Temp Girl

by Haley Oliver

  Copyright © 2019 by Blue Pines Romance.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Story Description

  1. Amanda

  2. Owen

  3. Amanda

  4. Owen

  5. Amanda

  6. Owen

  7. Amanda

  8. Owen

  9. Amanda

  10. Owen

  11. Amanda

  12. Owen

  13. Amanda

  Epilogue

  NEXT IN THIS SERIES…

  Her Mail Order Family

  Temp Girl

  Billionaires Secretarial Pool

  Haley Oliver

  Amanda King is tangled in a web of deception.

  When she answered the intra-office memo on behalf of the snooty blonde down the hall, she only meant to spare her new boss a cruel rejection.

  He wasn't supposed to reply.

  And she shouldn’t have replied to his reply…

  …again…and again…and again.

  While Amanda has fallen head over heels for her billionaire boss, Owen Ridgemont, to him she's just the girl from the temp agency who sits at the front desk and files paperwork.

  What will happen when Owen learns that, rather than corresponding with the gorgeous blonde, he's been exchanging memos with his secretary?

  Amanda has a good idea where her well-meaning charade will leave her….

  …unemployed and seriously heartbroken!

  Chapter One

  Amanda

  I shield my eyes from the glare of the morning sun as I stand on the sidewalk outside and count the stories looming above me. Sway International, my new place of employment, for the next few months anyway. The Sway brothers, self-made billionaires and entrepreneurs extraordinaire, would not be whom I'd be working for directly. I'd be temping for one of their important executives. I reach into my shoulder bag and pull out the slip of paper with the man's name scrawled across it.

  "Owen Ridgemont. Fifth floor. Office 509." I glance up one last time to read the scrolling marquee over the door. It announces the date, time, the DOW and NASDAQ, and a company event scheduled for next Thursday. Very efficient.

  "Darn," I hiss for the umpteenth time as I adjust my blouse to hide a coffee stain. There is no erasing that eyesore. My German Shepherd, Lucy, perhaps sensing my excitement that morning, or thinking I was dressing up to take her for a w-a-l-k, had lunged up just as I was poised to take my first sip of coffee. So long, pristine first impression. I lick my thumb and scrub, but no matter how hard I try, it remains.

  The rest of the blouse's white, overstarched material also suddenly seems unequal to the task of tackling my new position. I'd even broken out the iron this morning in an effort to make a good first impression—and I never iron. Now, as I enter the massive steel and glass structure, I'm all too aware of just how asymmetrical my collar is and how translucent the fabric of the shirt is when the early morning light hits it just right. Thank goodness I thought to wear a tank top underneath.

  Dress for the success you are hoping to achieve, the sweet lady at the temp agency's voice rings through my head. Good advice, and by the way she'd smiled indulgently with half-closed eyes, basking in her own words, you would think she was the first person in human history to ever string together that sentence.

  Mounting the curb, I let myself in through the tall glass door. Cheap blouse with a coffee stain or not, there's no going back now, Mandy. I stand erect, keep my head held high, and pretend I belong here until I can convince myself I've actually earned the privilege.

  Sway International, besides being one of the tallest high-rises in NYC, is an international investment firm owned by the Sway brothers. I take a deep breath of courage as I realize I will be walking among impressive men and women who deal with more money every day than I'll ever earn in my lifetime. They might as well be gods from Olympus or something.

  Whoa there, Mandy. Probably not the way to think about your new coworkers. That's quite a pedestal. I adjust my glasses.

  Now that I'm inside, I already know what my next move is—make a beeline for the elevator and ride it to the fifth floor. But I'm totally lost, distracted by the lavishness of the environment. It seems to swallow me up. Gorgeous people—employees of the firm and clients alike—perch on gold couches, wreathed in a profusion of emerald jungle plants. The vast room smells like a champagne wedding cake, and for a wild moment, I wonder if it's water cascading out of the centerpiece fountain. Maybe these people aren't gods, but this place sure could be Mount Olympus.

  I nervously tug at my skirt, wondering if the hemline is a smidge too short, when a hubbub of voices from behind me echoes through the lobby. I watch as several women bypass me and head across the way to—ah, the elevators! I hurriedly follow.

  "Well, at least someone looks happy to be at work this morning," announces a saucy redhead whose focus seems to be on me. It's easy enough to distinguish her as the brassy, uninfluenced member of the group. The others seem to orbit around her. With her no-nonsense chignon, professional attire, boisterous yet warm voice, and wide smile, I instantly take a liking to her, a bit like a freshman takes a liking to a popular high school senior.

  I broaden my smile and nod, smoothing the new wrinkles out of my blouse. "I'm new."

  "I couldn't tell," she whispers sarcastically, then winks. "Kidding. I know just about everyone in this building. Hi, I'm Jane. I work for Gabe Sway." She shuffles her bags and folders onto one arm and extends her free hand to me in welcome. Her manicure is completely on-point, and obviously not something struggled over obsessively at home with a bottle of $0.99 polish from Butch's Bargain Basement as mine is.

  "Amanda King. Uh, Mandy." I shake her hand with a timid grasp.

  "Well, Mandy, where are you headed? Wait—don't tell me. You're Owen's girl, right?"

  "Yes. I'm Owen's girl—I mean! New girl. I'm his new girl. Who works for him, I mean! Not his new girl…uh… friend." I flush as red as my new friend's hair and stare at the floor as we enter the elevator together. Boy, Mandy, you're batting a thousand in the first impressions category so far. Say something, say something. "So, you work for Gabe Sway. As in Gabriel Sway, of Sway International? The Gabe Sway?"

  "One and the same." Jane seems infinitely amused by me, and I can't fathom why. I feel as though I come across like a blundering court jester. The other woman's smile is practically beaming down on me now (the heels on her pumps are higher, but she is also taller than I am by several inches). "D-did I say something weird?"

  "No," Jane replies, airy and unconvincing. "You're refreshing."

  I feel my blush deepen. Hopefully the additional layer of makeup I decided to apply this morning covers it. "Thanks. I think."

  "I definitely mean that as a compliment." Jane grins. "I try not to get swept up in all things 'Sway,' but you can't help it after a while. It's nice to meet someone who's new to all this.” Jane presses the button for the fifth floor and then one for the seventh.

  The elevator ascends two floors, opens to nothing and no one, and closes again. Just before it shuts completely, I hear a shout.

  "Hold that elevator!"


  Jane endangers her perfect manicure by thrusting her hand between the elevator doors to trigger the sensor. Another group of women, all perfectly polished, comes rushing in. I try to appear poised and confident while the small group clambers onto the elevator, packing in like business-attired sardines in heels, but I find myself squeezed toward the back wall until Jane grabs me and yanks me into the low-watt elevator spotlight. "Ladies, this is Amanda, or Mandy. I was just giving her the skinny on Owen Ridgemont."

  "He's from LA!" one of the others pipes in excitedly. The elevator is so crowded I can't tell which direction the voice comes from.

  "And definitely not skinny," another woman offers, and the elevator erupts in appreciative laughter.

  "Let's just say we're all looking forward to seeing his contribution to this year's tug-of-war at the company picnic. Preferably shirtless."

  "Girls, this is Amanda's first day," Jane admonishes as I struggle to figure out what expression I should be wearing in the face of all this. "Let's try not to overwhelm her and have her running to HR to look for another assignment."

  "Right. We'll save it for the bar after work," one of the more incorrigible girls giggles.

  The elevator slows and the doors open, allowing a few more riders on. A tall blonde, whose perfume permeates the whole space of the lift, elbows me as she wedges herself between me and the wall. She returns my meek smile with a snub and a glare down her perfectly upturned nose. By a fault ingrained in me since middle school, I stepped aside, closer to Jane.

  "Hey, that reminds me." Jane turns to me with that stunningly wide grin of hers. "If Rigid Ridgemont doesn't make you skip lunch and eat at your desk, come sit in the lunchroom today. It's on three. You're welcome to join us; get to know the whole pool. We're a friendly bunch around here…most of us."

  I hear a small scoff off to my left and infer that "perfumed blondie" is the odd girl out from the friendly bunch.

  Jane lifts her eyes to glare daggers at the woman. I turn, probably more conspicuously than I should, to see her thumbing joylessly through her cell notifications. She's gorgeous, except for the natural, superior scowl that turns down the corners of her ruby-red lips. Maybe it's all this talk of lunchroom seating arrangements, but I have a sudden flashback to high school. This woman was definitely one of the popular girls.

  The elevator stops again. "Well, this is your floor." Jane makes a dramatic presentation with her hand as the doors fold back. "Knock 'em dead, King! We're all rooting for you!"

  I'm just about to move toward my future when the perfumed blonde pushes her way past us to be the first off, unceremoniously elbowing me out of the way. She still hasn't looked up from her phone. I cringe, realizing that she must work on the same floor as me. Ugh. It could be worse, I suppose. She could be working in the same office as me. What if she is? My stomach flip-flops. Temp jobs are hard enough, but the thought of sharing office space with a hostile coworker for the next few months doesn't bode well. It will be like high school all over again. I have lingering memories of popular girls, far prettier and more put-together than I ever was, taunting me with cow sounds and chants of "Moo-ve Over Mandy" any time I so much as dared to breathe in their proximity.

  I've grown into my curves since then, but I'd be lying if I claimed there wasn't some residual hurt after all these years. I shudder.

  "Hey, hey, hey." Jane's reassuring hand is on my arm. "Don't be nervous. You'll do fine. I have a good feeling about this. Listen, if you need me, just dial my extension in Gabe's office. I'll be down in a jiff."

  "Thanks," I mumble and manage a nervous smile, certain that Jane will be a bright spot around the place for the next couple of months.

  The blonde disappears down the hall, but she's not gone completely, I realize as I sniff my arm. One rude swipe against me was all it took to be a carrier of whatever expensive perfume she doused herself with that morning.

  Yeah, I definitely don't want to be on that woman's bad side.

  I stand there long enough to watch the gleaming, polished doors close before I take a deep, cleansing breath. This isn't high school, and I am no longer a chubby, awkward late bloomer with acne and braces. I'm an adult and girls like blondie can no longer shake my self-esteem. I hope.

  I straighten my spine, forcibly ridding myself of tension and doubt, shore up my mental resolve, and make my way down the hall after her. Fortunately, she's long gone by the time I round the corner.

  Each office I pass on my way to 509 looks similar in design. The front walls that line the hallway are glass paneled, the doors are thick glass as well. Each door is stenciled with black numbers as identifiers. Within the front offices, I notice people sitting at desks, answering phones, typing on computers or having soundproofed discussions with one another. At the rear of each are ornate, polished wooden doors. Those would be the offices that house the big bosses. Some of the wooden doors are open, some closed. The open ones reveal luxurious furniture and professionally dressed brokers. Boy, I would hate to be the custodial staff for Sway International with so much glass to polish fingerprints off of.

  I arrive at Office 509 and tentatively reach for the door handle. At the last second, I change my stance, lift my chin, and push through the doorway with an air of confidence. No need to start off timid, Amanda. First impressions are everything.

  "Hello? Is someone out there?" A deep voice reverberates into the secretarial space from somewhere in the back office.

  "Umm, yes, hello. It's me, uh, Amanda King, sir. I'm your new temporary assistant."

  I hear a shuffling of papers and the dragging scratch of chair wheels against a plastic carpet protector. I stand by the outer office desk, back straight as a board, clutching with both hands the handle of my knock-off Gucci bag, also from Butch's Bargain Basement. I swear my shoulders have permanently affixed themselves to my ears.

  A tall man in an impeccably tailored Armani suit steps through the heavy, cherry wood door, his arms laden with files. He pauses to look me up and down like he's just discovering a new detail in his life he isn't sure he approves of. Finally he says, "You'll do," and drops the pile of folders on the corner of the desk.

  I thrust my hand forward to save the pile from toppling off the desk and onto the floor. I'm stunned, not only by his physical appearance but also by his abrasiveness. I didn't expect my new boss to be so…intimidating.

  And, I hate to say it, but my fellow secretaries' assistance in preparing me for this moment fell short. They never warned me about how handsome my new boss was. He's got a thick head of wavy, dark hair that he wears swept back, with one unruly piece hanging forward over his shrewd, dark-brown eyes. I have a feeling the strand escaped whatever arrangement he forced it into this morning, but the fact that he hasn't noticed its getaway yet is endearing—much more endearing than his personality.

  He's powerfully built and incredibly tall, maybe just shy of six and a half feet.

  "I need you to confirm my ten o'clock meeting, and these files will need to be sorted and put away."

  I stand there balancing folders and clutching my bag with my mouth agape.

  Without another word, Owen Ridgemont turns and closes his door. A few seconds later, he reopens it, pokes his head back through, and blurts a quick but firm "please."

  "Well, at least there's that," I mumble.

  Chapter Two

  Owen

  I sit at my desk going over the latest figures in the proposed acquisition. It's only been four days since my temporary move from LA to a New York penthouse. I'm still up to my elbows in unpacked boxes. Maybe I can ask this new girl… What's her name again… Abby? I don't think that sounds quite right. Maybe she'll be willing to drive over and do some setting up for me.

  Gabriel Sway had not exaggerated when he hired my consulting firm. He told me that they were knee deep in new international mergers. My firm handles those types of international deals, and when Gabe requested me personally, what could I say? I couldn't turn my old buddy down. We'd been roommates back
at Harvard, and the two of us share a lot of fond memories of our younger, wilder days.

  With the backlog of work to be done, I'll be putting in long days and longer nights for the next few weeks. I don't sleep well when there is still work to be done. My consulting firm is the best in the country. One of the top five consulting firms in the world. And I didn't get where I am by snoozing. As my grandmother always said, "Why put off until tomorrow what you can do today?"

  I glance toward my closed office door straining to hear any movement from the outer office. Nothing. I hope I didn't scare her away already. I have a tendency to go through secretaries like water. The one before this one lasted approximately four hours.

  I know I sometimes have a gruff, no-nonsense demeanor. It's my way, but it doesn't always go over well with those who work for me. So, I have been making a concerted effort lately to try to be friendlier and more polite. I hit the intercom. "Miss…uh…Whateveryournameis…"

  "King, sir, Amanda King," comes her soft tone.

  I clear my throat. "Yes, did you confirm my meeting?"

  "Yes, sir. You are all set to meet in the conference room at ten."

  Efficient.

  "Will there be anything more, Mr. Ridgemont?"

  "Fetch me coffee?"

  "On its way, sir."

  Okay, so she is still out there. Perhaps she's going to work out. I hit the intercom again.