The Billionaire's Assistant Page 3

  “Peg, right?”

  I falter, not expecting the shortness of her tone. “Yes, Peg would be preferable, but you can always ask me too. My door is always open.” Except when it’s closed.

  An awkward pause descends, and I use the opportunity to stand, saying, “Let me show you to your office.”

  She bolts to her feet, her mouth slack with shock. “I have an office?” The curls of her hair stick up in all directions.

  I quirk a brow, coming around the desk and stopping in front of her. The top of her head about reaches my chin. “Where else would I put you? The closet?”

  She shrugs, the sight uncomfortable. “Who knows. An assistant isn’t that high up on the bar.”

  “Let me be clear.” I lift a finger. “You are my personal assistant. Everything you do revolves around my job. That means you are very important. If my day isn’t running smoothly, nothing else will.”

  Leila considers that, then nods, her lips lifting a fraction.

  Letting Leila go ahead of me, I gesture her down a hall, giving her a quick rundown of Solonay’s departments. There’s the financial department, marketing, and internal. There’s a small but growing international department that I hope will expand even further after next year, once Solonay launches in the UK. It’s been in the works for almost four years at this point.

  I study Leila from the corner of my eye as she takes in the office for the first time. The layout is open floor plan. I like space, and I think my employees like it too. There are, of course, soundproof rooms for the times when quiet and solitude are needed. There are two break rooms and a lounge.

  Afterward, I show Leila to her office, which neighbors mine. It’s simple, small, but it offers a view of Central Park in the distance. Leila makes a sound in her throat as she steps inside, running a hand over the desk and moving to the window. She seems pleased.

  “What do you think?”

  She startles, as if having forgotten I was in the room with her. Then she offers me a beaming smile and plops her bottom in the extravagant office chair. “I love it.”

  I’m still reeling. When she smiles like that, it transforms her entire face.

  “Great.” I clear my throat. “For now, familiarize yourself with the space. Peg will email you instructions for the next few days as she gradually hands over the tasks to you.”

  “Great. Thanks, boss.”

  “You can call me Mr. Schaffer.”

  She wrinkles her nose. Is it wrong of me to find it adorable? “How stuffy. What about Schaffey?” Her tone is playful.

  Flatly: “No.”

  I close the door behind me on the way out. Instead of returning to my office, I approach Peg at the front desk. She takes one look at my face and pats the empty chair beside her.

  It’s not even ten and I already want to tear my hair out. I take the offered seat, feeling safe in knowing I can speak to Peg plainly about my work troubles. I can count the people I trust on one hand. Peg is one. My brother, August, is another. Sadly, that’s it.

  Does my level of mistrust bother me? Sometimes. Most days I don’t think about it. When I see how easy it is for other people to lend out, say, their car to a friend, or let their relative crash for a time, I feel like I’m missing something. I’d love to be in a position where I can meet someone and know their intentions are noble, but when you’re young and rich, the world doesn’t work the same way. You have walls. Boundaries.

  Peg showed me I could trust her in her second year of working for me. I got in a bad car accident and she not only visited me at the hospital every day for six weeks, but she kept the office running as efficiently as possible. She did this all with no overtime pay. After that, I gave her a massive raise, paid back all the overtime she’d accumulated, and sent her and her husband on an all-expenses paid vacation to Hawaii for two weeks.

  “What’s wrong, Byron?” She rests a hand on my arm.

  I lift an eyebrow. “You’re seriously asking that?”

  The woman laughs. Reaching for one of the mints in the jar on the desk, she pops it into her mouth. “I have an idea, but I wanted to know what your thoughts were.”

  “My thoughts are that I should fire this woman.”

  “Why?”

  My eyes bug out. “Peg…”

  Another laugh. She pats my arm like I’m a child in need of consoling. “Byron, you still have a lot to learn about the world. I understand your business is your livelihood, but if you fire everyone who ever makes a mistake, there will be no one left to work for you. Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s true. We’re all human. We make mistakes. You need to think about what kind of life you want to live, the type of person you want to be, the type of environment you want to create here. Do you want people to live in fear, or do you want them to feel safe?”

  I’m sure it’s a rhetorical question, but I can’t help but respond. “If they make good choices, there shouldn’t be mistakes.”

  She sighs like I’m disappointing her. I never want to disappoint Peg. She’s been more of a mother to me than my own mother in recent years. “What you envision your life to be is not what reality is. Yes, Ms. Engleton was late this morning. Yes, she spilled coffee on you. But I hired her because I believe she’s a hard worker. That’s a trait you value in others. Why not give her a chance to show you?”

  Peg, as usual, has a point, and a good one. Not that I would admit it to her. I’m hard on my employees. So what? Simply put, I expect the best.

  “One week,” I murmur. “Let’s see what Ms. Engleton can do.”

  Chapter 5

  Leila

  Hours after the disaster that was my first day of work, I find myself at Tippy’s, a local bar seven blocks from my house in Queens. Ironically enough, this was also where I found myself when Robert dumped me over the phone. Yes, I drank about three cocktails before crawling home and inhaling an entire bottle of wine, because I’m a classy bitch. But I’m not here to bemoan things. I’m here to get white girl trashed.

  The place is mostly empty at six on a Monday evening. I take a booth in the shadowy corner. I’m looking to get really drunk, and I don’t want someone recognizing me. Bring on the Chardonnay.

  My server, a woman in her late twenties dressed in all black, pops up in my peripheral vision. I startle in my chair.

  “Sorry about that,” she says. “My name’s Charlie. Can I get you started with a drink or three?”

  I blink. Wipe the sweat beading on my upper lip. “How did you know?”

  She laughs. It’s a nice sight after the long day I endured. The scowls I ignored. The hostile remarks I let slide off me—for the most part.

  “Oh, I’ve had one of those days myself. I can recognize it in another.” She leans a hip against the table and crosses her arms. She’s very pretty, with auburn curls tamed into a braid that hits her at mid-back. “For example, today I cleaned up vomit in the bathroom, had a drink tossed in my face, and have been groped no less than seven times.” It’s that last statement that makes her smile turn brittle. I’m angry on her behalf. I’m a woman. I understand. People pawing at you as if they have a right. And when I say people, I mean men.

  “Sorry to hear that,” I say. “Can you talk to your boss about the harassment?”

  “Not unless I want to be fired.”

  It sickens me. The worst part is, I’m not surprised. That’s the way of the world. Working as a custodian sucked, but at least I wasn’t fending off unwanted sexual advances.

  I’ve only just met this woman, but already I feel a connection with her. Reaching out, I grip her hand, squeeze. “I’m Leila. Do you want to join me for a drink?”

  Charlie glances over her shoulder. She stands with her back slightly hunched, as if she carries the world on her back, alone. “I really shouldn’t. My boss is supposed to be back within the hour.”

  I nod. “Totally und
erstand—”

  “Oh, what the hell. I deserve a break.” And she plops into the booth next to me with an exhausted laugh. Soon, I’m laughing with her. Look at us, a couple of washed up women. “You won’t get in trouble?”

  “Eh.” She shrugs and slumps lower in the bench. “If my boss gets mad at me I’ll just flash him. It’s worked before. So tell me, Leila. Why has your day been crappy?” Charlie slips off her black sneakers and groans, massaging her soles. It doesn’t escape me that with Charlie sitting here, there’s no one left to put in my order. It’s whatever. Better for me not to spend money I don’t have, anyway.

  A huge sigh expels from my lungs. It’s the first time I can breathe all day. “The short version is I was late to work on my first day. I spilled coffee on my boss, who by some miracle didn’t fire me. I think he’s bringing me back tomorrow just so he can torture me.” Mr. Billionaire is probably waiting for me to quit. Ain’t gonna happen. I need this money more than I need to like my job. It’s the best paying job I’ve ever had.

  “Where do you work?”

  “Solonay. I’m the CEO’s new personal assistant.”

  A keen gaze rests on me. “Byron Schaffer, right?”

  “Yeah.” I sit up. “How do you know?”

  “Um… how do you not know? Do you live under a rock or something?”

  “Ha.” But I’m not smiling. I’m feeling a little paranoid, to be honest. Is there something I should know about him? Do I live under a rock? Did a scandal rock the business world? Is he engaged to a duchess?

  Charlie brushes strands of hair from her forehead, looking at me like she knows I’m dying to ask what the scoop is about Byron Schaffer, but I’m too self-conscious about looking like an idiot.

  “How about this.” She leans forward, taps the table for emphasis. “I’ll get you a drink and tell you all about it. Okay?”

  Before I can answer, she disappears to the bar, barefoot and all.

  Before interviewing for the position, I did my homework on Solonay and its founder. Trouble is, there’s very little information about Byron Schaffer—aka Mr. Billionaire—himself. From the little I know, Byron Schaffer is a self-made man. Also, an arrogant, condescending asshole. Digging up dirty secrets about my boss seems like a reasonable way to pass the time, considering my social life is non-existent. My friend Amber is on an extended work trip, so I’m on my own for the time being. He never has to know.

  Charlie returns with my drink. “On the house,” she says with a cheeky smile.

  I smile back. Woo! Eight dollars saved. “Thanks.” She brought a glass of wine over for herself. “So tell me about Byron Schaffer.”

  “Let’s see. Young, hot CEO of a booming company. Filthy rich. Last month he broke things off with his supermodel girlfriend. Cliché, right?”

  She took the words right out of my mouth.

  “But here’s something you probably won’t find on the internet. Every month he flies down to visit his mother in Florida. She’s in a nursing home. Alzheimer’s.”

  My stupid heart squeezes in sympathy. That’s something a caring son would do, not my boss.

  “Must be hard for him,” I say.

  “I guess. But he never talks about her. It’s hard to say whether he visits her out of love or obligation, you know?”

  I nod, curious.

  “You’re probably wondering how I know all of this.”

  It’s not far from the truth. I dip my chin, take a sip of my drink. It burns so good. I take another sip, then force myself to set down the glass. I need to pace myself for this conversation.

  Charlie beams at me. Then a heavy sigh follows, and she leans back in the booth, tracing a finger around the rim of the wine glass. “The truth is... I have no life.”

  I knew there was a reason I came to Tippy’s after work. It’s because I was supposed to meet my soul sister.

  “I’m almost thirty years old, and I’m still busting my ass in a place like this?” She gestures to the tired structure of the bar, the sputtering lamp over in the corner, the patrons that are old enough to be her father, yet look at her as if she’ll spread her legs for them. Ick. “It’s demoralizing. I moved to the city a few years ago for a relationship. I had a shiny business degree and four years of experience under my belt, but I never managed to break in, and after my ex dumped me, I was forced to go where the money was decent. Last year, I decided enough was enough.” Charlie slams her fist against the table, rattling the glasses. “I was going to do whatever it took to get myself out of this position. That’s when I started reading about business. Young, motivated people who had built themselves empires. I swore to myself that would be me.”

  Her story is both inspiring and motivating. It stirs something in me. Every day I worked at the museum I wished it was my last, but I had no other options. Now I’m in a position to better my life. Working for Mr. Billionaire isn’t going to be forever, but if I can make it a year, hopefully he’ll give me a good recommendation and I can move on to a higher paying position at another company. I’m not someone to follow my passions, because I don’t really have passions, aside from forcing King Henry to love me. I just want to be financially stable. I don’t want to worry about choosing between a roof over my head, electricity, or food on the table. I want to just be.

  Charlie says, “That’s why I’ve been doing so much research on business models. I have this crazy idea of selling my art. I think there’s a market for it. I just haven’t figured out, well, everything else.” A sheepish smile. She gulps her wine and smacks her lips, looking pleased with herself. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

  “Then I’m honored.” I clink my glass against hers. “Cheers to a new friendship.”

  Once Charlie finishes her glass of wine, she returns to work. Before I leave, I make sure to get her number, and I promise to stop by soon. A short subway ride later, and I’m back in the comforts of my closet-home. As soon as the door opens, King Henry bolts toward me.

  “Henry!” Bending down, I open my arms, hoping he’ll be like those well-trained animals and jump into them. A happy reunion.

  Except he charges, claws extended, and sinks them into one of my legs with a feral growl, demanding I feed him.

  “Arghh!”

  My hands are halfway to wringing his furry gray neck before they stop. I love him. I adopted him. I’m his mother and he’s just throwing a tantrum.

  I pat King Henry’s head with a forced smile. “Good kitty,” I grit out. “Now let go of Mommy’s leg.”

  He starts scratching like crazy.

  No choice but to punt him into the kitchen. He flips three times in the air, does a triple axel—okay I’m kidding but he somehow manages to land on his feet. Henry glares at me with his freaky yellow eyes. Half the time I’m convinced he’s plotting my murder. I’m sure he has all the pieces in place. The only question is when he’ll make his move.

  After feeding him, I drag my ass to the couch and tumble onto it very dramatically, one hand tossed over my forehead like I’m Scarlet O’Hara. Now all I need is a man in black tie.

  Speaking of men.

  Digging my phone out of my purse, I check to see if I ever got a response from Pizza Guy. Nope. Only my little blue bubble appears on the screen.

  After a few seconds of consideration, I tap out another message, my bottom lip caught between my teeth. The truth is, I’m lonely. I’m really, really lonely, and it’s not because I was dumped less than forty-eight hours ago. I was lonely even when I was in a relationship with Robert. Now that some of the hurt has cleared out, I see we never truly clicked. We met through mutual friends in college, and it was fun and new and exciting. Me, a girl who’d never had any guy look twice at her. I didn’t realize I was unhappy. I just wanted us to work because I was afraid of what that meant if we didn’t, if there was something wrong with me. If I was unlovable.

  I�
��ve always been on my own, but is it so bad to want someone I can take care of, who can take care of me?

  Pizza Guy isn’t my person, but he’s a man with a sexy voice and maybe he can take my mind off my miserable mood for a few seconds.

  Hi. This is the woman who ordered pizza from you last night. (Which you ate.) I wanted to say . . . hey, and I hope your day is going better than mine. Also, I forgive you for eating my pizza, even though it was a shitty thing to do. I was really looking forward to that pineapple topping.

  I click send before I can second guess myself.

  Honestly, I don’t expect a response, but I’m surprised when, fifteen minutes later, my phone buzzes from an incoming message.

  Does the woman whose pizza I ate have a name?

  My heart gives a weird flutter as I imagine those words spoken to me in the man’s voice. God was it sexy. Like warm chocolate syrup poured all over me.

  My fingertips drum against the side of my phone. I pull my legs to the side and get comfortable, covering my lap with a blanket.

  Ha! So you admit you ate my pizza.

  This response is quicker than the first one. Fourteen minutes instead of fifteen. Not that I’m counting.

  Be that as it may, pineapple on pizza is a sin.

  You’re religious?

  Not in the slightest.

  Hm. Pizza Guy is not only a thief, but probably from a deeply conservative upbringing. I can work with that. I’m not religious myself, but it would give us something interesting to talk about.

  Surprisingly, he’s the one who texts me again.

  Why are you having a bad day?

  Oh, my God, I think I’m going to cry. This complete stranger wants to know why I’m in a mood. I like him better already. I almost forgive him for eating my pizza.

  It’s a long story and I don’t want to burden you with it.

  Tell me.