doors ping open on the thirtieth floor, another nervous wave washes over me.
“Here we are,” she says, tromping out into the lobby area. We pass an empty reception desk, and then an open office with a half dozen desks where she tells me all the executive staff work. Finally, we come to a stop in front of a huge glassed-in office. Even from here in the hallway, I can see the spectacular view of the Empire State Building, the richness of everything in the office.
“Shoot,” Georgia says, though she’s got that gassy smile again. “He’s not in yet. Do you mind waiting here on your own? He should be arriving any minute, and he’s expecting you.”
“No problem at all.” I wave her off, even though part of me really wants her to stay. And maybe hold my hand and tell me it’s going to be okay, that I’m going to be fine. But I suppose asking for a pep talk from my HR rep isn’t the best first day move. Besides, her weird behavior is actually making me more anxious.
But, as if she can sense my nerves, Georgia smiles. For the first time, it seems somewhat genuine. She stuffs both her hands into the pocket of her jacket. “You’re going to do fine,” she says confidently. “And if not, well, at least you won’t be the first person to be devoured by the lion.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, nerves clawing their way up into my throat. But Georgia is already giving me a cheerful wave and heading back towards the elevators.
“Great,” I mutter, once she’s out of earshot. I peer again into the office in front of me, trying to imagine the man who sits in that huge black leather executive chair, behind that beautiful mahogany desk. How bad can this be?
“Can I help you?”
The strong voice comes from behind me, and I spin around, completely and utterly unprepared for the gorgeous man standing in front of me. Oh, who am I kidding — a week of studying wouldn’t have prepared me for this level of gorgeousness. Blue eyes, dark blonde hair, a layer of scruff that’s somewhere between a beard and stubble, but that still manages to look neat and elegant. It covers a jaw that’s so perfectly formed it might as well have been carved from stone.
But besides th
e gorgeousness, he’s also intimidating as hell. Because he’s tall. At least a foot taller than me, I estimate, but given that I’m only 5’2, that’s not hard. It’s not just the height, either. It’s the broadness of his shoulders, the way his chest seems to stretch the expensive fabric of his suit. Like underneath, he’s nothing but solid muscle.
He’s staring at me expectantly, and I realize he must have asked me a question, but I can’t quite bring myself to form a response. I think I manage to swallow. Maybe blink a few times.
“You must be the new muffin girl,” he says. His face doesn’t quite lighten, but it unclenches slightly.
“The what?” Good. At least I’ve managed to make words come out of my mouth. They might not be the most articulate words, but I’m taking this as a win.
Instead of answering, he grabs the cafe bag out of my hand. He reaches in, pulls out the muffin, and takes a big bite.
Then he has the nerve to wrinkle his nose.
“I told them no poppyseed. It sticks in my teeth.” Before I can answer, he grabs the coffee out of my other hand and takes a long swallow, then spits. “Jesus. What the hell is this? Did you dump ten sugars in here?”
“Four,” I say indignantly. “Because that’s how I like it. And this is my breakfast.” I pluck the muffin back out of his hands.
He sputters in confusion, a look that would almost be endearing if my heart wasn’t racing so fast right now.
“But … aren’t you the muffin girl?”
“I don’t know what that is, but no.” I pluck my coffee back out of his hand, too. Then I hold my shoulders back, making myself as tall as I can. Which is really all that tall, even with my heels. “I’m Blake Holloway. The new personal assistant to Logan Cartwright.”
“Oh, fuck no.”
My confidence wavers. Not exactly the response I was expecting. But I force myself to stand up to him. “Sorry, but fuck yes.”
“No, I mean fuck no.” He pushes open the door to Mr. Cartwright’s office and walks inside. I follow him in.
“Saying it with emphasis doesn’t make it any more true,” I point out. “I was hired yesterday. Today’s my first day.”
The gorgeous man in front of me yanks back that black executive chair and sinks into it. And it’s at that moment that I realize exactly who I’m talking to. A wave of nausea threatens to topple me off my heels. “…You’re Mr. Cartwright, aren’t you?”
“I am. What did you say your name is?”
“Blake. Blake Holloway.”
He mouths the words back to me. Even without giving sound to it, the shape of my name on his lips makes my stomach roll in a way that has nothing to do with nervousness.
He slumps backwards against his chair. His blue eyes are piercing into me, and I feel ridiculous standing there clutching my coffee and the muffin he took a bite out of. The moment stretches between us, until my feet are starting to ache inside the stilettos I stupidly decided to wear today.
“Well, this isn’t going to work,” he says finally. “I’m sorry for the confusion, but you can go.”
“Wait, what?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“I said you can go.” He looks at me as if I’m made out of stupid.
“But I was just hired.”
“That was a mistake.”
“I signed the paperwork. You can’t just ask me to leave.”
“Funny,” he says, cracking open his laptop and turning away from me. “Because I just did.”
“You can’t,” I say again. I don’t know what’s giving me the courage to argue with him. Maybe it’s the fact that this is my first real job — I haven’t seen even a drop of semen yet! — and I can’t bear to have it ripped away from me so quickly and unceremoniously. “I’ve officially been hired by Cartwright Diamonds. If you want me to leave, you’re going to have to formally terminate me. And you have to pay me for coming in here today.”
I have no idea if that last part is true, but it’s enough to get Mr. Cartwright to turn his attention back to me. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse, because now that those piercing blue eyes are on me again, even the soles of my feet are sweating.
He steeples his hands together. He still hasn’t smiled, but there’s a glint of … something … in his eyes now.
“Fine,” he says finally, and a tiny inner part of me cheers. “I’m still firing you, but you’re right, we’ll pay you for today. But in that case, I expect you to do a full day’s work.”
“I have no problem working,” I say indignantly. Does he think I’m trying to cheat them, somehow? I wanted this job, and I came here to work.
“Good.” He gets out of the chair and strides towards the door. I watch him as he crosses the gleaming floor, taking in the way his muscles flex under the dark suit. Georgia was right when she called him a lion — he’s a caged animal, a beast in an Armani jacket.
He leaves the office and is halfway down the hall before I realize I’m supposed to be following him. I scurry to catch up, trying not to spill my coffee as I go. I turn a corner and come crashing into the solid wall of his back.
He turns, once again unleashing that icy gaze upon me. His whole body seems to have stiffened at the accidental contact, and he folds his arms across his chest. I get the distinct feeling that he’s trying to make me feel uncomfortable. I stand my ground, trying to act casual by taking a bite of my muffin while he stares at me.
Finally, he shakes his head and turns back to the room in front of him. That’s when I see the mess we’re standing in.
It’s a small room. The photocopier room, I guess, because the only things in here are three huge copy machines. Well, there’s one other thing in here — paper. Piles and piles and piles of paper. Stacked on every available surface, in bankers boxes, on the copy machines themselves, on the floor.
“These quarterly reports were supposed to go to the board last week,” Mr. Cartwright explains. “But my last assistant left before she could finish with them.”
“You know there’s a little place called Office Depot that’ll do this kind of thing for you.”
He ignores my comment, which is probably for the best, now that I think about it. “They’ll need to be collated into reports that look like this.” He plucks one coil-bound report off the top of a leaning tower of paper and hands it to me.
“Just collated? Is the copying done?” I ask.
He stares at me as if I’ve just asked him to scratch my back. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “It’s your job to figure that out. You wanted this job, didn’t you?”
“I was just asking a question,” I sputter. I can’t believe he keeps acting like I’m trying to pull one over on him or something. I just wanted a stupid job.
Tears threaten to spill from my eyes, but I absolutely refuse to cry in front of this man. No way, no how. Somehow, I get the sense that there’d be no coming back from that. So I blink those traitorous tears away and hold my shoulders back.
“I’ll figure it out,” I assure him. I try to juggle the report, the coffee, and the muffin, all while maintaining a look of composure. I don’t think I quite pull it off, because Mr. Cartwright looks at me like he finds me amusing. Not enough to smile, mind you — I haven’t seen the man smile since I walked in here — but enough that his blue eyes lighten half a shade.
“I’m sure you will,” he says. In that moment, it feels like the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. I expect it’s the closest thing to a compliment one could hope to get from this man.
He leaves me alone in the room, and I drop the report back on the nearest stack of papers, then take a very long and much-needed swig of my coffee. I try not to think about the fact that Mr. Cartwright’s lips have touched this same cup, right here in this same spot that my own lips are now pressed. I try not to think about anything at all, except doing the best damn job I can with these reports.
It feels like the only chance I’m going to get to prove to Mr. Cartwright that I deserve to
be here. And maybe if I do it well enough, he’ll let me keep the job I was hired to do.
Though, given the disdainful way he looked as he walked away, I’m not exactly optimistic.
Four
Jesus fucking Christ.
I leave Muffin Girl alone in the copy room and stride back to my office. I slam the door closed behind me, even though there’s no one around to hear it. I’m just in a slamming kind of mood.
How the fuck did this happen?
Scratch that. I know exactly how this happened. Georgia is how this happened. I know it in my bones. I’m sure that if Ed asked Christine, our head of HR, to pull only male resumes, that’s exactly what she did. So how did Georgia mix things up? How did she manage to extend a job offer to a woman?
And not just any woman. A woman who looks like that.
Because from the second I walked into the office and saw her standing there, I knew I was in trouble. That long blonde hair — so sexy and perfect, exactly the kind of hair I love to run my hands through — done up in an innocent-looking braid. That delicious curvy body, encased in a figure-hugging blue dress. Those heels, making her ass look like the epitome of perfection. Sinful. Sweet.
I wanted her the second I saw her.
Of course, at that point I still thought she was the new muffin girl. We have a contract with a cafe down the street, and every day they deliver coffee and muffins to the executive floor. I normally pass on the coffee, because I only like my coffee a certain way … but I like the muffin girls. They’re always sweet and cute and eager to please, and half the time they don’t speak much English. And best of all, no one on my board minds if I fuck the muffin girl.
