Chapter 6
Brody
She flinches, and her smile drops.
I pretend not to notice it. Nor the flicker of hurt on her face. The way she folds into herself for half a second before straightening her spine.
I know I’ve gone too far. Her first fifteen minutes in the office, and I’ve unleashed my temper on her.
When really, I’m upset at myself.
I expected her to walk in half an hour, even an hour, before her official reporting time. She impressed me as someone who wanted this job enough to go that extra mile.
I was so keen on seeing her, I too got in an hour before my normal starting time.
The truth is, I barely slept last night.
I spent far too long thinking about her.
About the way she looked when she smiled upon finding out she had the job.
About the delight on her face when she saw me with Tiny in the park.
And then I began to wonder how she’d smell first thing in the morning.
About how her voice would sound if I woke her up with my hands on her skin.
So, when the clock ticked toward her start time, and she didn’t walk through that door, my mind went places it shouldn’t have.
What if she’d changed her mind? What if she'd decided the job wasn’t worth it?
I hated that the thought sent a rush of something like fear through me. That I wanted her here so badly. That I missed her before the day had even begun. And I don’t even know her.
I let my fears get to me, and fuck, if that didn’t frustrate me. I told myself that I made a mistake hiring her. That she's unreliable. That she’s playing games. That she wanted me to worry. That I should have known better than to let myself care.
I’m pissed off at her for making me feel so much.
I’m more pissed off at myself for needing her in the first place.
And I’m both taken aback and affected by her choice to help someone in need. She knew it might make her late on her first day of a job that clearly matters to her. But she chose kindness.
That kind of instinct matters to me. It is why I became a Marine.
Seeing that facet of her stirs something deep in me, something I’m not ready to examine closely.
I shove those strange, unwelcome feelings aside and focus on the irritation I felt when she didn’t show up early. It is easier to hold onto anger than admit I already rely on her.
I bite out, “While you’re at it, you can explain to the board why I had to move the board meeting from this Friday to next week.”
“But I don’t know the reason,” she protests.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
I catch the flicker of tension in her jaw.
Without waiting for her acquiescence, I continue, “Push it back to next week. Then bring me a coffee. Black. Scalding hot. Try not to spill it.”
She stills, enough for me to know I hit a nerve. She won’t let it show, but I see the impact.
My demands are unreasonable, and the way I’ve thrown them at her is downright rude. I’ve been a complete arse, even by my standards. Short-fused. Sharper than I meant to be.
She doesn’t say a word, but the darkening of her eyes tells me she’s hurt.
I shove aside the regret that blooms in my chest.
I know I sound like a bastard.
Regret flickers through me. A quick, unwelcome tightening in my chest. I shouldn’t have snapped. Not at her.
For a moment, I consider softening, offering something that resembles an apology. Something human.
I shut the thought down.
I pay her enough to keep up. I hold her to a high standard because I need someone who can keep pace with me. Someone exceptional.
So, I push. I pile on the pressure. I throw her into the deep end. If she’s as good as I believe she is, she’ll swim.
I’m testing her to make sure I didn’t make a mistake in hiring her over the other more qualified candidates.
If she passes, I can finally let go of this constant micro-managing. I can shift my attention to the big picture. The things only I can do.
So yeah, it’s a trial. For her. Also for me.
I need her to prove my confidence in her isn’t misplaced.
Because if I made a mistake? I don’t know what that says about me either.
I expect her to get flustered by the barrage of tasks I throw her way. Instead, she taps into her device.
When she’s done, she looks up. "Anything else?" Her tone is placid. Her gaze steady. I’d have thought her calm but for the telltale flutter of the pulse at the base of her neck.
“Draft the press release about the new takeover. Details are in your inbox. I expect to see it within the hour."
She firms her lips, but when she speaks, her voice is serene. "Of course."
“Get a hold of the Madison’s latest press releases and tell me what they’re not saying. I want it before the end of the day. Keep on HR until they push through the contracts I signed yesterday.”
She draws in a sharp breath and continues tapping into her device.
Damn, she’s unshakeable.
“Find me the number of that journalist who keeps poking around about the new startup I’m funding. I’ll handle them myself.”
She nods.
“Order new cuff links from Harrods and have them couriered here before lunch."
She frowns. "What kind of cuff links?"
"Figure it out." I smirk.
That should push her over the limit.
She purses her lips. “I think the Christmas tree ones are your vibe.”
“Excuse me?” I blink.
“Or m-a-y-b-e—” She taps her chin, like she’s auditioning for one of those ridiculously stupid holiday rom-coms women seem to find funny, but which are pathetic. Finding love while getting marooned in a snowstorm? Bah. How lame.
“Yes, I have it.” She snaps her fingers. “The Santa’s hat cuff links are more you.”
I open my mouth to tell her off, then take in the sparkle in her eyes. Huh. Is she winding me up? She is winding me up. Too bad I don’t find it funny at all.
I gnash my teeth, ignoring her attempt at levity. No doubt, she thinks I’m a miserable sod who can’t take a joke. Which I can’t. Might as well lean into it.
“Get IT up here. My system lagged for three seconds this morning. Unacceptable,” I bark.
"It’s 7:10 a.m.; IT won’t be in yet."
I stare at her.
She flushes. "Right. I’ll figure it out."
I pick up my phone, scanning the stock market updates on the screen.
"Book me a dinner reservation for three at The Edge for eight tonight."
She stills.
For a few seconds, I stay focused on my phone. When there’s no reaction or movement from her, I drawl without looking up, "Problem?"
"Chef James Hamilton received his third Michelin star for The Edge. It’s bound to be booked out for the next twelve months."
"So?"
She closes her eyes, blows out a breath, then slowly nods. "I’ll work out a way." She turns to leave.
“Don’t forget my coffee.”
She glances back at me over her shoulder, and that flash of quiet defiance on her features spears straight through my bloodstream. Lust curls low in my gut.
I love that she follows my orders the moment I give them. It’s more than the efficiency of a good executive assistant. It’s a jolt of power that edges into territory I’ve always kept far from my professional life.
And yet, I can’t stop. I push her, knowing she’ll push back. Knowing she’ll meet my stare without flinching. Knowing she’ll stand her ground even as she does exactly what I tell her to do.
It’s intoxicating. It’s dangerous. And it makes me want her in ways I have no business wanting.
"I also haven’t dismissed you yet,” I drawl.
She turns slowly to face. "I am your executive assistant.”
"Next, you’re going to tell me that you’re not my 'assistant,' hence, you’re not going to get my coffee." My voice comes out more belligerent than normal.
Damn, I’m trying to rile her, but I'm losing my cool instead.
"That’s not what I was going to say." Her eyes gleam.
Well, hell. It’s my turn to be surprised. I fix her with a gaze that has reduced my management team to nervous wrecks. But not her, apparently.
She lifts her chin. "I’ll get you your coffee. However, my time is better spent functioning in the capacity of your executive assistant. Which means, putting my brain power to use behind executing your strategy and not wasting my time on tasks which could be performed by anyone else."
That’s true. There are certain tasks which I’d like you to perform.
No one else will do for that. I don’t say that aloud.
I also am aware that these thoughts are taking me down the wrong path.
I do respect this woman. She hasn’t lost her nerve, despite my having given her a long list of difficult jobs to carry out.
And she’s my employee… And I have never mistreated anyone on my team.
And I don’t plan to start with her. Doesn’t mean I won’t challenge her. Besides, she makes a good point.
"Good negotiating tactic." I jerk my chin. "Have HR hire an intern who’ll report to you and will carry out the activities that don't require thinking time."
She stiffens. Surprise slackens her face, then she nods. "You’re making the right decision."
Once more, I’m filled with admiration. She knows how to make it seem like this was my idea, when it was her who hinted at it.
Unwilling to concede this point to her, I lean back in my seat. "Let’s see if you made the right decision by accepting this role."
Her eyes spark with the light of fight in them. My pulse thrums in response. The blood races through my veins. I can’t remember feeling this alive before in someone else’s presence. She’s livened up the prospect of another working day.
I should be more excited with the thought of the upcoming merger I've been working on, but of late, the thrill from closing another acquisition or pitting wits with an opponent in the boardroom has been fading.
I find myself increasingly drawn to helping veterans rebuild their lives after leaving the forces.
I hire former service men and women whose skills fit my company’s needs. I also cover the cost of their retraining so they can transition smoothly into the corporate world.
But it’s not enough. I want to do more. I want to make a real impact.
The problem is that my job takes up nearly all my time. I don’t have the bandwidth to do more for veterans, and that frustrates me. Especially when my day-to-day work feels repetitive, almost meaningless by comparison.
It doesn’t give me the rush of adrenaline it used to. Not until Lark, that is. Pitting wits with her is like a breath of fresh air.
The enthusiasm in her eyes, and her eagerness to prove herself are infectious.
She seems like she’s about to bite back a response, one I’d have enjoyed. Instead, she firms her lips, settles for another brisk nod, then pivots and begins to head out.
"Oh, Ms. Monroe?"
She pauses.
Because I can’t let her leave without getting one last rise out of her, I call out, "You have two hours to finish everything I gave you."
I have the satisfaction of hearing her gasp.
"What do you mean?" She spins around.
"You’ll shadow me afterward, to familiarize yourself with what crosses my desk."
A frown mars her perfect forehead. "I need time to get through everything you asked me to do."
"Not my problem. It’s your fault that you’re not organized."
"Excuse me?" Color rises on her cheeks.
I’m finally getting to her. Good. Seeing her begin to simmer is the most satisfying experience ever. It lights a fire in my chest and squeezes my groin—enough that I have to part my thighs to accommodate my growing erection.
If seeing her angry turns me on so much, would watching her respond to my ministrations make me come in my pants?
I park the question and tap my fingers on the desk. "I sent you an email to that effect last night. Didn’t you read it?"
"You didn’t send me an email…” Her forehead furrows. She pulls up her device and scrolls down the screen.
Her shoulders tighten. “Apparently, you did send me an email. But I missed it.”
She bites down on her lower lip. And fuck me, that turns my cock to stone. I manage to stop the groan that rumbles up my throat and lower my chin with my best 'I’m your boss from hell’ glare.
She pales. Her throat moves as she swallows.
I know I’ve rattled her.
I was testing her, and she held up well. That last part about the email was my ego refusing to accept that she got the better of me. I couldn’t resist pushing my advantage as her boss and being in a position of power. Only, the satisfaction I expected doesn’t come.
Instead, when her pupils widen, an unmistakable sign of her arousal, lust punches straight into my gut.
She likes me taking charge. She likes the way I press her. And I like her reaction far too much.
It feels like I’ve stepped into uncharted territory. I’ve developed a taste for her responsiveness. One hit was enough. Now, I can’t go back.
There’s an inevitability to this that unsettles me, a pull I can’t reason away.
I lock that chaos down, masking it with a cool, unreadable stare.
“I suggest you read your emails carefully from now on, Ms. Monroe. We wouldn’t want you missing important information, would we?”