Chapter 5
Brook Simons
I toss the empty cup into the trash can as I pass and start on my second coffee before the first even lands in the bag. With a glance at my watch, I start across the crosswalk the moment the light changes.
I grit my teeth at the laid-back atmosphere.
Despite the cars idling at the light and the people casually strolling across the road, no cabbies honk and no pedestrians yell obscenities in response.
The violent dog-eat-dog rush of morning traffic won’t hit until tomorrow morning when the official work week begins.
Lucky for me as I head to an unknown office to work for my new bosshole, who used to be my academic rival and first crush, on a freaking Sunday just over twenty-four hours after I molested him in a drunken daze.
I don’t know why my mind latches onto the day of the week as though working on the weekend is taboo. I haven’t had a day off work since my mother’s surgery, and even then, I poured over case notes and studied course work as she recovered.
It’s all because he goaded and mocked me. Even as a teen, Matteo Ricco knew how to get under my skin and rile me up—which usually led to us both giving our top performances—but the heat in his teasing reaches parts of me I never knew existed.
None of it matters. Matteo Ricco can only be my boss from now on. He can be as crude or sexy as he wants; nothing will break through my professional persona.
I glance at the address on my phone and eye the tall, shiny building.
Smaller workspace, my ass. This is bigger than my parent’s entire apartment complex.
I suck down the last of my coffee and scan the sidewalk for a trash can, even though fancy buildings like this rarely have receptacles around them.
To my surprise, several sleek grey bins line the curb, and when I toss my empty cup inside, the few items at the bottom prove they’re emptied often, probably daily.
Most high-end businesses do everything they can to repel the homeless and those looking to take advantage of free dump sites, but the sidewalks are as immaculate as the building despite having none of the new-age hostile architecture.
The only visible cues stopping loiterers are the security cameras.
Not even a guard stands at the door, but at seven-forty on a Sunday morning, they probably just have the door locked.
I check my phone and confirm the text message sent by Mr. Ricco’s assistant contains nothing but the agreed upon time and building address. No suite number, contact info, or door code.
Either Matteo’s assistant is as much of an asshole as he is, or the man himself gave strict instructions to only send an address.
I check my reflection in the glass wall and adjust the lapels of my suit coat before striding to the front door.
Maybe I should have worn something less austere, but my new boss gave me no instructions, and since I have no idea what the job actually entails, I came dressed for the highest—and worst—possible outcome.
Part of me expects him to laugh in my face and kick me out the door with a team of lawyers prepared to build a false case about me slandering his company now that he’s had time to realize my father blacklisted me, but since I signed the employment contract and verbally agreed to be here, I plan to follow through to the best of my abilities.
After holding the scalding coffee cup for so long, the cold door handle feels like ice, but I pull, fully expecting it to be locked.
I hesitate when the door opens without resistance.
Someone clears their throat from inside, so I enter the building and step to the side as the door swings closed.
The front counter gleams in the overhead light as posh chairs and stylish rugs sit in picture-perfect balance on the polished floor. A man wearing dark grey slacks and a white button-down shirt stands with a tablet at the ready and annoyance in his clear blue eyes.
I step forward and extend my hand.
“Good morning! My name is—”
“Brook Simons, yes, I know. Follow me,” he demands with a dismissive wave over his shoulder as he turns and glides down the hall.
Alright, then. I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome, but this is ridiculous. I note the disrespect while burying my pride under the numbers promised in the contract.
I’ve worked countless part-time jobs while studying and caring for my mother. Nothing this man throws at me will phase me. I got this.
With a calming tug of my suit front, I drop my hand to my side and follow the unwelcoming host deeper into the building.
After taking a posh elevator and walking through a maze of halls, he stops in front of a glass-walled meeting room unlike any I’ve ever seen before.
Colorful beanbags, odd-shaped stools, and tables of different heights lie scattered about the room.
Screens cover two walls while the third consists of floor-to-ceiling windows offering a fantastic view of the city.
The first full rays of sun break over the taller buildings.
“You’re not as late as the last contender, but here’s the list. The meeting starts in eighteen minutes. I’ll check your preparations in thirteen,” the man with no name says.
He holds a notepad out to me, but I don’t take it. I swear, he’d roll his eyes if he wasn’t so focused on glaring.
Instead, I reach into my pocket, retrieve my phone, snap a photo, and send it to the number that sent me the time and address.
The man’s pocket chimes.
I click the icon next to the sender and offer him my phone. He lifts a brow.
“Your contact information, please,” I say.
His lips purse in consternation. I check my watch.
“Twelve minutes,” I challenge, refusing to take the list until he concedes.
With a scowl, he snatches my phone from my fingers.
“I could just delete this picture,” he snarls.
“Yes, you could, but that won’t remove it or the time stamp from my storage cloud or from our service provider’s logs,” I state as I take the notepad from him.
With my enjoyment hidden behind my professional facade, I watch through my lashes and study the list as his mouth opens and closes a few times before he huffs and inputs his information. When he thrusts my phone back toward me, I take it.
“Thank you, Mr. Brunswick. I have three questions,” I say.
His annoyance triples, but I don’t care. It would be nice to have him as an ally in these muddy waters, but by his lack of greeting, it won’t be an easy feat.
“If you’re just going to complain like all the others, then—”
“Does the space require disinfecting or aesthetic cleaning, where are the necessary supplies for bullet points seven and eight, and is there a specific coffee shop for the drink order or will any delivery suffice?”
Seconds tick by as I wait for his response. Mr. Brunswick stares at me as though I grew a second head. I sigh and check my watch.
He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Mr. Ricco didn’t tell me he was hiring another PA,” he scowls.
Ah. He’s protecting his position. My frustrations slough off my shoulders and meld into the glittering floor. I know how hard it can be to keep a decent job.
“I’ve never been a personal assistant and have no aims to take your position, but I have over ten years of experience in different sections of the service industry, so I’ll do my best to make your life as easy as possible while I’m here,” I vow.
His once-over holds curiosity and distrust, but the worst of the hostility fades from his eyes.
“Why did you take this internship?” he asks.
I pause. It seems Mr. Ricco told him nothing about me. Eight minutes isn’t enough to explain everything.
“May I answer that question after I complete the list?”
Surprise lights Mr. Brunswick’s eyes. He gnaws the inside of his lip before running his fingers through his blond hair and sighing.
Classically handsome with a tall, thin frame, the carefully mussed hairstyle fits him well. Carol and the other ladies from the class reunion would fawn over his looks, but even without our unpleasant introduction, I would have no interest in him. Romance and work don’t mix.
“The coffees are already on their way, the supply closet is around that corner, and the meeting room is already clean. It only needs to be organized,” he admits.
The haughty petulance in his tone is so unlike what I expect that I blink in surprise.
I smile in relief but stick my phone in my pocket and shift my grip on my briefcase.
“You don’t strike me as someone who would put their neck on the line for a newbie. How early were you here this morning? Are weekend meetings normal? If Mr. Ricco intends for me to assist you, how can I better help next time?”
My relief and excitement get the better of me, and I rapid fire the questions before I can think better of it. Working as an assistant to a personal assistant isn’t ideal, but it’s better than work as a janitor, waitress, or any of the other part-time jobs I held over the last decade.
“I’m sorry, that’s too many questions at once,” I concede. “Since you already did so much this morning, I’ll finish the room. You can put your feet up in the lobby while you wait for the coffee.”
He doesn’t move away from the door. I tighten my grip on my briefcase and prepare for a battle.
He surprises me again by holding out his hand for me to shake. I take it.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Simons. Mr. Ricco prefers the middle of the room empty and the seating arrangements evenly spaced along the northern and eastern walls,” he says.