Chapter 6 Jules
JULES
Veronica and Misha are a pair of vultures awaiting fresh kill in the main office.
In a barely audible hush, one of them says, “He walks like a jungle cat.”
“A wild cat.” That’s Veronica.
“King of the Jungle.”
That would make this the jungle. Makes sense that I feel very much like prey when I hear a voice say, “I asked you two to bring these files to Ms. Drecken’s office.”
When in a high-stress situation, the three survival instincts are fight, flight, or freeze. I do the latter because I hear the low tone of the man’s voice before I see him. I know who it is.
And I’m in trouble.
Also worth noting, there’s another entrance to his office.
Not-Gopher-Matt is my new boss, and I just mistook him for errand staff.
I consider crawling under the nearest desk or making a run for it, but both options will result in my dismissal. I need this job, so I take my chances and remain on my feet.
Misha scuttles by me and, with her nose in the air like a snooty socialite, she doesn’t so much as peer my way.
Veronica looks me up and down like I’m in frumpy, off-duty attire. “Mr. Sullivan will see you now. I’m confident you’ll dazzle him.”
Smoothing my shirt, I draw a deep breath.
My father, for all his flaws, was never intimidated by anyone—not even when it probably would’ve been in his best interest. He knew some sordid folks.
Mom sure did dazzle on the Vegas stage. I’m made of half fearlessness and half dazzling.
I can do this. Without hesitating or giving my new boss another reason to loathe me, I enter the cold, minimalist office.
I instantly recognize the gray suit, solid stature, and height—the impressive watch around his wrist, half hidden by the custom-tailored jacket cuff, and the large, masculine hands that no longer hold Ms. Drecken’s files.
I’m out in the open. It’s too late to bolt. His gaze pins me in place, burning with what feels like icy fire.
When I finally look up, meeting a pair of dark blue eyes framed by glasses on a broad, rugged face composed of hard angles, bearing no amusement, my inhale snags.
It’s the same guy from the doorway early this morning. The one who wouldn’t dance with me. Who refused to laugh.
L. Sullivan. My new boss.
He looks me up and down with bold disdain. As if I’m beneath him. As if I’m bitter chocolate and he prefers vanilla—safe, predictable, and sweet. Like I’m abstract art and he only understands a classical canvas.
“Hello, sir,” I meep.
The way he examines me makes me feel like a used car, ruining any chance of us being chums.
“Julia? I understand you’re my new special project assistant.”
Like a seabird that swallowed a fish, I clear my throat. “It’s Juliana, and yes, sir, that’s my understanding.”
“I expect you to manage your time efficiently.”
I nod, feeling chastised. Had it not been for the aforementioned women, I would’ve been at my desk as originally ordered.
“Would you like me to bring those files to Ms. Drecken?” When he doesn’t answer right away, I add, “My apologies about the mistake earlier.”
“No, that was a task for Veronica or Misha.”
I’m about to explain that they passed it off to me, but it seems he already gathered that.
Giving a small nod of acknowledgment, I wait for Smug-y McGruffins to bark orders.
I’m familiar with the cold, calculating type of man who thrives on order, efficiency, and perfection—and L.
Sullivan is the epitome of the uptight and ruthless businessman.
His eyes graze over me. He blinks once, twice, three times from behind his Clark Kent glasses. If this were any other circumstance, I’d consider him exceptionally handsome. A perfect specimen of a wild cat in human form. The little shooting stars in my belly agree.
But this is a very tall concrete jungle and it’s a long way down to solid ground.
From behind us, like we’re between scenes at a theater, a couple of members of the building’s maintenance staff change out Veronica and Misha’s desks for an L-shaped unit with storage in a sleek, modern style.
In the moments I have my back turned, Mr. Sullivan disappears into his office, leaving me unsure of what to do next.
I spend the next ten minutes arranging the items from downstairs on the slick surface of my new workspace.
After that, I smooth my skirt. I take a seat and log in to the computer, hoping my credentials are the same.
Sure enough, I’m inside the Meridian Holdings interface and expect to find some tasks in my inbox.
Nope. Apparently, my new boss just wants me to keep this swivel chair warm.
I twiddle my thumbs.
My leg jitters.
I take a few deep breaths.
Sneaking a truffle ball, I let the sea salt and caramel milk chocolate melt on my tongue.
I wonder if it would be acceptable for me to set out my bowl of seasonal sweets—I went to the specialty candy store near my apartment and picked up summer-themed novelty gummies.
I picture Mr. Sullivan sweeping them off my desk in one broad stroke, sending the sunshine and beach ball candies to the floor like sticky confetti.
The office girlies and anyone who visited our department appreciated them.
Through the frosted glass entry to his office, I make out a dark silhouette—broad shoulders that are rigid with an authority that comes from working in the upper levels of the world.
I imagine him as a man turned to stone by Medusa, whose harsh reality morphed him into a monster.
I bet he doesn’t let himself eat so much as a hard candy.
Not even a mint. His breath probably smells like sewer water.
His mouth all puckered and cracked with dry rot.
I wrinkle my nose. Why am I thinking about his lips? Ew.
When L. Sullivan isn’t occupying his dragon lair, he’s likely working out in a gym until his knuckles bleed and his calluses are so thick, he’s lost all sensation in his palms.
The man is undoubtedly beastly.
My interoffice email pings. I find a provenance gap report request—Wendy says these are my specialty. I won’t argue with that. While I am fully capable of basic data entry, I lock in and track down the discrepancies before lunch.
My stomach has been making the squelching noise on and off all morning.
How long do leftovers last? I originally made the tuna fish salad last Thursday.
It’s Monday, so it’s probably okay. If only I could afford something from the Tasty Trolley.
I’m glad Sullivan has kept his door shut.
Just as I’m about to open my soft-sided lunch box, the intercom crackles.
“Juliette. My office.”
As if I forgot where I am and the precarious high wire I’m balanced on, I press the button and correct him. “It’s Juliana.”
I slap my hand over my mouth and blame low blood sugar. What have I done? If I have to make a run for it, the chocolate stash is coming with me. Priorities, people!
His voice booms through the little device. “Right. Julia. Get in here.”
My mother says it’s better to throw glitter and confetti at people than harsh words.
Everyone knows how hard it is to remove glitter, so if someone is covered in it, they’re either a Vegas showgirl like her or got nasty and incurred her sparkly wrath.
Unfortunately, I left all of my party supplies at home.
This guy would definitely hate coming into contact with anything that sparkles.
He’d probably wither up and vaporize on contact.
I look at my tuna sandwich and consider smooshing it into his face, but then I wouldn’t have anything to eat for lunch.
Shoes still squeaking, I push through the door.
With his back to me, L. Sullivan stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
He doesn’t turn around. Just hovers there like a brooding gargoyle lord surveying his domain, wary of anyone who’d so much as breathe on his rare manuscripts and priceless artifacts.
“I would like you to work on an authentication report for the Eaton Boyd Collection, Julene.”
I simmer inside. My name isn’t that hard! I need to get a placard like Misha and Veronica had. I’ll write J-U-L-I-A-N-A on a piece of construction paper like I’m in kindergarten and tape it to my desk if I have to.
“Juliana,” I correct through a tight smile.
“The report, Julie.” He doesn’t turn around.
A coil inside springs loose. “I submitted it to you fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps if you’d bothered to look past your own reflection in that window, you might have noticed.”
My gaze skitters everywhere in the room except for his scowl—sharp jawline, intense eyes cataloging every inch of my every fidget, my every flaw.
Dark hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it in frustration.
The man is infuriatingly, devastatingly handsome in a cold, untouchable way that throws up a red flag of danger.
“Excuse me?” His eyebrows rise in a gesture that could freeze salt water on a sunny day.
“The Eaton Boyd report.” I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of my mother’s Vegas showgirl backbone and my father’s sometimes foolish dauntlessness.
I’m equal parts pluck and spunk! “Sir, it’s there, along with the insurance valuations and provenance attestation.
All completed while your other assistants were apparently competing for who could take the longest lunch break. ”
Something flickers in those glacial eyes—surprise, maybe even the faintest hint of amusement before the ice wall slams back into place.
“Misha and Veronica assisted with the transition, but they will continue aiding Ms. Drecken. Ultimately, it’ll just be you and me in this office.
” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Be that as it may, you need an attitude adjustment, Julana.”
I nearly choke on his audacity, but quickly recover and take aim with my glitter guns. “So do your recall skills. My name is Juliana.”
The silence stretches between us like a taut cable, crackling with enough tension to detonate the building.
Then a flirty discussion about chocolate filters back. A long conversation that was a great Friday distraction. A familiar voice.
No. This. Can’t. Be. Right.
He steps close enough to confirm that the scent of his cologne is going to linger.
“It’s you,” I whisper.
His eyes glint and his lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smile. “We’ll see how long you last, Juliet.”
Laughter erupts out of me. It’s a terrible habit. Purely motivated by anxiety when I receive bad news while in the presence of other people. A way to push off emotions that feel too big to manage.
His expression is granite.
Instead of backing down as he tries to assert dominance, I do the darndest thing. Lifting my chin, I say, “I dare you to try to get rid of me.”
His eyes bounce before turning lethal, but I don’t waver. I didn’t ask for this. Didn’t wake up this morning and add “get steamrolled by my new boss” to my dance card.
Does he even remember us meeting in the doorway downstairs?
As bold as my statement was—because really, I’m just a low-level assistant—my heart is in my throat. And his gaze is on it.
He licks his lips ever so slightly. “You’re dismissed.”
As I turn to leave, I catch my reflection in his window. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright with anger, and my thoughts would land me in HR jail. Behind me, his icy reflection watches my every move.
I’m blazing emotion. He’s nothing but frost and sharp edges.
I hate how he made me feel like I was melting under that icy stare. It can’t be good that he despises me for no reason.
However, the feeling is mutual.
I hate my new boss, too. Never mind that he’s a Clark Kent dupe.