Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Oh, god,” she groans.
“What the fuck is this?” I stare at the guys, not comprehending.
“Allison, what will your father say, spending the night with Conlan Costa? Does the general know about your relationship? Or was this just a one-night stand? Conlan, did you know Allison is nineteen?”
I frown at her. “You said you were twenty-four.”
“I lied,” she says, brushing past the two men. “Leave me alone, you assholes.”
“Nineteen?” I murmur to myself, still dazed. “What the fuck?”
The men continue to haunt her. They snap pictures, take video. She gets into the back of my town car and slams the door in their faces. My driver pulls out, nearly clipping the older of the two slobs, until I realize.
They’re fucking paparazzi.
“Hey,” I bark at them. “What the fuck was that?”
“You don’t know who that was, do you?” The guy that nearly got hit shakes his head at me. “Man, you really messed up.”
“Good luck, bro.” The younger guy seems like he almost means it.
Which really ruins me.
A sinking pit opens in my stomach.
I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but this is the first time I’ve ever wondered if fucking the night before was a mistake.
“Why was she worth taking pictures of?” I ask, perplexed. “She’s not even famous.”
The younger guy gets into the car, but the older one pauses. He gives me an apologetic smile. “We’re not paparazzi,” he says. “We’re private detectives working for a political party. Anyway, sorry about all this, and good luck.” He slams the door and the pair disappear.
“What the fuck?” I say, standing alone on my stoop in a beautiful Santa Monica morning, the smell of the ocean in the air, the sound of waves lapping against shoreline just barely audible.
I feel like a hole just opened up and swallowed me.
Chapter 3
Isabel
Conlan’s late for all his meetings. Which means I spend most of the day covering and apologizing for him, soothing over egos, patching up frustrated clients. He eventually shows, but it’s obvious to everyone that he’s barely paying attention to what’s happening around him. Typical asshole behavior. Con keeps looking at his phone, ignoring presentations, and half-responding to questions.
I have no idea why he gets away with this garbage.
All Con does is make my job hell.
After one particularly brutal meeting, I follow the client out to the elevators. “Really, Mr. Riley, I promise Mr. Costa’s just having a rough day.” I flash my most professional smile at an older property investor as I lay on the charm, which may or may not work. Con’s been trying to put together a deal with this man’s company for years—and just treated the guy like a piece of day-old fish.
“I hope so, Isabel, I really hope so. Mr. Costa’s got a reputation and he only made me feel that it’s entirely deserved.”
“Whatever reputation you think he has, look closely at his business track record. Every hotel he gets involved with, every property he touches, inevitably makes a lot of money.”
Mr. Riley’s lips purse, but he doesn’t argue as he disappears into the elevator.
The bastard. Not Riley—he’s a dick too, but whatever—but Conlan. He could at least pretend like he gives a damn about his own business. Without me, he would’ve lost dozens of clients a long time ago, and as I turn back toward his office seething with resentment, I wonder for the millionth time if I’m just enabling him.
I could walk away. He might find another assistant, but there’s no way they’d be as effective as I am. Not to brag or whatever, but I’ve been doing this for a few years now, and I’ve gotten really good at putting out his fires.
Maybe the new assistant would get over the obscenely steep learning curve, or maybe not, but either way Conlan would suffer if I quit on him.
Is that something I actually want?
In some ways, no. Con has been good to me. The pay is absurd compared to other assistant positions, and the perks aren’t bad either.
Use of a company car, all the fancy coffee I can drink, a steady stream of breakroom snacks.
But in most other ways, yes, absolutely, I want him to suffer like the rest of us do.
He drifts through his days with every advantage and tries his hardest to squander the gifts he’s been given.
While there are people like me that were born with nothing and watched everything precious get torn away.
I head into his corner office, seething with resentment. He’s distracted, staring his phone, chewing on his thumbnail the way he does when he’s in a bad mood. The man is attractive, stupidly attractive, I’ll give him that, and the look he gives me when I clear my throat to get his attention is knee-shakingly gorgeous—a mixture of attentive interest and frustration—but I will not let my attraction to his shallow good looks impact the way I feel.