THE
BILLIONAIRE’S
ASSISTANT
MACKENZIE GRAY
SUMMER HOUSE
It started with a pizza.
Sort of.
The day my sleazy ex broke up with me, I got wasted on cheap wine and pineapple pizza. Except the pizza was never delivered. When a woman wants her pizza, by God, she gets her pizza!
So I called the pizza parlor. Only instead of an old Italian guy answering the phone, it’s answered by a man with the smoothest, deepest, sexiest voice I’ve ever heard.
Thus begins weeks of hot, hot phone se—um, conversations with a man I’ve never met. The strange thing is, sometimes he sounds eerily similar to Byron Schaffer, my uptight, demanding boss who seeks to make my life as his personal assistant a living hell. It’s a ridiculous thought, really. There’s no way I’ve been exchanging filthy fantasies with my boss. That would be so wrong.
The days get longer, the texts get hotter, and I ask my mysterious caller the one question I’m dying to know.
Can we meet?
The Billionaire’s Assistant is a standalone, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy with tons of steam and a HEA.
Summer House
Copyright © 2020 Mackenzie Gray
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be sold, reproduced, or distributed in any form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
For my readers
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Mackenzie gray
Chapter 1
Leila
Tell me, what does a young, beautiful, engaged woman on the threshold of having everything she’s ever wanted do on a Friday night?
Hell if I know. As of thirty minutes ago, this chick is freshly dumped. Kicked to the curb, yesterday’s trash kind of dumped. Pizza sauce on her white tank top kind of dumped. Butt on the couch, half a bottle of cheap wine kind of dumped. Dumped with a capital D.
It’s humiliating. Or rather, it was thirty minutes ago? Maybe? Screaming at my ex over the phone had a certain appeal, I admit, but at the end of it, I wanted to crawl into a corner and die. At least my stomach is full of wine, so I guess there’s that.
The only saving grace to this shit-tastic day is that I start a new job tomorrow. It’s less shitty than my previous job. And when I say less shitty, I actually mean it was less shitty. Working as a custodian at the local children’s museum, you deal with a lot of kiddy shit
Being let go was a good thing. An opportunity, if you will. My marketing degree has been gathering dust for years, ever since I graduated college. Job competition is fierce in a place like New York City. Somehow, by some miracle, I managed to land an interview for an administrative position. And then another miracle happened: I got the job. If anything, working in an office gets my foot in the marketing door.
As I sit on my couch in my closet-sized apartment, I consider that.
Tomorrow is my first day as a personal assistant to the CEO of a cutting-edge tech company called Solonay. Byron Schaffer built the company from the ground up at age twenty-two. Didn’t even finish college, from what I read. Apparently the guy was so smart he dropped out and became a millionaire almost overnight. He’s twenty-eight now. A billionaire. It blows my mind that someone can achieve that level of success at such a young age, and here I am in ratty pajamas, a shit-hole apartment, and two months behind on rent.
I take a huge swig from the wine bottle and belch loudly. But enough about work. Let’s get back to my cheating ex and his new lady friend.
Her name is Candy. Yes, that is actually her name. And yes, I asked my best friend, Amber, because she’s the kind of person who knows everything about anything. She knows which muffins are being sold at the local bakery on Saturdays. Which taxi company will skim money off you. Which prostitutes give the best head. Which leaves me with another question.
Who the fuck names their child Candy?
I guess it doesn’t matter to my ex. What infuriates me is he couldn’t find the balls to break up with me in person. You would think that being college sweethearts would mean something to him. An eight-year relationship, gone in a blink. He had to stick his stupid wiener in someone else. Candy is probably prettier than me, more successful than me. She probably lives in Manhattan and pays hundreds of dollars for a haircut. I guess at some point, Robert and I grew apart. Or he wanted something else? I wouldn’t know, because he never told me.
I’ve been trying to call up tears for the last two hours. I grit my teeth, scrunch up my face, think of that one scene in Homeward Bound when Shadow falls into the pit at the end of the movie and Chance tells him to get up, please, and Shadow’s like, I’m too old. And Chance keeps begging him, saying he’ll never get back to Peter, and then Shadow says, You’ve learned everything you need, Chance. Now all you have to learn is how to say goodbye.
Great. Crying for real now.
Looking around for the nearest cloth—a pillow—I wipe my face and toss it across the room, satisfied when it hits the wall. I’ve been waiting for my pizza to arrive for over forty minutes, and in that time I’ve drunk half a bottle of wine. I need food in my stomach. Time to check on my order.
Junk food wrappers and old mail clutter my coffee table. I sift through the contents until I find the pizza parlor number and quickly type it into my phone.
They pick up after two rings. “Hello?”
The voice gives me pause. It’s deep. Resonant. Unexpected.
Sexy as hell.
Somehow, it manages to echo through the phone, and I’m left wondering if the voice is a dream.
“Hello?” the man repeats.
Not a dream. That’s good. “Hi, Pizza Guy. I ordered a pizza from you about forty minutes ago and it hasn’t arrived yet. I’m the one who got the Hawaiian with no ham.”
This pause is longer. “No one here delivers pizza, I’m sorry to say. You have the wrong number.”
Now it’s my turn to pause in confusion. What is he talking about? “How do I have the wrong number. This is the same pizza parlor I called forty-five minutes ago. Are you playing me?”
“Ma’am, I assure you, this isn’t a pizza parlor.”
That stops me. “Ma’am?” God. I lied. That is the cherry on top of a shit day. Might as well buy ten cats and call myself a spinster. No thirty-year-old woman wants to be called ma’am.
Have I stooped so low in so little ti
me?
My laughter shrieks out of me. It’s quite a scary sound. “Oh, you have no idea what you just did, did you?”
The pause takes on a different quality. Even though I can’t see what this man looks like, I feel his curiosity, the sudden interest taking the place of cool disinterest from a moment ago. “And what, pray tell, did I do?”
“You called me ma’am.” Obviously.
“You called me Pizza Guy.”
“I called you Pizza Guy because you are the pizza guy! Where’s my pizza? Did you eat it on the drive over here?” I should have ordered from Domino’s. They have a new insurance policy I could be taking advantage of right now. I just didn’t think an employee would eat something he hadn’t paid for.
The man sighs. My nipples perk up at the exasperation in his tone. He seems like someone who enjoys bossing others around in bed. I wouldn’t be averse to that, considering my ex had the sex drive of a tube of toothpaste. A woman has her needs.
“Again,” he says, “I’m not the pizza guy. And anyway, who orders a Hawaiian pizza with no ham?”
My back stiffens. This man dares to judge my pizza topping preference? Does he know what I’ve been through tonight? “I believe this woman does exactly that, sir.”
He scoffs. “Pizza with pineapple. How tasteless.”
Every furious retort clogs up my throat. It feels like someone’s shoving a hot poker in my chest. The scream burns as it tears up my esophagus, closing my throat. This entire day has been the worst. All I want is to stuff my face with cheesy goodness. Is that so much to ask?
I burst into tears.
My body tips, and I collapse into the couch cushions, phone clutched in hand, face pressed into a pillow to muffle the sounds. Why can’t I do anything right? Why do bad things always happen to me? It’s fun when it’s every once in a while, but all the time, one after another after another, without reprieve? It’s exhausting, and I’m too beaten down to fight it anymore.
I’m also out of clean underwear.
“Um.” The man clears his throat. “Hello?”
“What?” I gasp, reaching for the bottle of wine. I grope around blindly, too tired to lift my head. Glass bottle in hand, I take two deep gulps and wipe my mouth on my forearm. As I set the bottle down on the coffee table, I accidentally knock a glass over, and it shatters.
“What was that?” demands Pizza Guy. His voice turns hard, commanding. “It sounded like a window breaking.”
“It’s nothing. Just my clumsy self. I’m in a fragile state right now and your commentary about my questionable taste in pizza isn’t helping,” I wail.
There goes that sexy huff of breath again. Bad hormones. Bad. “What do you want me to do, apologize?”
“Yes, actually.” It would honestly make me feel better. He messed up my order, anyway.
“Fine. I’m sorry you thought I was the pizza man when I’m not, and I’m sorry you’re having a bad day. Maybe you should talk to a therapist.”
“What! That is not an apol—”
“Goodbye.” He hangs up.
I glance at the phone, aghast. Then I toss it over the back of the couch, wipe my face, and peruse my fridge before I collapse from starvation. There’s something in a Tupperware container in the back that might be a dead animal. Instead of doing what a normal person would do and dump it, I shove it even further into the back. Expired yogurt. Nope. There’s not even enough milk for a bowl of cereal. With a groan, I hit my head against the fridge door. Wait ten seconds. Open it again. Still nothing.
After another thirty minutes of waiting, my pizza still doesn’t show. I’m so enraged over it that I text Pizza Guy. Thanks for stealing my pizza, chump!
I don’t get a chance to see his reply before I pass out.
Chapter 2
Byron
Every morning, I eat the same thing for breakfast: an English muffin, plain, with a cup of coffee, black. Most people would call me rigid, ornery, and they’d be right. But most people don’t reach billionaire status at age twenty-eight.
Except this morning, after showering away the sweat from my early run and dressing in the day’s suit, I find the English muffins gone and the coffee depleted. I’m so shocked I stare at the empty counter for over a minute, waiting for my breakfast to appear. This is… unprecedented. Then I remember why. Last night I was supposed to pick up supplies from the grocery store on my way home from work, but I got sidetracked. A strange woman calling me about a pizza.
In my puzzlement and faint amusement, I forgot to ask Tony to stop at the store and instead, he brought me home to my Manhattan apartment.
It was interesting, to say the least. Except the woman made me forget my breakfast, so the morning is not off to a good start. I thrive on routine. I like organization. I need to know the when and where and how of things. Structure. The success of my company hinges on it. I’m only half convinced it’s not a sign of impending doomsday.
Without my usual breakfast, I’m forced to hunt for something else to eat. I find an overripened banana, a piece of stale bread, and a frozen pizza. The contents of my fridge and freezer are nonexistent. It amazes me sometimes that I live in a beautiful penthouse with top of the line appliances, luxurious furniture, and tasteful art decorating the walls, yet I don’t have a single thing to eat. Not even an apple.
But time is money, as they say. I’d rather be making money than cooking any day of the week. I’ll have to stop at the store tonight. I can do without most food, but not without my English muffins and coffee.
With no time to stop for breakfast, I grab my briefcase and cell phone. Tony is already waiting for me downstairs. Seven on the dot, every morning. He’s worked for me for nearly four years and not once has he been late. He knows I rarely give second chances. You make a mistake, you’re gone. The ripple effect caused by a careless slip-up could possibly harm the company, and that’s something I will absolutely not tolerate.
Dressed in a dark blue suit and crisp white shirt—the top two buttons undone, no tie—I take the penthouse elevator to the bottom floor—fifty-five floors down. Briefcase in hand, I stroll across the white marble flooring, beneath the vaulted ceiling of the old building, and through the glass doors, which a doorman opens for me with a polite, “Morning, Mr. Schaffer.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgement and slide into the sleek black car waiting for me. Tony shuts the door, and we’re off.
I’ve taken this ride so many times I know it takes exactly twenty-four minutes to reach Solonay headquarters. Thirty if there’s bad traffic. In New York City, there’s bad traffic, and then there’s horrific. I’m greeted by the blaring of horns, taxi drivers screaming at whoever dared cut them off. Inside the dark interior of the car, all is quiet. The workday for my employees doesn’t start until eight, but I like arriving to Solonay early most days. Today, especially, since I have an early meeting with a potential client who I’m interested in doing business with. Solonay pairs with businesses to manage finances. A revitalization, if you will. Many businesses use antiquated methods. Solonay comes in and offers cutting-edge programs to clean up all that mess.
I arrive at the office on the half hour. It’s a minimalist space. Glass windows showcase the spread of the city from all sides, Central Park a short ten-minute walk west. Everyone has the latest laptop and technology. This is one of the ways in which I invest in my company. A more streamlined process equates to a quicker, more efficient output. That’s just fact.
My meeting begins in thirty minutes, and at nine I’m to meet with my newly hired personal assistant. Last week I traveled to Chicago for work so I was not able to interview the woman in person, but Peg assured me she’s a nice woman with a good head on her shoulders. A hard worker. Let’s see if she proves Peg right.
Peg greets me at the front desk. Her gray hair curls tightly against her head. She wears a lilac sweater that brings out the watery
green of her eyes. She smiles warmly at me as I enter the foyer, the walls a pale green and indoor plants livening up the place.
“Good morning, Mr. Schaffer.” She squeezes my hand over the desk when I offer it to her.
“Morning, Peg.” I pass her my planner with the day’s tasks. Starting tomorrow, my new assistant will take over my scheduling, but Peg has been doing it since I fired my last assistant. The girl forgot to mention an important client was to meet with me. He arrived, having flown in from California to do so.
Too bad I was in Chicago at the time.
I fired her on the spot. Can’t remember what I said, exactly. It was over the phone. I called Peg and told her to kick that woman out of my office immediately. No questions were asked. That’s just how things are done at Solonay. Maybe that makes be a cold-hearted bastard—Peg told me the girl was crying—but this company is all I have and I’ll be damned if I let some floozy screw it up.
“Mr. White is already in the meeting room. I sent him in with a cup of coffee.”
“Perfect. Thank you.” I take a step, then pause and pivot back to her. “You wouldn’t happen to have any more of that coffee, would you? I forgot to pick some up at the store last night.”
Her smile is both comforting and familiar. My own mother didn’t even smile at me with so much affection. “Of course. I’ll send a cup in with you. It’ll be a few moments.”
“Great.” I slap the top of the desk in farewell and stride toward the meeting room nearest to my office. Only one of my employees is at his desk: John, a man I hired last year to take over marketing. He had his work cut out for him, after I found the previous Head of Marketing using working hours to watch porn, but John has shown me he has the capacity to breathe life into something dead. It was because of his creative eye that our first promotional event of the year got so much media attention. I gave the man a raise the very next day. I reward hard work and dedication, always. Solonay takes care of its own.
A gleaming oak table surrounded by six deep, black office chairs commands the meeting room. Mr. White already occupies one, and he stands as I enter the room and shut the door. “Byron.” He shakes my hand, his grip firm, but not meant to intimidate.
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