Chapter 7
Brook Simons
I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready, and staring at the impressive, sleek building is only intimidating me more, so I pull my eyes away from its towering height and finish my coffee before heading toward the nearest trash can.
After leaving my modest apartment above the gym and taking the subway, the gleaming street signs and spotless sidewalks within the business district seem like a completely different world.
One I should belong to, but after a decade of struggling to survive, I don’t.
I never will and I don’t want to, not after my father’s betrayal.
He used his power and influence in this world to steal my mom’s inheritance and kick us to the curb. I need to build my own influence in this cutthroat universe to overpower him and reclaim everything he stole from my mother.
It starts now. I have the tiniest foothold, and after fighting tooth and nail for so long, nothing will stop me from succeeding.
Not even a sexy, overbearing asshole who scrambles my brain with one touch. At the mere memory of his massive, hard body pressed against mine when he prevented me from falling on my ass, my nipples pebble and heat curls low in my abdomen.
I chuck my empty coffee cup into the sparkling trash can, hoping the motion will banish my thoughts, but it doesn’t. Matteo’s words ring in my ears.
You’ll never be just an employee, Brook. You’re mine. All mine.
A shiver runs down my spine despite the warmth trapped in my suit. I blame the buzzing in my veins on the caffeine even though I only bought one cup of coffee.
I also blame my second sleepless night in a row on the welcome packet Mr. Brunswick emailed me yesterday afternoon, even though my brain spent all night offering me snippets of drunken memories and jumbled sensations along with Matteo’s words.
I’ll never be able to repay my new work ally for all the tips and information he included in the email, but I’ll try.
Starting with arriving on time. I check my watch and join the morning crowd rushing down the sidewalk.
A black sedan pulls up to the curb. The door opens and a gorgeous blonde steps out in front of me.
I veer to the side only to bounce off the man beside me and trip over my own foot as I avoid stomping on the woman’s high heel.
Pain streaks through my shoulder as I slam into the open car door, but I use my arm as a shield and avoid knocking my head against the edge.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going, bitch. You spilled my coffee! Get off my boyfriend’s car,” the blonde shrieks.
I grit my teeth and breathe through the pain as I pull myself back to my feet, fix my suit coat, and check my briefcase. My entire arm throbs with the deep ache of a forming bruise. I’ll probably be black and blue for a week because I avoided her expensive looking shoes.
Yet she doesn’t give a shit. It figures I’d run into an asshole seconds before clocking in for my new job.
I paste a polite smile onto my lips and snap a few photos with my phone as I step away from the car door, noting the tiny trail of liquid down the side of her iced coffee, the two drops on the back of her hand, the no parking sign, and the open car door blocking the sidewalk.
“What are you doing?” the blonde screeches.
“Evidence for my medical claims,” I shrug and move to the front of the vehicle to snap a photo of the license plate.
Her makeup hides her angry flush, but the flash of hatred in her eyes morphs her pretty features into those of a shrew. She grabs her handbag from her seat and slams her car door before stomping toward me.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hisses.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and meet her furious eyes with a calmness born of experience. Her glare intensifies.
“Those photos are worthless anyway,” she snorts.
I lift a brow.
“These photos are fully admissible to court. Would you like to test it?” I challenge.
She huffs and looks over her shoulder as the car pulls away.
“Go ahead. My boyfriend’s father is a judge. You can’t touch me,” she declares.
“Ah. I see. Dumb and dumber. Thank you.”
I turn away, ending the altercation and dismissing her without a backward glance.
To my dismay, her heels click against the concrete behind me even as I enter the building and approach the front desk.
I grit my teeth and ignore her as she continues past the lobby and through the employee security checkpoint.
After checking my credentials and typing a few things into her computer, the front receptionist points me toward a row of chairs against the wall, so I sit and prepare for a few hours of waiting, but the onboarding team completes my registration, hands me a packet with everything I need, offers me a thorough yet understandable orientation, and gives me a quick overview of the building’s layout before guiding me to the appropriate elevator and wishing me luck on my first day, all within forty-five minutes.
My head spins as the elevator ascends. With the main rush of the morning ended, I use the few moments of solitude to adjust my suit, check my hair, and quiet my mind before the doors open. I step out onto my designated floor and bite back a curse.
Behind the opulent front desk sits the lady from the sidewalk. Her professional mask slips and disdain twists her features.
This is going to suck if I’m in the right place. I step forward and plaster a polite smile onto my face.
“Don’t waste your time, honey; you’re obviously in the wrong place. This is the executive floor. Turn around and get back on the elevator,” the blonde says.
Her fake concern grates along my nerves, but I continue toward her as I slip my name badge out of the packet. She scowls until I set the lanyard around my nape and fix the card against my chest for her to read. When her eyes widen with recognition then light with amusement, dread settles in my gut.
Someone warned her of a new assistant aid, so now she feels superior. Great. By the glint in her eyes, Jennifer Lynn, as her name tag declares, plans to make my life a living hell.
Chair wheels ghost across the floor before Mr. Brunswick emerges from around the corner.
“Good morning, Ms. Simons. You made it right on time; Mr. Ricco has you penned in to discuss your addenda requests in about five minutes,” he says.
I return his greeting and reluctantly approve of my new boss’s ruthlessness. He either put full faith in his onboarding team or planned to rush me through my requests. Either way, he can claim he gave me the opportunity to plead my case.
When Mr. Brunswick gestures for me to follow him, I turn the corner and trail after him.
Several offices line the left wall while the right side contains an open-concept area for meetings, complete with a massive conference table, several lounge areas tucked away for smaller gatherings, and a snack and drink bar.
“On the other side of the reception area is a full kitchen, the restrooms, and several private meeting rooms,” Mr. Brunswick says as his long strides carry him past the first two offices faster than I can read the placards. I rush to keep up with him without running.
I don’t need to read the sign beside the double doors at the far end of the hall; only the founder and CEO would dare claim the most pompous office in the building.
Mr. Brunswick walks past the third office and steps into a glass-enclosed alcove just before the CEO’s office.
“This is my desk,” Mr. Brunswick taps the end of his pen on the black surface in the center of the room before gesturing to the small table and chair pressed up against the glass wall. “That’s your workspace for now.”
I nod and step toward the table—which may be a humble set up but is better than a cubicle in the basement—but before I can set down my armload, the double doors open.
My stupid heart does a slow summersault as I meet Matteo’s hazel eyes.
My mind transports me back to high school. Time has only made him more enigmatic and appealing. His presence electrifies the room.
The dread in my stomach compounds at the coldness in his gaze.
High heels clack against the polished floor. Matteo turns the spotlight of his gaze away as Ms. Lynn addresses him. His countenance changes. Not much, but the softening around his eyes is enough to jar me into the present.
He gives his secretary his full attention. I swallow the jealousy rising in me and set my welcome packet on the table.
“Follow me, Ms. Simons,” Mr. Ricco demands.
With my briefcase in tow, I exit the glass room and stride through the double doors.
His office screams wealth with high-end furnishings and a panoramic view overlooking the cityscape.
He leads me to a fancy sitting area with plush love seats and armchairs surrounding a glass coffee table.
I take the couch across from him and study him as my boss and not the man I fantasized about all night long. His relaxed posture doesn’t match the cutthroat awareness in his eyes. I’d be stupid to underestimate him.
When he simply stares at me, I turn my attention to the table. No water. No papers. Not even a pen.
I pull my briefcase into my lap, extract the paperwork I prepared, and launch into the simple spiel I spent hours rehearsing in my head.
When he agrees to several of my addenda—which mostly clarify verbiage and slightly alter terms in my favor—without batting an eye, I push down the apprehension growing in me. Nothing is ever this easy, especially when it involves Matteo Ricco.
“Anything else?” he asks.
His unimpressed tone irks me, but I shove my frustration into a tiny box and lock the lid, refusing to break my professionalism.
“I am unavailable Saturday evenings from five to eight PM,” I say.
He leans forward, braces his elbows on his thighs, and rests his chin on his interlocked fingers as he studies me.
“No,” he says.
My hackles rise. Rage heats my blood. I inhale through my nose and hold my breath until my lungs ache. After a slow exhale, I force my lips into a smile and place my hands in my lap as I relax my shoulders.