Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
“Replace her? What the hell do you mean?”
“Because your new admin doesn’t seem to need the help. The poor kid’s been stuck dusting and reorganizing stuff from the mail room,” she tells me.
“It’s an unpaid position and it keeps us in the university’s good graces. What the hell do I care if she’s stuck with make-work?” I say as my computer speaker pings.
I grin, knowing I’ll find Sabrina’s name in my inbox.
“Since when do you smile?” Ruby asks, taken aback. “Or tolerate interns hovering around with no real work to do?”
“What?” I look up, glowering at her, unsure what she’s getting at.
She purses her bright-red lips. “You got an email alert and smiled, Mag. Something I haven’t seen you do since before you became CEO. Who are you talking to?”
“No one,” I growl.
“She works for you,” Ruby mutters quietly.
Damn her for reading me so easily, but damn me for making it so obvious.
“Who?” I feign ignorance, staring at the subject line of her email: My Ass Doesn’t Belong to You.
Oh, yes, it does, woman. I open it.
M.,
Touché.
Can’t even bother to sign off now, huh?
I’ll have you know I’m not just taking my sweet time every day to relish a to-go burrito as big as my arm for lunch. My dad’s heart meds haven’t been working right for some reason. So I’ve been at appointments with my parents the last couple days. I’ll be back as soon as we’re done here.
Dad is doing better, but isn’t exactly okay, and Mom will be hysterical by herself alone here. Company policy covers family emergencies, or should I start CC'ing Ruby Hunting on these emails?
Sorry.
S.
Executive Assistant to Magnus Heron, HeronComm Inc.
The shit-eating grin slides off my face.
Well, hell.
She never mentioned anything about her old man’s ticker, and she’s still been working until after midnight the past two days?
This strange, long-forgotten sensation twinges in my gut. Guilt?
“Is Sabrina okay?” Ruby asks with an all-too-knowing sigh.
I look up. “How did you know it was her? She’s fine. Replace the office intern or don’t at your discretion. I have a conference call soon.”
Ruby nods but her lips are a straight line. She walks out, closing the door behind her.
I tap my keyboard with one hand for a few seconds, thinking of what to say.
I hope your parents are okay, I type back. Do what you can from your mobile devices for now, and get back as soon as you can.
I smile, knowing I can’t let the email end without a jab.
P.S. You never answered my question. Does the damn dress fit?
That’s the last email for a while. I have a conference call with Jazzle Razzle Designs followed by another update with Woof Meow Chow.
My email pings with another email from Sabrina halfway through the second call. By the time I have a chance to look at it, she’s back at her desk outside my office. I can see her through the slip of frosted glass next to my door.
The dress is perfect. It fits like a glove. I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve stolen my clothing for measurements.
I’ve attached a picture, so you can see.
Now who doesn’t have time to sign off?
I click the attachment and the image pops up.
My jaw nearly hits the goddamned floor, racing my dick to the ceiling.
Miss Bristol looks more like Miss America. Sequin-covered purple satin dips into her cleavage, drawing attention to her assets in this classy outline. And damn, what fine, supple assets they are.
I can’t stop staring.
I need to stop staring.
Hot, jealous anger I’ve got no sane right to darts through my blood.
The very notion of all those pervy CEOs at the conference eye-fucking her makes my gut clench.
Mag, what the hell do you care? I wonder.
Yet I do, and I know why.
The dress is the same purple shade as the one she wore in the park that fateful day, and it cuts into a “V” in the front but trails in the back. Her chestnut hair, tied up in her normal casual ponytail, serves as the perfect contrast to the formal dress.
This woman’s beauty is so intrinsic she doesn’t have to try. An angel, heaven sent, finding her worthy halo of fashion with a little help from yours truly.
Let’s face the facts.
Anything she does is an inquisition for my cock.
A rhinestone chain dangles over her shoulder, and at the bottom of the picture, her hand clasps the train...with a subtle, but not too subtle middle finger clearly sticking out.
Damn her.
I know she’ll be my personal apocalypse, and that dress may have been a bad decision. I’ve set myself up for a dagger to the face.
It piques my interest, though, and I can’t help but wonder what’s hiding under all the soaring scoops and sharp cuts.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” I snarl to myself. “You’re not him. Not your sleazy father. You go down that road, you tango with fire, and there’ll be nothing left but ashes and ruin.”