Chapter 6
June
“This is your wake-up call, Sir.”
It’s Monday morning, and I wait for him to respond to my greeting.
Will he thank me today? I listen on the line for the acknowledgment I'm starting to crave from him. But like the last two days, he disconnects without saying hello. My shoulders sag. My lips turn down. Why am I so disappointed? He’s a busy CEO.
And I’m his assistant doing my job. Nothing else.
Of course, he doesn’t have the time to acknowledge me.
Also, he is a self-centered jerk, so I shouldn’t be surprised he didn’t thank me for waking him up at the arse-end of dawn.
He has no idea that this morning, I set four alarms on my phone—three of which I snoozed through, only managing to rouse myself on the fourth with less than a minute to go to call him.
It was the same the last two days. I should berate him for forcing me to wake up and call him.
I should resent him for cutting into my sleep. But the fact is, I want to please him.
I want to do a respectable job. I don’t want to fail him.
Not that he’s going to notice the extra effort I’ve made.
I’ll never tell him how I poured coffee into a travel mug next to my bed, so I could take a sip and rouse myself before phoning him.
I’ll never reveal to him the thrill that grips my body when I dial his number every morning.
Besides, he’s already paid me for my efforts.
He’s compensated me by advancing my salary and none of my previous employers have done that.
I used most of what came in to pay off next quarter’s rent on my mother’s place, and the next semester’s fees for my siblings. Anything left over went toward paying my over-due credit card bills.
I yawn, then set the alarm for six a.m. and go back to sleep. Of course, I oversleep, then have to hurry to make it to work by eight a.m., where the first thing I do is get him his coffee.
He ignores me, except to issue a list of orders which I note down on my device—a new one which was waiting for me on my second day of work.
Then, it’s on to the staff meeting with his department heads.
He has these meetings every Monday morning at nine a.m. and insists I sit in on them and take notes.
I know most of them by face as they came in for meetings with him last week.
I also emailed instructions to them on behalf of my boss, and while most of them had been fine with it, one of them, his Finance Director, replied to say he didn’t take orders from a lowly assistant. His words, not mine. Grr!
I tamped down on my annoyance and responded ultra-sweetly, telling him these were his boss’ orders, not mine. I was only the messenger.
Now, the Finance Director hitches a hip against the conference room table where I'm seated to the left of the head of the table. “June Donnelly, huh?” He looks me up and down. “You managed to survive the week, not bad.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun, eh?” I smile up at him in what I hope is a pleasant curve of my lips while trying my best not to shrink away from his presence.
He looks taken aback, then huffs out a laugh. “If you’re trying to tell me it’s fun working for The Beast, then you’re not fooling me, honey.”
Ugh, he called me honey. How condescending. I grit my teeth to keep the choice insults from spilling out. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say blandly.
He eyes me with disbelief. “Surely, you know that’s his”—he stabs his thumb in the direction of the seat at the head of the table— "nickname.”
“Is it?” I ask, feigning surprise. As if I, the person who works with him most closely, wouldn't already know everything?
“And with good reason. It must not be easy to look at his scarred face every day.”
What the—! That’s bold of him. How dare he talk about my boss like that? His face might be scarred, but it only adds to his appeal. I glare at the wanker, thinking, Better than looking at your face, dickhead; not that he notices.
“Anytime you feel like a change of scenery, my office is down the corridor.” He leans in and places his hand on my shoulder. “Whatever he’s good at, I’m better at it. My numbers speak for themselves.” He winks.
Was that a proposition? And he did it blatantly in front of the rest of the team.
I’m so shocked, I gape at him open-mouthed.
A slight commotion at the front of the room draws my attention toward the door.
I find my boss standing there, glaring at me.
His gaze is on where the other guy’s hand rests on my shoulder.
For some reason, I flush. Then pull away so his hand drops.
I berate myself. I didn’t do anything wrong. So why do I feel so guilty?
The wanker clears his throat and mumbles, “Looks like The Beast is in a mood today.”
No shit, Sherlock.
He sidles around to drop into the seat next to me.
I pull my chair away from him, closer to the head of the table and toward my boss.
Then lower my head and study the screen of my device.
My boss stalks past me and sinks into the chair at the head of the table.
Instantly, everyone quiets. There’s not even any shuffling of paper or coughing.
Nothing. Ten other people in the room, and they've all faded into the background; that’s how silent they are.
The hair on the nape of my neck rises. I’m so aware of my boss’ presence, so conscious of his proximity, that my knees grow weak.
The screen of my device fades in and out.
I draw in a sharp breath to clear my head, but that only fills my senses with his scent.
Instantly, I’m wet. I squeeze my thighs to stop the ache between them, but that doesn’t help.
I pretend an undue interest in my device and start typing into it when, “Did you hear what I said Ms. Donnelly?” my boss fumes.
“Uh, what?” I glance up at him and flinch when I see the frost in his indigo eyes. Arctic. Frozen wasteland. A glacier that stretches into infinity. He looks like he crunched ice-chips for breakfast then swam ten miles in the freezing English Channel.
“I need the deck teed up on the laptop to project onto the screen,” he growls.
“Oh,” I glance down at the laptop on the table and realize it’s not synced to the projector. The color on my cheeks heightens. “So sorry, I was meaning to do it before the meeting, but I got distracted.”
Next to me, the wanker chuckles. I stifle my own growl.
My boss’ jaw turns to granite. A muscle jumps at his temple.
And his eyes turn to cold fire. Anger thrums in the air between us.
He looks so scary that when I jump up and reach for the laptop, my arms tremble.
I manage to get my emotions under control and concentrate on syncing the laptop with the projector.
Of course, it doesn’t. I sigh, then reboot the laptop.
Above me, my boss’ deep voice fills the room as he reels off the figures from the last quarter and outlines the plans for the next. Once more, I straighten, then walk past him to the projector and flick the device off and on. Nope. It doesn’t sync.
I sigh aloud. A bead of sweat slides down my spine.
Everyone’s attention is on my boss, but it doesn’t take away from my feeling like I’m on show.
It doesn’t take away from this need to prove to him that I can do this.
I am more than capable of connecting this stupid laptop to this stupid projector.
I flick a glance in my boss’ direction, wondering if he’s noticed how hard I’m trying to please him?
His focus is on the people gathered around the board room.
Disappointment squeezes my chest. I look away, gather my thoughts and re-focus on the task at hand.
More seconds pass. His dark voice washes over me, and I shiver.
My fingers tremble. I sync the devices again, but nope, nothing projects onto the screen.
My shoulders slump. I slink back to my seat and stare at the laptop.
“Why don’t I help you?” The Finance Director reaches for the laptop at the same time as me.
Our fingers brush. I pull back my arm. He pretends not to notice and leans in close enough for our shoulders to brush.
I move away, but he simply closes the gap between us until, once more, our shoulders touch.
“You see, this is how you do it.” In an exaggeratedly slow fashion, he proceeds to switch the computer off completely.
“You count to ten, then re-start,” he explains like I’m a dimwit.
What a turd. And his mansplaining? Grr! I curl my fingers into fists, resisting the urge to dump the glass of water in front of me on him.
I stare rigidly at the computer as he switches it on. While I wait for it to re-boot, I’m aware of my boss’s deep voice continuing to talk about the company’s new forays. When the computer blinks on. I let the Finance Director toggle the Bluetooth switch.
“Try it now,” he says in a condescending tone.
OMG, how annoying. I jump up, walk over to the projector, and this time, the devices sync.
Of course, they do. The figures from the laptop screen show up on the big screen, and my boss refers to them without a break in his narrative.
I slink back to my seat, and when I sit down, the Finance Director pats my thigh.
What the fuck? I sit ramrod straight, staring ahead.
I'm so angry, I'm shaking. Then he leans in close enough for his breath to raise the hair on my temple. “Anytime you need another lesson in synching our devices, seek me out. I’d be happy to—”
“Get out,” my boss thunders.
Without even looking at him, I jump up, spin around and begin to make my way to the exit.
“Not you, Ms. Donnelly.”
I blink, turn to find he’s staring at the Finance Director. “Out,” he seethes again.
The Finance Director frowns. “What do you mean? I was simply—”