The Billionaire's Assistant

by Mackenzie Gray

  Charles White is about thirty years my senior, yet looks no older than forty-five. He wears what anyone would call casual clothes, yet to my eye, they’re expensive—silk shirts, dark-washed jeans tailored specifically for him. Leather shoes. Charles White can dress however he wants. He could have shown up in his pajamas and I’d still want to do business with him. Like me, he built his company in his twenties. Immigrant parents. A desire to build a better life for himself. He made his first million before he was thirty. He’s a pillar in the tech community. Anyone who wants to be anyone knows Charles White.

  “Thanks for meeting with me,” I say, sitting beside him. He nods, studying me with introspection. His gray hair is combed back, curling over one of his ears.

  “I must admit, I’m curious about the email you sent me,” he says in a surprisingly soft voice. “You said you were in a position to help me. Enlighten me, if you will.”

  I give him my breeziest smile. I’ve handled men like him before. My company may have exploded overnight, but I’m still a small fish in a big pond. I not only need to convince Mr. White that his company would benefit from my alliance, but I need to convince him that I’m the only one who will help him achieve greater financial success through the use of my programs.

  “As you know,” I say, pushing some papers across the table for him to look at, “White Enterprises is looking to expand…”

  Over an hour and much negotiation later, Mr. White exits the meeting room with a contract in hand and the promise to discuss the paperwork next week. I’m confident he’ll say yes to partnering with Solonay. The world isn’t what it used to be thirty years ago. Mr. White’s company is as successful as it is because he’s a well-known figure, but soon his way of doing business will be a thing of the past. Solonay’s financial programs can help pull him into the twenty-first century. I’m sure of it.

  After seeing Mr. White out, I return to my office to check my email before my assistant arrives. My room is entirely made of glass save the interior wall. Dark wood flooring, gleaming chrome desk, black chairs. There’s a sitting area in the corner for when I wish to speak with clients in a more casual setting. On the interior wall is an enormous canvas painting. Dark reds and grays with blotches of intense yellow, completed in oil. It’s titled War.

  I bought it off an art dealer following my very first year of business. The title was fitting. Building a business is a little like war. I never want to stop fighting for what I want. When I look at this painting, I’m continually filled with new energy.

  While my computer starts up, I pull out my phone. That’s when I see the little red number on the corner of my texting app. Another text had come through that I hadn’t seen.

  I click open the app and find the text from a number I don’t recognize.

  Thanks for stealing my pizza, chump!

  Ah. Drunk pizza woman from last night. Seems she couldn’t stand not having the last word.

  My mouth twitches. I consider deleting the text but find it’s bringing me far more amusement than it should, so it stays. Tomorrow is another day.

  Then I look over to Peg, who I can see through my doorway. I expect her to be smiling. Instead, she frowns and shakes her head. The new assistant still hasn’t arrived. Not a good sign, especially on your first day of work. Five minutes late I can accept. Not twenty.

  I’m assuming something has happened. An accident, maybe. There’s nothing I can do at this point. Peg will inform me when the new assistant arrives. Until then, I’ll think of all the ways in which I’ll fire her when she gets here. Time is money. And this assistant—wherever she is—is costing me.

  Chapter 3

  Leila

  Hangovers at thirty are nothing like hangovers at twenty-one. Back then, I could drink buckets of straight Vodka and wake up perky the next day. Now I look like death rolled over—twice.

  I feel like it, too.

  Throbbing head.

  Dry-as-the-Sahara mouth.

  Aching muscles.

  Gurgling stomach.

  Peeling open my crusty eyelids, I’m greeted by two things: sunlight stabbing into my retinas in its own personal good morning and fuck you very much, and my cat Henry’s butthole.

  As if sensing I’m now awake, he turns his head around to give me a view of his squashed face. It looks like someone accidentally shut it in a door. Gray hair sprouts all over his body like a balding man’s scalp, patchy and unappealing. I adopted him from the animal shelter a few years ago because I was feeling lonely and down about my life. I saw him and it was love at first sight.

  Well, not really. He actually hates me most days. The only reason he hasn’t run away yet is because I feed him whenever he demands it, which is every few hours. He shows his love by using my legs as scratching posts and pooping everywhere but the litter box.

  Love that little deranged bitch.

  As if I’m not waking up fast enough, he sinks his claws into one of my boobs. I shriek and bolt upright, sloshing the contents inside my stomach. “I’m up,” I snap, shoving him off the bed. He hisses and darts out the door. He’ll be waiting by his food bowl in the meantime.

  Last night comes back to me in flashes. Robert dumping me for a girl named Candy. Eating my weight and my neighbor’s weight in pizza. All that wine…

  Bolting from my bed, I barely make it to the toilet before heaving up my guts. It spatters into the porcelain bowl in a fantastic shade of burgundy. Now I remember. I didn’t actually get to eat my pizza because it was never delivered. All I had was an entire bottle of wine and some old snickers I found in the back of my fridge.

  Once I flush the toilet, I do what adults do when they have a hangover and step into the freezing shower, fully clothed. I need to do laundry and this kills two birds with one stone. After brushing my teeth, I get dressed in sweats because I’m feeling blah, then go to the kitchen to feed the king—King Henry is his full name—and make myself a piece of toast. My apartment isn’t much to look at. It’s about the size of a kindergarten classroom. Bedroom, cramped kitchen, closet-sized bathroom, and a comfortable living area that I sometimes like to build blanket forts in when I’m feeling restless and bored, which is often these days. Ms. Hayes, my landlord, likes to hover outside my front door, since I’m behind on rent. I’ve taken to entering through a window on the fire escape. It’s worked out so far, but she’s threatening eviction if I don’t pay her soon.

  It’s as I’m pulling out the raspberry jam that I remember what day it is.

  Monday.

  First day of my new job as personal assistant to CEO Byron Schaffer.

  I was supposed to start bright and early at nine on the dot.

  It’s now nine twenty-three.

  “Fuck!” The word shrieks out of me.

  I make a beeline for my bedroom, shedding my sweats and large t-shirt as I go. I only trip once, doing a faceplant into my mattress. Then I’m at my closet, rifling through my old clothes for something that looks professional. I choose a wool gray skirt and a white blouse. I tug my long, frizzy brown hair back into the best bun I can manage, using some of my spit to press down the cowlicks. I can do my makeup on the way. Shoes are my only pair of black heels. I snatch my shoes, my purse, my coffee, and my piece of toast, and what do you know, a piece of red jam plops onto my white blouse, ruining everything.

  No time for cursing. Getting to work as quickly as possible means hiring a taxi, which I can’t afford, but I also can’t afford to lose this job.

  Outside, I hurry down the cracked sidewalk, leaping over piles of trash, and wave my hand like my life depends on it.

  A yellow cab cuts across traffic and screeches to a halt at the sidewalk. I dive inside, shouting, “Manhattan. Eleventh and forty-fourth! And if you get me there in under thirty minutes, I’ll give you an extra tip.” I unbutton the top of my blouse so he can see my plain white bra. Because I’m fancy like tha
t.

  The man lifts his eyebrows and steps on it.

  I’m wondering what excuse I should use to explain my lateness. I’ve never been one for lying—aside from saving myself, like with the rent—but I need a legitimate reason aside from “Leila’s drunk ass got hungover and she slept through her alarm.”

  Medical emergencies are out. I can’t very well have appendicitis and show up to work. Can’t fake a broken leg. I guess I could pretend I was in a car accident—no, bike accident. That’s not uncommon in New York, but then again, I’m about as coordinated as a platypus on land, so it’s likely they won’t believe me.

  A more believable scenario is that there was a horrible accident and I got stuck in traffic, but then why didn’t I call to inform my employer I’d be late? I could say one of my children was sick—if I had children. I don’t even have a significant other and that’s not something I want to lie about, as pretending I have someone who loves me enough to spend the rest of their life with me is depressing.

  It seems the only logical explanation for my being late is that I had a bout of amnesia and only now just remembered where I was supposed to be.

  The taxi driver halts in front of the huge skyrise where Solonay’s offices are located. I toss all my cash at him and throw myself out the door.

  Too late, he realizes I’m not being good on my word. His face falls. “What about the boobies?”

  “What about them?” With an apologetic smile, I slam the door and hightail it inside.

  There’s an elevator to the right of the large atrium, which is decorated with plush seating and smells of coffee. I slam the button to floor thirty-one about twelve times before the doors close and the elevator whooshes upward. Meanwhile, I’m starting to sweat. I also forgot to put on deodorant in my hurry.

  The doors open. Clutching my coffee close to my chest for safety, I hurry down the hall and around the corner, and promptly slam into a hard body.

  My coffee goes everywhere. The body shifts slightly, and I’m stumbling past, one of my ankles rolling as the heel of one shoe snaps. I’m falling, falling—

  My knees hit the floor. My world is flipped upside down. I land on my back, breathing hard, staring up at what has to be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in real life. Legolas from The Lord of the Rings doesn’t count.

  Hair black as a winter sea curls over the back of his neck, long enough to tempt you to run your fingers through the ends. I don’t think it’s actually styled, though it looks it. He wears a navy suit that molds to his musculature with such intimacy. Broad, broad shoulders. Long legs and muscular thighs. And that face.

  His face is like a dream.

  Okay, so many he’s a little prettier than Legolas. More masculine, definitely. My attention locks onto his mouth, which is too full, too sensual, for a man, but he makes it work. Straight nose and straight black brows. Clean shaven jaw that would look absolutely lovely with three-day-old stubble.

  His eyes are blue, piercing, cold. The softness of his mouth hardens as he takes me in. “Well.” A deep voice trails fingertips across my bared arms. “Someone’s a fan of granny panties.”

  Um.

  What?

  That’s when I realize my skirt is flipped up, my legs indecently open to his gaze. Hurriedly, I yank the fabric down to cover myself. Since I had no clean nice underwear, I had to make do with my stretched-out pair of cotton panties. They’re a mustard yellow color and stamped with blue bicycles. They’re the most unflattering thing I own, and of course the most attractive man in New York City has to catch me wearing them.

  A bright flush attacks my cheeks. I clear my throat and stand with the shred of dignity that remains. His previously pristine white shirt is stained black from the coffee.

  “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry!” I search through my purse for a napkin and start dabbing at his chest, unaware that he’s gone stiff. “I was in a hurry. I didn’t see you! I mean, it was my fault. If I hadn’t been running around the corner—” I’m blabbering, but I’m still late, still haven’t met my boss, who’s no doubt going to fire me. “I’ll buy you a new shirt.”

  His only reaction is to lift a single black eyebrow. The effect is panty-melting. Also scary as hell. This guy looks like he’s still undecided about tossing me out a window.

  “Can you afford it?” he asks, with only the slightest hint of condescension.

  My mouth drops. What in the world? “Of course I can afford it.” It’s a stupid dress shirt. How much can one of them cost?

  With a smile that says he’s enjoying himself, he pulls out his phone and taps something into Google. He pulls up a picture of a white dress shirt from a place called Silver, which is a clothing store I’ve never heard of.

  Five hundred and thirty dollars.

  Five!

  Hundred!

  And thirty!

  Freaking!

  Dollars!

  A disbelieving sound puffs out of me. “That’s how much your shirt costs?” I croak.

  “Still think you can afford it?”

  Really not liking his condescension. “I said I’d pay for your shirt, and I will.” In ten years, maybe. “I’m sorry, but I’m supposed to meet my boss and I’m really late and—”

  “Yes, I know.” The man gestures to an office on his right. “Have a seat, Ms. Engleton.”

  Chapter 4

  Byron

  The woman, Leila Engleton, looks like she’s swallowed her tongue. “You’re… Byron Schaffer?”

  I smile and gesture again to the empty chair across from my desk. “Have a seat.”

  The “Oh, shit” look is priceless. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not an asshole. Actions have consequences. Late on the first day, spilling coffee on your boss, those are actions. Firing her is the logical consequence.

  She plants herself in the chair, dazed. Every so often her eyes dart around the office. I use the chance to study her.

  She’s a small woman, on the thin side, yet has good meat on her bones. Wide hips, small waist. Her skin is creamy, contrasting nicely with her dark, flyaway hair. It may have been pulled back at some point, but it hangs limply around her heart-shaped face. High cheekbones, arched brows, hazel eyes that grow wary in the passing minutes. She’s attractive in a girl next door kind of way.

  I will say she has very nice legs. Long and lean and shapely. And a nice ass. Since I was staring at her cotton underwear only moments ago.

  “So. Ms. Engleton.”

  She straightens in her seat.

  “Now that you’re working at Solonay, there are some ground rules I’d like to cover.”

  She fists her hands in her lap. Tautness radiates through her body, but she bobs her head with a hard swallow, her cheeks pink.

  “First, I expect all my employees to arrive at the office at their designated work times. Starting tomorrow, you will work from eight to five. It’s stated in your contract, I believe.” It’s definitely stated in her contract, but I want to remind her, gently, without hounding her.

  “Of course,” she whispers.

  “If you’re going to be late, please call Peg at the front desk to let her know. If you’re going to be absent for whatever reason—doctor’s appointment, going out of town—again, let Peg know beforehand.”

  “I don’t have to tell you?” she asks, startled.

  “No. Peg handles all the employee scheduling.” I realized long ago I had to hand the control to other people for some things. I have a limited amount of energy on any given day and I can’t stretch myself thin like I did the first few years. It took a toll on me, and the business suffered for it.

  She nods in understanding.

  Great. With that out of the way, I turn to her job responsibilities. “You’re mostly going to be working with me during the day, scheduling my meetings, answering incoming calls. Peg can walk you through most of
it. The most important thing is to stay on top of my schedule. I have multiple meetings with various clients on any given day and I need the schedule to be seamless. No overlaps. Conference calls typically occur in the morning, with in-person meetings occurring in the afternoon. You will also be responsible for checking and responding to my emails.”

  She blinks a few times, then nods uncertainly.

  “You do know how to use a computer, right?”

  That snaps her out of whatever stupor she’s been in. Anger flares in her hazel eyes. “Of course I know how to use a computer! I’m not an idiot.”

  I hold my palms up in a placating gesture. “Just making sure. No need to get upset about it.”

  Her mouth opens and her upper lip curls. “Of course you would say something like that. As if my reaction to your condescension is my fault, not yours.” She makes a huffing sound, her chest pressing against her thin blouse. I’m thinking about her legs again. “Look, I’m sorry I was late, and I’m sorry I spilled coffee on you. Is that what you want to hear? My weekend wasn’t that great so my head wasn’t in the right place but I’m here now, and I’m going to work hard. I promise you that.” Her throat works as if she’s considering adding something else, but Leila shakes her head and falls silent.

  I feel like an ass. Maybe I’m being too hard on her. But she doesn’t understand. Working at Solonay isn’t a job. It’s a way of life. Everything you do is for the benefit of the company.

  Shifting position in my chair, I push aside some folders on my desk. “Perhaps we started off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we start over? Hi, I’m Byron Schaffer, founder and CEO of Solonay.” I offer my hand.

  “Leila Engleton.” Her hand is slender, the skin cool. When she pulls away, she rubs it on the fabric of her skirt as if wanting to rid herself of my touch.

  For whatever reason, that irks me.

  Folding my hands atop my desk, I lean forward. She leans slightly back, even though there’s a desk separating us. My moods darkens for an unexplainable reason. “If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask.”