Chapter 10
Bea
“Absolutely not,” I declare firmly, shaking my head so forcefully, my low-sitting ponytail whips my cheek.
Julian, Martin’s ex and the agency manager—crisp navy suit, Martin-level handsome—quirks a perfectly sculpted brow.
“I was under the impression that you need a job,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair and making the leather creak under his weight.
“I do,” I admit, nodding like a bobblehead on a potholed street.
“But can you assign me somewhere else? Anywhere. Please.” My voice cracks, betraying the panic clawing at my chest. Working for Noah King, the man I’ve avoided for a year since the island disaster, is a nightmare I can’t add to my already scary life.
Julian’s gaze drops to the paper on his desk. “Sure,” he says in a casual tone, flipping the page. “We need a printer cleaner on the tenth floor.”
“I’ll take it!” I blurt out while my desperation overrides logic. I have no idea what a printer cleaner does or why it has to be a separate position, but I’ll take anything to avoid Noah’s smirking face and the scorching heat coming from his body that I still recall on cold, lonely nights.
“The pay is five times less.”
My enthusiasm evaporates, along with my smile. “Five?” I echo in a small voice while my shoulders sag into a stiff chair.
“Five,” he confirms, nodding once.
“Why such a big difference?” I ask as my fingers dig into my thrift-store blazer’s cuff.
He leans forward, staring me down. “Because cleaning printers is not the same as being a temp assistant to one of the best architects in the city.”
Deflating even further, I sink back into the chair, not worrying about how I look.
After a year of failing jobs, this shouldn’t surprise me.
It’s exhausting living in the relentless grind of this new moneyless life after having all the luxuries in the world.
Working for Noah, the asshole extraordinaire, is the last thing I want, but rent doesn’t pay itself as it turns out.
Letting out a loud sigh, Julian drops the paper, his fingers tapping the desk.
“Look, Beatrice, we really don’t have anything else right now,” he says in an almost sympathetic voice.
“We’re the best agency in the city, therefore we hire the best. When our temps get placed, they stay because we’re that good.
And you,” he glances at my resume on the table, “are not our ideal candidate. Let me be frank.” His tired sigh is so deep, I can feel it on my face.
“I’m hiring you because Martin vouches for you. ”
I swear his cheeks pinken a little when he says Martin’s name.
“I trust his opinion. He’s never wrong. Usually.
” This time, his voice darkens slightly.
“Usually.” Quickly snapping his professional mask back on, he continues speaking with a light smile.
“King needs an assistant, and you need a job. No one lasts there anyway, so maybe when you run away screaming, we will have something else available.” After a quick glance to the side as if someone might hear us in his glass corner office with a closed door, he says, “I asked Martin if you’ve ever met Noah King, and he said you hate each other. ”
My jaw snaps at the mention of his full name.
“Is that true?”
His question rings tingly bells in the back of my head. But I reply with a short nod, making him visibly relax.
“Then you’re perfect for this position. Just take it.”
“Why?”
“He is… What shall I say?”
“A jerk?”
Julian lets out an unexpected laugh. “I was going to say challenging. But yes. That too. He’s gone through his fair share of assistants over the years.” His forehead wrinkles in concentration. “But this last year has been particularly bad. We usually don’t have this many problems with him.”
“Because he is an asshole and can’t control himself?” My question is totally inappropriate, but so is my hatred toward the bastard. I hate him for taking my self-control away from me with his sexy smirk and giant shoulders.
Another awkward laugh. “Yes. But my job is to match the right people for the right job, and per my observations, he just hasn’t found the right match.”
As I keep staring at him, he throws the paper to the side, losing the professional persona for a moment. “Look, he is rich and very handsome. People like him tend to be assholes.”
“Including to his assistants?”
He just shrugs. “Especially to them.”
“Hire someone older for him,” I suggest helpfully. “Maybe he’ll feel bad yelling at them.”
“We did,” he sighs as his shoulders slump. “They can’t keep up with his pace of work.”
“A man then?” Another helpful offer.
“They bump heads,” he replies in a flat voice.
“A submissive man?” I suggest with a shrug, making both of his eyebrows raise.
A heavy silence is answer enough about how much he didn’t like my question.
And to be fair, I went too far. But over the last few minutes of our meeting we’ve both kind of crossed the line of professionalism.
I’m sure there are a dozen HR protocols he’s broken with me here.
I love being a virtual assistant, so trying to be a real assistant where I can physically oversee the things needing to be done and get paid handsomely for it sounds like something I’ve been wanting to try for a long time.
Plus, opening my own assistant agency has been my dream for the past couple years.
Having this experience in one of the top companies in the world could be huge. Plus, the pay doesn’t hurt.
“What if he fires me? The man doesn’t like me very much either.”
Julian’s face brightens. “He’s out of options. There’s a massive project underway after they had that scandal with the burned building, so I’ve been sending temps upstairs left and right. They all run screaming.”
A reckless challenge sparks in my chest, oddly bringing me back to life.
How bad could he be? I survived my parents; I’m sure I can handle working for Noah King, who’s clearly been struggling for the past year like I have.
It’s a different sort of struggle, but it makes me a little happy—and petty—hearing that his life hasn’t been strawberries and rainbows.
“Okay, I’ll take the job.” Sitting straighter, I pick up the pen and pull the paper to me to sign it before I can change my mind.
He snatches the paper from under my hand the exact moment I finish scribing my name with a triumphant grin.
“Fantastic!” He jumps to his feet and circles the table. “Let’s go!’
“Where?” I blink, not understanding what’s happening.
“Up.” He points his finger skyward, heading for the door. “I’ll walk you there.”
“To King’s office?”
“Yes, to their floor. Let’s go.” He gestures for me to get my butt off the chair.
“You’re going to walk me yourself?” I ask, scrambling to follow.
“Yes, move now,” he urges in a clipped tone, ushering me along. “C’mon.”
“Aren’t there people for that?” I protest slightly, trying to call to his common sense. Which he’s clearly lost because he keeps waving at me to move faster.
“Stop stalling. Enjoy the VIP escort.”
When we walk past the secretary on the way out, he pauses at her desk for a moment. “Lara, hold my next appointment. I’m walking Ms. Wrong upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” Lara winks, biting her pen.
“Upstairs.”
“Have fun upstairs,” she says with a giggle, startling me. “I’ll call you if anything urgent arises.”
She giggles again, wiggling her eyebrows, and I get a feeling I’m missing an inside joke I’m not going to like. Either they are on some Eyebrow Communication 101 class, or I’m about to walk into a trap.
When we step into the elevator, he turns toward the infinity mirror and starts fixing his hair and tie.
And I suddenly get the idea of what exactly I was missing.
When he starts checking his teeth, I bite my lips—hard—trying not to smile at how adorable he looks.
Like a nervous debutante before her first official outing, and I know a thing or two about that—I’ve been one of those.
When the elevator doors open, we both take a loud, deep breath simultaneously. Giving each other a quick smile, we head out.
Today is the first time I’ve ever stepped foot into this building, first the temp agency’s floor, and now King’s floor itself.
I don’t know what I expected, but a cozy office space is not it.
It is an office, don’t get me wrong, but I get the sense that spending hours upon hours here wouldn’t feel as depressing as somewhere else would.
Despite being very sleek and modern—glass walls, overly polished wood, all nine yards—the place has character.
Even though Maeve has her designer studio on one of the lower levels of this building, I’ve never braved myself to step foot here because of him.
And right on cue, the man in question storms out of one of the doors at the end of the open space. Despite a bunch of people around, clicking on their keyboards and talking on the phone, I see him the moment he opens the door.
Black pants are glued to his taut ass and thighs as he angrily strides across the whole floor and away from us. White shirt rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing with every angry stride. His hair’s tousled, his shoulders are braced for battle. I remember all of it too well.
For a split second, I forget I hate him. My thighs press together like they don’t belong to me, and heat floods my cheeks. Ashamed, I glance at Julian, but he’s too busy smoothing his tie to notice my struggle.
Judging by Noah’s long, fast steps, he’s marching to war, and for a second, I pity the opponent because this man is destined to win. But after this stupid moment of weakness, I give myself a mental smack in the face, reminding my body that my brain doesn’t like this man because he’s rude to us.
As we walk down the corridor toward the man of fury, Julian shares a few hellos and quick words with people around. When we come to a big opening at the end of the corridor, we find Noah with his ass planted on Martin’s desk and his hand shaking a paper in the air.
“How stupid can one person be to fuck up an address for the mail? Huh?” he snarls. “Tell me, Martin. How?” His voice is a low growl, veins popping on his forearms as he flexes his hands.
Martin, completely unfazed, lifts his eyes over his glasses with an expression of a therapist who’s seen it all.
“I don’t know, Noah. I guess you need a new assistant. Preferably one who doesn’t confuse zip codes with blood pressure numbers, which are high around here.” His eyes flick to Noah then back down, ignoring the tension radiating from him.
Noah tosses the paper onto Martin’s keyboard, which Martin flicks to the side with one finger with rehearsed accuracy.
Julian seizes the moment to rush toward them and start talking in a bright, almost gleeful voice. “And I’ve got one for you,” he announces, walking up to them.
Martin and Noah’s heads snap toward us with cartoon-perfect timing.
For a heartbeat, we are all frozen. Then Martin’s face splits into a slow, chaotic grin while his gaze darts between Noah and me, already savoring the upcoming fireworks.
And Julian is too busy basking in Martin’s smile to notice the brewing storm.
Noah’s face shifts—from normal to pale to flushed. His lips curl like he just tasted a sour lemon when his eyes meet mine. Recognition, dread, rage. In that order.
My foot hovers. My instinct screaming to bolt as soon as his predatory eyes land on mine. But then I remember my apartment, the bills, the promise I made to stay free.
With my heart in my ears and my breathing shallow, I keep walking, refusing to blink and let him win.
Martin is the one who dares to break the silence. “Bea!” he exclaims, popping up from his chair and flashing his wild socks (blue with pink piggies today).
Noah’s eyes narrow as he snarls. “What is she doing here?”
“Your new assistant,” Julian replies in a smug tone, handing Noah the contract. “Ms. Wrong starts today.”
Noah’s jaw drops. With eyes able to ignite paper, he stares at me. And just like that, everything I buried a year ago resurfaces. The tension, the hatred, the memory of almost-a-kiss, and my words thrown into his face before I walked away.
I lift my chin and meet his glare despite my stomach twisting itself in knots. I need this job, and he will not take it from me. No one will take it from me this time.