by C. C. Snow
Resisting the Billionaire
By C.C. Snow
Copyright
Resisting the Billionaire
Copyright © 2016 by C.C. Snow
All Rights Reserved
Kindle Edition
Photo from Depositphotos.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Copyright
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: Jake
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16: Jake
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue: Jake
Note from Author
Chapter 1
“Cora, have you heard?” Jamie Parker whispered to me as she popped her head over the cubicle and folded her arms over the dividing wall. Her light blue eyes were gleaming with excitement, a clear sign she had a juicy rumor to share.
“No, what?” I asked, trying to sound curious, but I had little interest in office gossip. Jamie, on the other hand, loved sharing every piece of dirt and I had long realized she would tell me regardless of whether I wanted to hear it or not.
We both worked as low-level administrative assistants– essentially secretaries– at Weston Enterprises, a huge conglomerate in downtown Chicago. It wasn’t what I had imagined doing at this point in my life, but when my mom was diagnosed with lung cancer, I had to drop out of my sophomore year in college and take care of her. And when she died last year, I became the sole guardian of my eleven-year-old brother, Marcus, at the ripe old age of twenty-one.
So I pulled on my big girl pants and looked for a job. Not surprisingly, there weren’t a lot of options for a young woman with no college degree and no work experience to speak of. It turned out my gig as a summer camp counselor at age fifteen did not impress recruiters.
But I wasn’t the type to cry over the shitty cards life dealt me. I made enough money to put food on the table and a roof over our heads. Granted it was a shabby roof, but we could muddle along on my meager salary. When Marcus was older, I wanted to go back to college to finish my math degree. One day, I promised myself.
“Mr. Weston fired his executive assistant,” Jamie said.
“So, what’s the big deal? He goes through them like tissue paper,” I pointed out. Jake Weston was the billionaire CEO of Weston Enterprises, but the junior staff never saw him in person. He had reached an almost mythical status on our floor.
I thought I saw him once when I walked out of work late one night, but I only got the general impression of a tall man with dark hair. His face was in shadow so I had no idea if it was the big boss. Not that I would recognize him if he stood on stage under Klieg lights. I wasn’t curious enough about him to look him up, even though I’d heard plenty of salacious gossip.
The rumors about him had been circulating furiously since my first day. Apparently, he was impossible to please. Within four measly weeks, every one of his assistants somehow managed to do something to warrant the termination of their employment. Nobody was ever able to confirm what the reasons were, but countless theories abounded among the staff.
Personally, I thought he must be a despot. But I supposed you could afford to be capricious if you were a billionaire.
There was always someone young and eager to step into the vacancy though.
“Thank goodness I’d never have to,” I muttered under my breath. Not only did I not have the temperament to work for someone like him, I needed stability in my job.
Jamie’s slender arm flapped, drawing my attention. Her button nose crinkled. “No, you don’t understand! I heard Mr. Weston asked Stewart for a replacement from our floor!”
Horror crossed my face at the thought of being picked, but logic came to my rescue. It was beyond unlikely that I would be chosen since I was one of the newer secretaries. I’d only been with the company for six months. Most likely, Stewart, our supervisor, would recommend one of the more experienced staff.
Besides, I had seen a couple of Mr. Weston’s previous assistants and both were tall, beautiful women who wouldn’t look out of place on a Paris runway. At the time, I had been disdainful of his shallowness, but now it worked to my advantage. He’d want to pick someone who had striking looks, like Samantha, a redhead bombshell or Jamie, who was a leggy blonde with a cute face.
I was under no illusions about my looks. I had been called pretty by some, but I thought I looked rather ordinary, with straight dark brown hair that reached past my shoulder blades and light brown eyes. Even my height was average at five feet six. I liked my straight nose, but I always felt that my lips were disproportionately full. For some reason, men assumed women with naturally pouty lips were sluts.
Boy, were they in for a rude awakening when they dated me!
Plus, I really didn’t have the body type he seemed to favor. I would never be considered svelte; I was blessed with plenty of curves. My dad said I inherited my body from my grandmother, who was Portuguese. I wish I had also gotten her bronze complexion, but alas I took after my mom’s Welsh side and was pasty white.
Reassured that I wouldn’t win the assistant lottery, I relaxed. “Well, maybe Stewart will recommend you for the position,” I said.
Jamie’s smile stretched her cheeks. “Really, you think so?”
I mentally shook my head, wondering why she would want to work for a guy who’d most likely fire her within the month. “Would you want to work as his assistant?”
“Sure, why not? It’s bound to be a lot more exciting then being here.”
We both looked at the sea of cubicles. Young men and women sat quietly with their heads bent over their work. The carpet was a drab gray and the walls were painted an institutional white. It looked depressing.
“Yes, but the job doesn’t seem to be…” I grappled for the right words. “Very secure.”
Jamie brushed that aside carelessly, “Life is short. Besides, I bet the other assistants didn’t have nearly as much experience as I do.”
I envied Jamie her happy-go-lucky attitude. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Well, if you want the job, then I wish you luck.”
She beamed at me, showing off her straight white teeth. “Thanks, Cora. Oops, here comes Stewart now. I’ll talk to you later.” Her head disappeared behind the cubicle wall.
Glad to have some quiet, I turned my attention to the stack of contracts I needed to revise in the system. The work was tedious and I lost track of time until I heard the phone rang.
I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was my manager. It was already four-thirty and I sighed, hoping he didn’t have extra work for me. To maintain a semblance of normality, I liked to have dinner with my brother every night. If I left Marcus alone, he’d eat junk food or forget to eat altogether.
“Hi, Stewart,” I answered.
“Hi, Cora. Could you come into my office for a minute?”
Apprehension gripped me. Did I do some
thing wrong? Was I going to be fired?
“Um…sure. Can you tell me what the meeting is about?” If I was going to be fired, I’d like to be mentally prepared.
“I’ll tell you in my room.” He hung up.
That was not reassuring.
I listened to the dial tone for a second before I hung up, giving myself a few extra seconds to gather myself.
I could feel curious gazes burning into my back as I weaved my way through the maze of cubicles to reach Stewart’s office. Most people realized a late day meeting with the boss did not bode well.
I rapped smartly on the door.
A muffled “come in” greeted me.
I turned the knob and walked him. The smile on Stewart’s face was strangely comforting. Surely he wouldn’t be happy if he had to fire me, I reasoned.
Stewart looked like the stereotypical model of a middle manager. His body looked soft, with a beer gut big enough to hide the waistband of his pants. He was groomed, but his clothes never seemed to fit quite right on him. His pants sagged at his thighs or his shirt collars were too tight on his thick neck. Looking perpetually stressed, he always had a sheen of sweat on his balding head.
He gestured to one of the flimsy chairs in front of his desk. “Cora, please have a seat.”
Cautiously, I lowered myself into a chair and folded my hands in my lap. Deciding not to beat around the bush, I asked, “Why do you want to see me, Stewart?”
His doughy fingers combed through the remaining tufts of graying hair above his ears. The display of his nervous tic made my anxiety crawl back.
He laced his pudgy hands together and placed them on the desk. “As you might have heard, the CEO is looking to promote someone from our floor to become his executive assistant.”
I held back my snicker. What a diplomatic way to say the big boss had picked the next guillotine victim. “I heard the rumors, but what does that have to do with me?”
He tugged on his collar. “Well, Mr. Weston has requested that you become his new EA.”
My jaw dropped.
Say what?
Surely I had misheard. “What?” A disbelieving laugh issued from my mouth. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Stewart did not appreciate my flippant comment and frowned severely. “You’re to report to his office first thing tomorrow at eight am. He’ll go over the details with you.”
My hands gripped onto the edge of the chair tightly. “But what if I don’t want the promotion!” It was all I could do to keep my fingers from forming air quotes around the word “promotion.”
“Why ever not? You get to work on some exciting projects and you get paid more for it! It’s a wonderful opportunity.”
From the way he avoided making eye contact, I knew he was lying. I wasn’t normally Stewart’s biggest fan; he was too spineless and ineffectual to be a good supervisor, but I never actively disliked him until this moment.
I took a deep breath to collect myself. Screaming at him would not help my situation. “Stewart, I really like where I’m at. This promotion should go to someone who has more seniority. I don’t deserve it. In fact, I can recommend someone who has more experience and would jump at the chance to work for Mr. Weston. Several somebodies, actually. Why don’t you meet with him and present him with these better qualified candidates?”
My supervisor shook his head and muttered, “Sorry. Mr. Weston made his decision and I’m not going to question it. If you don’t want the job, you can quit.”
I bit back an unflattering remark. “I can’t quit.”
“Then your only option is to show up for your new job tomorrow,” he said unsympathetically, shrugging his shoulders.
Obviously, the little wimp didn’t want to risk the displeasure of the CEO so I left his office with my mouth clamped shut. The alternative would have been to spew word-vomit and get fired on the spot.
At least now I had a job for another month before the sexist tyrant fired me, I told myself mockingly. And I was being optimistic.
When I got back to my cubicle, everyone had already left for the day. A yellow note was stuck on my monitor. It was from Jamie.
Hope everything is ok. Call if you need to talk.
I plucked it off the screen and smiled wryly. It made me realize how few friends I had made during my time here. Jamie was the only one who seemed to have penetrated the shield I built around myself after my mom passed away. But then, Jamie rarely took no for an answer. Affection rippled through me. As chatty as Jamie was, she was caring and sweet.
After staring at the note of a second, I put it in my purse. I wasn’t ready to share the news yet, although I was sure the office would be abuzz when I wasn’t at my desk tomorrow.
“Well, I’m never going to be in this cubicle again,” I murmured sadly. I might have hated the lack of privacy, but my cubicle had represented security and stability.
I retrieved an empty box from the copy room and gathered my personal items. There were pitifully few– a picture of me with my mom and brother, a potted cactus, my dad’s calculator– it was a sentimental item that went everywhere with me– and a romance novel I read during lunch. I stared at the four objects in the cavernous box. They looked so pathetic that I finally stuffed everything except the plant in my purse and left the box behind.
On the El, I stared blindly out the window, lost in my thoughts. We lived near Humboldt Park, which was a less than stellar area in Chicago, but it was all I could afford on my salary. We had to sell the house to pay off our mom’s medical bills. I always carried my pepper spray and walked briskly. Other than a few minor incidents, I hadn’t encountered too many problems. I worried more about my brother, who always had his head in the clouds.
“Marcus, I’m home!” I called as I closed our apartment door.
“I’m in my room studying!” he screamed back.
I laughed softly. The apartment was small enough that we could have heard each other if we spoke at a normal volume, yet both of us persisted in raising our voices. It was a habit carried over from when we actually had a four-bedroom, two-story house.
I fought back the wave of nostalgia, followed closely by self-pity. I reminded myself to be grateful we had a decent place to live. The apartment may be cramped and the super was not diligent about fixing things, but it was clean and the bills were paid.
The reminder of bills made my stomach cramp. I needed to figure out a way to get my old job back. Maybe I could convince Mr. Weston that I was unsuitable for the role. It would take some diplomacy, which was not one of my strengths, but I needed to try.
But first, I had to get dinner on the table.
“Pasta okay with you for dinner?” I asked Marcus.
“Sure!”
I busied myself preparing the meal. Like all teenagers, Marcus was always hungry and the smell of food drew him out of his room before I finished cooking.
He flopped his lanky frame onto one of the bar stools.
“How was school?”
“Meh…our math teacher still sucks,” he made a disgusted sound.
I sighed in relief that he wasn’t moody tonight. I wasn’t sure if I could deal with his sullenness on top of my work crisis. After my mom died, a lot of anger built up in him and it inevitably spilled over into our relationship. It didn’t help that I had to uproot him from everything he knew: his school, his home, and his friends.
Not for the first time, I wished I had the money to pay for his old private school. I had to pull him out when we couldn’t afford the tuition. Marcus said he understood, but I knew he missed his friends and especially the teachers, who were able to give him enough individual attention and to design assignments that challenged him.
I might be biased, but my brother was a mathematical genius. Just like our father.
Sometimes Marcus reminded me so much of our dad, with his long serious face and dark brown hair. He also had my dad’s soulful hazel eyes, which I thought were way more interesting than my plain brown ones. We both inheri
ted our full lips from our mom, but Marcus’s face hadn’t grown into them yet.
I thought he had an endearingly unique face, but Marcus would probably disagree. He was in that phase where it was more important to fit in than to stand out.
“Well, you probably already know the stuff anyway.”
“Yeah, but it’s the principle of it. If you’re going to call yourself a math teacher, you should teach!”
I chuckled softly and put my hand on his shoulder. “Well, we can’t reform the public education system tonight. Would you please get plates and forks?”
When he stood up, I realized my little brother was not so little anymore. For the first time, I noticed he was taller than me. Tears stung my eyes as a jumble of emotions coursed through me. I wished my parents were still alive to witness this milestone. My mom would have burst into happy-sad tears. My dad would have clapped Marcus on the back and declared him a man.
I breathed deeply to keep my tears at bay. Marcus would not appreciate a side dish of grief with his pasta.
Dinner was a quiet affair. I was preoccupied with thoughts of my dilemma and Marcus was never a talker to begin with. I relished our dinners together, quiet or not. Even when he was truculent, I still wanted to see his familiar face across from me. Our dinner ritual was the only thing I felt like I had control over nowadays.
“I’ll do the dishes, Marcus.”
“Okay. Thanks for cooking dinner.”
I smiled at the evidence of my mom’s etiquette lessons.
Always show the cook your appreciation.
“Don’t stay up too late,” I called out as he headed to his room.
“Night, Cora.” His door closed with a click.
I sighed, knowing I wouldn’t see my brother again for the rest of the night.
The ten-year age gap between us meant we were never super close. I was almost a pre-teen when he was born. As a teenager, I was too cool to play with my baby brother.
Our dad died when Marcus was five and I was fifteen and I had been too busy dealing with the grief to pay attention to anything around me. Then before I knew it, it was time to move away to college.
