by Lisa Wells
Only problem was Meemaw, thanks to Max’s grandmother, believed the world had changed since her own across-the-tracks love affair that ended with a baby and no husband. Ms. Grace assured her the attitudes of today’s young and rich had evolved past Meemaw’s ridiculous notion. Especially where Max was concerned.
“Sure, you can tell me about the job, too,” Meemaw cackled. The laugh she always belted out when filled with joy. Which was very seldom, so when it happened, it made Aggie happy. “But tell me first, is he as handsome in person as he is in the photos I’ve seen?”
“He’s not ugly, but he is pompous. And more rigid than a dead man’s hard-on.” To be fair, that part wasn’t quite true. He had smothered a laugh over her blow job comment. Which had been a pleasant surprise. But Meemaw didn’t need to know about that. “And he comes to work smelling like an expensive ad for a night out.”
“What in tarnation is wrong with a good-smelling man?” Tarnation was one of Meemaw’s favorite cuss words when flabbergasted. Otherwise, she’d strive to use five-dollar words. Words meant to protect her from ever again being called lower than dirt by another living soul.
“Nothing, other than it’s a red flag that he hits the bars right after work, trolling for women.”
“Agnes Johansson, I’ve never known you to utter such gobbledygook. I raised you to be smarter. I think Maxi’s got you all in a dither, or you’re trying to throw me off my bone.”
Despite herself, Aggie grinned, remembering his face when she called him Maxi. “What bone would that be?”
“You know exactly what bone that would be, smarty pants.” The Southern drawl had lost its charm.
A hefty twinge of guilt over saying something that took some of the happy out of Meemaw’s day tried to squeeze through the cracks of Aggie’s conscience. Luckily, its plump ass got stuck before it could do any damage, and she held firm on the need to squelch Meemaw’s romance angle. It was for the best.
Meemaw sighed. “Tell me about the job.”
“I think I’m going to like it.” The truth lurched out before Aggie contemplated the pros and cons of admitting that. She floundered for a moment then recovered. “That is if he doesn’t ruin it by injecting his personality into my duties.”
“Interesting. I don’t remember you ever mentioning liking any of the other jobs you’ve held this year. That’s a sure sign you connected with your new boss.”
“Meemaw, please don’t read something into nothing. He was born into money. What could we possibly have in common besides the paycheck he signs and I deposit?” This was a two-month job. Not her life’s career. Or the beginning of a beautiful love story.
“Honey, I’ve got to get back to work,” Meemaw said, “but before I go, I want you to listen to me and listen good. I’ve told you that times are changing. You’ve got a real shot with someone like him.”
Aggie knew that wasn’t true, but for the first time she could remember, she found herself wondering what if it was? What if men like him no longer thought her inferior because she was the bastard child of a bastard mom?
Chapter Five
Tuesday morning, Aggie arrived at work at exactly eight o’clock. Not an easy task for a night person. What she wouldn’t give for a job starting at noon and ending before rush hour traffic jams. She stifled a yawn.
“Good morning,” she said to Max.
Max had already removed his tie and draped it over the edge of his desk, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and rolled up the sleeves. A guy ready to get down to business, and not in the fun way.
While she waited for him to acknowledge her existence, she drank in the man-skin on display. Nice forearms with sexy, sinewy muscle threads. The sight pulled a soft sigh of pure female appreciation from between her lips. Her gaze continued to linger there as she pondered another place he might have a sinewy male part. Would it be as impressive? She yanked her mind back from the gutter and shifted her gaze to his wrist. Shock of all shocks, the guy had a tattoo. It looked like a date.
“Good morning.” Thank God the greeting didn’t come with eye contact, or he would have noticed her yanking at her blouse to allow cool air on her body. Instead, a blueprint spread out on his desk held his attention.
Two minutes later, she cleared her throat, reminding him she still existed.
“Oh. Yes. Right. Why don’t you have a seat at the desk in the outer office?” Still no eye contact. “I’ve left papers there for you to fill out. Tax withholding, insurance, non-compete agreement.”
Non-compete? Intriguing. None of her previous jobs required one of those. “What would I compete with you in?” She shifted her purse to her other shoulder. She should clean it out. Lighten the load. But one never knew when one might need a hammer.
He sighed and rested his clasped hands on his desk. Their gazes clashed. His eyes appeared to darken right before his gaze skimmed down. He lingered on her pink blouse. She’d buttoned it all the way to the neck, because Meemaw insisted Aggie appear as highfalutin’ as the women she’d heard Max liked to be seen with at the fanciest of restaurants in town.
Aggie’s stomach tightened.
His gaze shifted onto her black pencil skirt, her pink high heels with sassy bows on the back straps, before making an upward journey to her face. Today her makeup was as subtle as her outfit. All of this occurred with the slowness of a lover’s hand. She’d been ogled by plenty of men in her life, but none of them left her feeling…hopeful.
Did he like what he saw? Professional enough? She’d left her hair down. It was straight and boring. She’d long ago given up any hope of it holding a curl. Maybe she should have twisted her locks into a spinster bun again and this time left tempting wisps around her jawline. A combination of 99 percent hardcore career girl and one percent flirt, the flirt part to remind him, and herself, that even though she was beneath his social and economic standards, she could still get a man like him. If only short-term.
“You’ll learn many of my secrets. I don’t want you to run to one of my competitors when you’re done working for me and trade them for a job.”
What a first-class pompous ass. “I’ve actually found trading sex for a job is the most efficient way of obtaining one.” The words popped out and couldn’t be unpopped. Not that she wanted to. He’d hired her knowing her mouth was a loose cannon, no reason not to continue to let fly the wayward side of herself. At least until he chilled a degree or a hundred.
“What?” He sounded like his airway had collapsed.
She sighed. Then again, eight weeks was a long time, and Meemaw really liked Ms. Grace. “I’m teasing.” She set her bag on the corner of his desk. “If I have to sign one, then I see no reason you shouldn’t have to sign a non-compete for me. I can’t have you teaching your permanent assistant, once she returns, everything I do that leaves your mind royally blown.”
His eyes narrowed on the word blown.
“My methods are copyright protected.” She smiled blandly.
“What?”
While he had an excellent poker face in place, his Minnie Mouse voice gave him away. He freaking believes I’ve copyrighted my blow job technique. Heat crept into her body. Not in her cheeks. Between her legs. Which just went to prove she wasn’t his type of woman. A well-bred woman wouldn’t get excited so easily. Or at all. She warred with the desire to let him believe what he thought and her drive to make Meemaw proud.
Pleasing Meemaw won.
“I’m talking about the techniques I use to wow your potential clients. With my words. Not my mouth. Well, with my mouth but—”
His cheeks took on a red tint. “I didn’t…you don’t…”
When nothing else came out of his mouth, she said, “I missed that last part. You were saying…”
He groaned. “Fair enough. I’ll sign a non-compete agreement for you.”
She unbuttoned the top buttons of her bl
ouse so she could breathe. Teasing him seemed to impact her own airway. “After I’ve finished with the paperwork, what is my first task?” She picked up her purse and strode to the door, ready to get out of his office and consume her stash of emergency, nerve-soothing chocolate. She never started a job without a fresh supply. Usually, when it was gone, she was gone. Not because the chocolate was gone, but just because, weirdly, the two events usually timed out to happen simultaneously. But not this job. This job she’d signed a contract.
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles. “You’re going to make over my offices. Give them a facelift. You’ll need to hire a decorator, and they will report directly to you.”
“How fun.” She’d completely expected him to give her the most boring task possible in the hopes she’d quit. Maybe she’d been too quick to judge. “Thank you for trusting me with this undertaking.”
He moved a stapler a few inches to the left and then back to its original position. “There’s a catch.”
She leaned against the doorframe. “There always is.”
He sat up straight and glanced around his office. “I have several important meetings next week. One has a lot of potential. Everything about Treadwell Properties has to wow him. That includes not just my proposal but the appearance of my offices. Therefore, you need to do an excellent job and finish it before Friday at closing.”
For an average assistant, that probably would be considered an awful catch. Lucky for him, she wasn’t average. “This is your lucky day. I’m an Amazon Prime member, so I can get one-day delivery on what I purchase. Which will help make this impossible assignment possible. Of course, I will need to enter your credit card in my account as a payment option. Did you see on my Aggie’s Assets that I’m a decorator? Or at least I was one for a time.”
He picked up his stapler. “If you recall, you didn’t bring that with you to the interview, so no, I didn’t know you were a decorator for a time.”
She waited for him to make eye contact and then gave him her get-out-of-jail-free grin. “It was one of my many jobs over the past year. Trust me, I may not have been in the position long, but I learned scads while there.” Her boss had been in the midst of a breakup with his boyfriend. The breakup had been ugly, and her boss could barely function. As a result, Aggie had been given a crash course on how to do what he’d spent years learning and then told to do it. She’d really liked that boss. Too bad he’d ended up going out of business.
“Be that as it may…” Max dropped the stapler on his desk and picked up the pencil. “I prefer you hire a professional decorator.” His pompous-ass voice was back. “One with more than a few weeks’ experience to help you in your decision-making process. Offer to pay them extra to make up for the rush of the assignment.”
“Do I get paid extra for the rush part?”
“You do not.”
…
Max watched Aggie glide to her desk. Her hips swayed hypnotically, and her gorgeous hair swished to the beat, begging him to get up and run his fingers through the thick strands, tugging them until her head tilted back and he had a clear shot at dropping hot, lingering kisses along her slender neckline. Christ. He had to get a grip or the next two months would be one long, cold shower. He buzzed her on their intercom. “You forgot to shut the door.”
He told himself to get back to work. Instead, he watched as she came back to his door, shot him a scowl, and shut it with a firm click. He chuckled. She clearly believed he should close his own damn door.
About ten minutes later, Aggie asked, “How are your legs?” She spoke to him through the walls.
What a strange question. He picked up the phone and pushed the intercom button. He refused to have a conversation between the walls. Mom taught him at a young age if an individual couldn’t hear you with your inside voice, you moved closer. “They’re fine.”
“I’m ordering two desks,” Aggie said loudly.
That did not explain wanting to know how his legs were. He once again pushed the intercom button. “Please use the intercom.”
A squeaking noise came over the intercom, causing him to wince.
“Mine’s broken,” she yelled. “Anyway, your desk will be fancier than the other, but they’ll match. Is that okay?”
That’s right. Grandmother had mentioned spilling her coffee the other morning and how some of it might have gotten on the phone. Might my ass. He glanced at the wall between him and Aggie. Imagined her sitting on the other side and how her tight skirt would have ridden up on her legs, showing off their breathtaking length. Hell. At least today’s skirt covered her knees, and he much preferred today’s choice of neutral eyeshadow. He considered his options.
One, ask her to come and have the conversation with him face-to-face. If he did, he’d get no work done.
Two, boorishly answer through the walls. No matter which choice he went with, the actual answer to her question wasn’t an answer he wanted to commit to. But…it had to be said. “Make that three desks?”
Silence.
Did she leave?
Where did she go?
Did she slip out for a—
His office door opened, and Aggie stood there holding a tape measure. “I just measured, and the reception area doesn’t have space for a second desk along with all the file cabinets and the coffee bar I plan to add. Where shall I put the spare desk?”
Of course she had a tape measure. “Two of the desks will go in here. One for me and one for my assistant. One desk will go in the outer office for the receptionist.” Be that his grandmother or someone else. With every word he spoke, he had the gut-clenching feeling of losing control over his life. Personally and professionally. “Once I hire a receptionist, you will have a desk in my office.” He wiped his palms on his slacks. “It’s not an ideal situation, but it is what it is until I’m able to obtain what I’m looking for in office space.”
Aggie leaned against the frame and folded slim arms under her ample breasts. “Your office space is my office space?” Did she mean to look so damn sexy?
His groin thickened. He ruthlessly reminded both of his heads of the details of last month’s workplace sexual harassment case Grant had regaled him with over drinks. After hearing the sordid details, Max knew there wasn’t any way in hell he should ever allow himself to get involved with an assistant. “You’ll have a desk. Nothing more.”
She glanced at the wall of windows. At the space next to his desk where a low table sat with a wobbly stack of rocks as its centerpiece.
He’d thought about having the rocks cemented together but hated to lose the ability to pick one up when in the mood to reminisce about a dear deceased friend.
“Where will my desk go?” she asked.
He pointed to the corner farthest from him. A corner that his back faced. “Over there. In the empty spot.” Which, to be fair, was also where his permanent assistant’s desk used to sit. He’d had her clean it out before going on maternity leave and promised her a shiny new one when she returned, along with an eventual office of her own. He was working on that. But the space he wanted to buy had yet to come on the market.
Aggie pondered the spot. She tilted her head left and right and far right. Then she straightened and gave him a charming smile. “That’s the most boring spot in your office. Be a peach and let me put it where the table is.”
“Not there.”
“But—”
He rubbed the tattoo on his wrist. “Please close the door on your way to the reception area.” He didn’t need to explain to her the importance of the rocks. “And please, no more conversations through the wall. Call and get an order in to have your intercom fixed.”
He glanced back at the rocks. Gifts from Mandy. Growing up, her family lived on one side of his family home. On the other side lived Grant and his family.
In sixth grade, Grant, Max, and Mandy started a
band and called themselves The Three Rocks Stars. They played at middle school parties.
Their junior year in high school, Grant fell in love with Mandy. Out of fear it would ruin their friendship if she didn’t return his feelings, Max talked Grant out of telling her. Unbeknownst to Max, the next day, Mandy told Grant she’d fallen in love with Max. Grant gave her the same argument Max gave him. She also didn’t declare her love.
When they graduated, Mandy wanted to travel and see the world, so she enlisted in the Marines. Every new place she went, she’d send Grant and Max a rock.
Those gifts stopped coming three years ago when Mandy died from a roadside bomb. After her funeral, they got drunk and had the date of Mandy’s death tattooed onto their wrists.
“I really don’t get a sense of style from your current furnishings,” Aggie mused. “They’re generic. Tell me, are you looking for modern like me, or vintage like our grandmothers, or stuffy like…you?”
He stiffened but didn’t comment on the insult. She was cheekier than a Kardashian ass.
She raised her eyebrows, reminding him he hadn’t answered. He seemed to forget to answer a lot around her.
“Something that will speak to my clients. Make them aware I have my finger on the pulse of the future. Someone who can provide them with exactly what they need before they know they have the need.”
“What is it you do?”
Most potential job candidates would have discovered that before sitting down for an interview. Aggie was not like most…in more ways than just that. “I repurpose property.”
Her eyes lit up. “That sounds deliciously sketchy. Give me the deets.”
He jerked. If sketchy was what got her all hot and bothered, he wouldn’t have to worry about a work affair. That thought should have soothed him. It didn’t. “There’s nothing sketchy about what I do.” Did she do sketchy things with Bill the Harley guy?
