Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
I look at her while she sits in the chair in front of me, crossing her legs at her ankles. I sit down, leaning back in my chair, and start rocking. “Okay, fine. I expect you to be on time. Every day. No exceptions.”
She doesn’t write it down. “That isn’t a problem. I hate when people are late, so you don’t have to worry about that. Unless, of course, irresponsible people hit my car while I’m innocently driving, I’ll be here on time.”
“There is a list on your desk of routine tasks required of this position that you can read. If it’s not clear enough, then come ask me questions. How’s that?”
She gets up. “That sounds like a plan.” She turns to walk away, and I watch her. Every fucking step she takes she swings her hips; the best thing is, she has no idea she’s doing it. She has no idea that I’m sitting here negotiating with myself about my own rule. I’m not sure how I’m going to get anything done, because fucking her on my desk is the only thing I can think of that needs to be done right now.
Chapter Four
LAUREN
I walk out of the office on shaky legs but manage to make it to my desk. I look up, letting out a slow breath.
I look down at the list that sits on my desk of tasks to be done during the day.
Looking over the list, I realize it looks pretty straightforward. Storing my purse under the desk, I take out my phone, sending a quick text to Penelope.
Get me the fuck out of this job. STAT.
I turn and start going through the emails. I forward most of them to Austin, since I have no idea which ones are important or not.
When the phone on the desk rings, I look down to see if they wrote down how to answer it. When I notice that there are no instructions on the paper, I just answer with, “Hello.”
“Can you tell me why I have fifty extra emails that you forwarded to me?” His snarky voice makes me close my eyes and count to ten. It’s like dealing with my children.
“I didn’t know which one is important or not, so I forwarded them to you for handling or direction,” I respond, looking at the list, checking to see if I missed something.
“It defeats the purpose of having an assistant if I have to answer my own emails,” he huffs into the phone. “Come in here. I’ll show you how it’s done,” he growls before he slams the phone down in my ear.
I take the phone from my ear and look at it. Did he just hang up on me? Without saying ‘please’ or fucking ‘thank you?’ I put the phone back down in the cradle, slamming it a little forcefully. There are a couple of things I just won’t tolerate. Being called a bitch is one of those things, and the other is when you don’t say fucking ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Three words. Very easily said, and they make a world of difference in any interaction.
I get up and walk over to the door, knocking once. I walk in and sit down in front of him. “How are you going to see what to do if you aren’t over here so I can explain it to you?” he asks.
“Okay, now, just a minute. We may have started out on the wrong foot here.” I watch him watching me. “But I’m not your slave. I’m your assistant. While I am paid to do things for you, I also haven’t even been here an hour yet, an hour that we’ve spent arguing, by the way, and not going over things. I’m learning as I go, and while I’m learning, I’m going to make mistakes. I get you don’t know how to socialize with people.” He starts to sit up straight, trying to talk, but I hold up my hand. “But I will not tolerate rudeness. You want something done, you say ‘please’; I do something for you regardless of whether you pay me or not, you say ‘thank you.’”
He nods at me. “Please,” he says through his clenched teeth. “Come over here so you can see.” He is clenching his teeth together so hard I think they might shatter.
“See, was that hard?” I get up and walk over to his side of the desk. The moment I get close to him, I realize my mistake.
Before, I didn’t feel his presence next to me, I couldn’t smell the woodsy, spicy scent of him. So, I make a mental note to not get this close to him again.
We go over all the fifty emails I sent him, and I take notes as we go along. It lasts maybe an hour. Right before I walk out the door, I turn and ask him, “How do I answer the phone? There is nothing in the notes.” I have one hand on the door knob, ready to walk out.