My heart thumps harder as I turn the corner out of the hallway and into the living room.
I take in a deep, calming breath.
It doesn’t help.
The sight of Antonio—Tall Strapping, Christian Grey 2.0—makes my stomach do triple, Olympian-style back flips.
I walk toward him and the sound of my high heels tapping the hard tile floor seems to abruptly divert his attention from the screen of his phone—to me.
His mouth drops open as he rises from his comfortable sitting position on the light blue patterned accent chair. “You look…lovely. And I uh, promise not to get any food on your clothes this evening.”
His wry smile produces an alluring dimple.
So. Fucking. Sexy.
And definitely something I hadn’t noticed on the Metro.
But I know men like him.
Mesmeric. Flirty. Womanizing.
Through copious Google research, I learned Antonio Michaels has a thing for models—in fact, articles showcase him with a new model wrapped in his arms every single month. Everyone knows the Internet doesn’t lie.
So, I won’t allow myself to become distracted by his…sultry glory.
Thankfully, I’ve sworn off men—and I’m gonna stick to that safety mantra like honey sap on a tree.
Chapter 7
Antonio
Cuss words generally aren’t my thing…but, holy fuck, she’s hot.
Maybe this is a bad idea. Clearly, I’m far more suited to have an Ugly Betty type of a Personal Assistant.
Not Goddess Daniella.
“What?” she says as if she can read my thoughts.
But, thank God, she can’t.
“What…what?” I respond—a dismal attempt at being coy. I look away for a minute and push the start button of my car, trying to appear un-captivated. Then my gaze gravitates right back toward her.
She fastens her seat belt and delicately parts her lips. “You had a strange expression on your face.”
“I was merely waiting for you to fasten your seat belt,” I lie. “You know…safety first.”
Seductive cat-shaped eyes glare at me. “Right.”
She smells of flowers, lavender, and butterscotch candy. The same bewitching scent I impulsively inhaled when she was standing next to me this morning on the Metro.
I’m starting to believe I just might be in some serious trouble here.
While cruising along Sunset Blvd, the atmosphere between the two of us is stoic. I’m sure, like me, Daniella’s paralyzed by her own thoughts of how this interview will turn out.
“Is this your car?” she asks, abruptly breaking the silence.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, we did collide on the Metro this morning.”
“Yeah…” I run my fingers through my hair. “That was based on a bet.”
She shifts in her seat, now facing me with her arms folded. “A bet?” She lifts a brow.
I let out a subtle chuckle. “Yep. Something called wager-fest. My buddy and I do it every year. This year he bet me I would never ride the Metro. So I did. This morning. And of course, I won the wager.”
Daniella nods. “I see. So our bumping into each other, in that manner, was completely fortuitous.”
“May not have happened any other way.”
“Maybe so. But it would have been far more worthwhile if you weren’t eating that donut.”
“Or if you weren’t texting and walking. They issue tickets for that sort of thing now.” I laugh.
She giggles and it’s the first time I’ve seen her flash a smile.
And it’s utterly breathtaking.
As soon as I pull to a stop in front of Fornaio, a red-vested valet rushes to open the passenger door. He helps Daniella out, and she stands alongside the curb, twirling a strand of her long ebony locks around her finger as she waits for me to join her.
She looks nervous now, which selfishly puts me a little more at ease.
“I’ve never been here,” she reports in a stern voice, now fidgeting with a large envelope.
“What’s in there?”
“Oh.” She looks at the envelope she holds firmly against her chest. “My résumé.”
“Oh, yes.” I nod. “Of course.”
Duh, man. This is a job interview, I remind myself.
Once inside, Domenico, the waiter, seats the two of us at a table toward the far end of the restaurant. I called ahead, requesting a table away from the crowd so Daniella and I can have a decent conversation without distractions.
“This is one of my favorite restaurants.”
She glances up from the menu. “Excellent. Then you shouldn’t have a problem recommending something.”
She’s perfectly sassy.
I cock my head. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for.”
She smirks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Something superbly fattening. It’s been a most tedious day.”
“Pizza?” I raise a skeptical eyebrow.
“With everything.”
A woman after my own heart.
Domenico drops off two glasses of water and pats me on the back. “Antonio, amico mio, it’s so wonderful to see you here today,” he says, his Italian accent fading after all his years in America. His parents own the restaurant.
“It’s good to be here, Domenico…how’s the family?”
He steals a quick glance at Daniella, who seems impressed I’m known by name. “Uh, they are just fine. Can I bring you the Italian soda you love so much…and one for your uh—friend too?” He looks at Daniella again, and smiles.
“Sure, that sounds fine. And we’ll take a pie with everything.” I wink at Daniella.
“Of course. I’ll return shortly with your sodas and pizza pie, amico mio,” he says before making his way to the kitchen.
“Nice to get the VIP treatment. Do you get that everywhere?” she asks, with little effort in masking her sarcastic tone.
“Everywhere but the Metro,” I fire back, fighting the urge to flirt. “So, Daniella. Tell me about yourself.”
Her eyes quickly narrow—a sure sign I’m about to get scolded again.
“I’m sure you know plenty about me, Mr. Michaels. I would expect nothing less from a man who just showed up at my doorstep. So why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll fill in whatever you haven’t uncovered?”
I allow a pause to dance between the two of us as I think of a worthy reply.
“How about you indulge me,” I mutter, my fingertips gently tapping the rim of my water glass. “Pretend I know nothing about you.” I feel a smirk take over my mouth and give myself a mental high-five for delivering such a smooth rebound.
“Fine,” she says, raising her chin as she surrenders to defeat. “Just promise me one thing?”
Uh-oh. This oughta be interesting.
“What’s that?”
“Promise me you’ll give me a chance. Even if you discover I’m not as qualified as other candidates, I possess something that they may not.”
I slip her my most curious glance. “And…what’s that?”
Besides the ability to make me gawk at you as if you’re the only woman in my world.
Settle down, I tell myself.
She takes in a deep breath. “I have an organic passion for all things lingerie. So, in me, not only will you gain an efficiently loyal Personal Assistant, you’ll also gain someone who appreciates the significance of lingerie and its influential effect on someone’s life.”
My mouth falls open as I sit across from her, digesting what I deem to be the most culminating why you should hire me pitch—ever. I’d be a fool if I didn’t give her a chance—little does she realize the job is already hers.
But, for the sake of me carrying on with this…interview, I mustn’t give in so casually.
“And in your opinion”—I clear my throat—“just how does lingerie influence someone’s life?”
She tugs at her diamond-studded earlobe an
d squares her shoulders. “Lingerie is more than simple fabric we classify as an undergarment. Lingerie is a woman’s alter ego.”
Damn, that’s actually good. So much that I may consider using that as the new tagline. CraveMe Lingerie—A Woman’s Alter Ego.
Domenico delivers a round pan of pizza and props it up between Daniella and me on the table. “Buon appetito,” he says, placing our Italian sodas down before disappearing to the kitchen.
“Ladies first. Dig in,” I command.
She hesitates at first, then leans in, lifts a hefty slice, and takes a bite. “Mmmm,” she says with a gratifying eye roll.
“Best pizza in the 90210,” I say, grabbing a slice of my own.
We eat in silence at first, as I study the way she savors each bite of pizza, peeling off pepperoni slices, entrancingly cramming them into her mouth, one by one.
Then I dive straight back into interview mode—before my mind surges off into more slinky contemplation.
“So, suppose I do decide to hire you. How will that affect your life as a nanny?”
Her eyes flicker with perplexity. “You have done your research. That’s good. And regarding Emma—she’s almost seventeen. She doesn’t need a nanny. I’m more like her older sister at this point. Stacy, my boss—Emma’s mom—is rooting for me to get this job. She gave me a letter of recommendation.” Daniella reaches for the envelope that’s now nestled underneath a pile of napkins. “Would you like to see it?”
I shake my head. “There are a few things I need to point out about the position, and if afterward you feel you’re up for what being my PA entails, then I’ll move on to reviewing your résumé and cover letter.”
She lifts her brows, looking semi-amused. “Fair enough. Do tell all about what being your PA entails.”
Domenico interrupts, by removing the now empty pizza pan and offering dessert.
We both readily decline as we sit across from one another, both giving the other a considerable once-over.
Daniella folds her arms, clearly waiting for me to enlighten her.
I lean back a little more comfortably in my chair. “You’ll be expected to be on call, available via phone—mostly text—in the event I need to get a hold of you outside of regular office hours. You’ll need to attend all meetings with me, taking copious notes, then summarizing them in a follow-up email. You’ll arrange all travel, meetings with clients, and converse with vendors and accountants, on my behalf when I’m not available.” I pause, to allow her a few seconds to digest what’s been said. “And of course, there’s the ever-so-exclusive Fashion Show and Lingerie Ball. In Milan. You’ll be expected to attend,” I finally add.
“Milan? As in, Italy?” Her eyes gleam.
I nod. “Yep. In two weeks. It’s an annual event. CraveMe is usually well-represented.” I lower my head, drifting into panic mode as the realization settles in. Two weeks. And I’m not the least bit prepared. Dottie always took care of planning what CraveMe does each year at the events. But with her gone and my birthday coming up, I’ve been unable to focus on putting anything together.
“And by usually…you mean—”
“Dottie—my last PA—usually took care of it all. And she’s not here so I’ve…fallen a little behind.”
She slurps up the last bit of her soda then slightly tilts her head. “For the last five years, I’ve planned and organized every detail of my boss’s life, been on-call twenty-four hours, seven days a week, and have planned all of Emma’s parties—from holiday to her Sweet Sixteen—albeit I’ll admit none of those are as grandiose as I imagine the Fashion Show and Lingerie Ball to be, but still. The point is, Antonio”—she sits taller in her seat—“I’m your girl. And even though I can almost guarantee I’ll screw up now and then, through trial and error, I will eventually become your new and improved Dottie.”
I stroke my stubble-laced chin and lean in closer to her side of the table. “You’re hired, Miss Daniella Belle. And for the record, you had me with your tenacious snark. You are indeed, my girl.”
Chapter 8
Daniella
I’m frozen.
Completely unable to step foot into CraveMe’s downtown headquarters.
Nervous? Fuck yeah.
Heart racing.
Sweat glistening along my forehead.
Clumsy.
Okay, well, for the record, clumsy is just me on a normal day.
But think about it…just yesterday I was a live-in nanny—cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, and running errands.
And today, I’m officially the Personal Assistant to Antonio Michaels.
Stacy seemed giddy when I shared the news via text after I got back home last night—probably even a tad more excited than myself. She said I’m not to worry about leaving her house anytime soon. I still have a place to live, full house privileges and all.
Before going to bed, I ransacked my closet in search of suitable PA attire. Appearance equals confidence, and believe me, a potent dose of confidence is needed to boost my esteem.
This morning, I ultimately settled on a smart-looking pinstripe pant suit and my favorite pair of red, strappy high heels—I love heels just as much as I do lingerie. The two components belong together, like cocoa-dusted whipped cream and a fancy cappuccino.
“Are you gonna just stand there…or are you planning to eventually go in?” Antonio’s soft hum buzzes in my ear and I instinctively jump. The word “fuck,” escapes my lips, and when I whirl around to face him, he lets out a chuckle.
“The return of Miss Potty Mouth?” He playfully arches both brows. “Or perhaps it’s just when you’re around me?”
I shift, placing a hand on my hip. “Seems as though you have a subtle way of bringing out the potty mouth in me.” I lift my chin in defense and catch a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Hmm. I see.” His shoulder grazes mine as he reaches to open the door to the office. “Opening the door is the first step. Now that I’ve done that for you, please, be my guest and step foot into your new role as Miss Personal Assistant.”
He steps over to the door and, while holding it open, waves his hand, motioning me to walk in.
Sauntering past him, I get a generous whiff of his cologne.
Soapy. Musky. Masculine.
And a mild hint of arrogance.
But he’s undoubtedly hot.
No wonder women flock to him. That is, at least according to what I read about him on the Internet.
“Normally I’d introduce you to the office team, but today’s Wednesday,” he says, gesturing for me to follow.
He swipes a key card, unlocking the door that opens up to the long hallway leading up to his office. The same office I stormed out of yesterday, like a spoiled diva. I laugh internally at the thought of how I must have looked to him.
“What’s the deal with Wednesday?” I say as we reach his office doors.
“Most of the team works from home on Wednesdays. Including myself. But I forgot about that last night when I dropped you off at your house.” He opens the door. “Have a seat. I’ll gather your new hire paperwork and then show you to your office.”
I walk over, ease down onto one of the high-back velvet-lined chairs in front of his desk, and cross my legs. “So, it’s just the two of us here this morning?”
He sits across from me, a large mahogany desk between us. “No. Hector, our IT guy is here. He opens up the office each day around seven. But he’s a like a hermit. You can meet him another day.”
I nod and my eyes survey the room.
Gray walls accented by white crown molding.
Walls with framed posters of lingerie-wearing models on the catwalk.
A sleek leather couch that faces floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of the city.
And a desk with two computers, a few file folders, and a small gold-framed photo of a dark-haired woman wearing a flowery dress. The chic black-and-white photo captures the woman smiling as she looks down, her hand caressing her remarkab
ly round belly.
His sister? His wife? What if the Internet is wrong? Maybe he’s a happily married man with a baby on the way.
The sound of Antonio clearing his throat, interrupts my theorization. “Here’s a few papers for you to fill out. Just some information that Liza will enter in the computer tomorrow. You know…your full name, address, emergency contact, etcetera.” He hands me the small stack of papers. “You can take them home and bring them back tomorrow, all filled out.”
He rises from his chair and straightens the collar on his shirt. “Let me show you to your office.”
My office, an extension of his, is quaint and tidy. I snap a quick selfie of me sitting behind my desk and send it to Stacy and Emma, showcasing my elation.
They both immediately reply with a happy face emoji.
Antonio peers in, leaning on the frame of my office door.
Why, oh why, does he have to look so yummy?
Pressed Pants. Crisp White Button Down. Leather Shoes.
He’s like a goddamn living, breathing front cover of a GQ magazine.
“So, what do you think of your office?” he says, now stepping in.
“It’s perfect.” I pause as I survey the room. “I’ll add some feminine touches to liven it up but, all in all, it’s quite fantastic.”
He sits down on the edge of my desk, his blue eyes, dark and smoky, momentarily fixed on mine. “Come,” he gestures with his hand for me to follow and smiles softly. “I’ve gotta be in Westwood in an hour for a brainstorming meeting with our marketing firm. You’ll need to meet them anyway, so you might as well join me. You can take notes.”
“Of course.” I stand, collect my purse along with the stack of new hire paperwork, and follow close behind my new boss, all too eager to begin my first assignment as his personal assistant.
Nervous? Not anymore.
Somehow, I get the rather astute impression I’m going to like it here.
Cinderella-ish (Razzle My Dazzle Book 1) Page 4
