The Billionaire's Assistant Page 5

  “A word of advice?” she says. “Try bringing Byron coffee in the morning. He usually has a cup or two, and it’s one less thing he has to worry about.” Her eyes twinkle in a way I can’t understand.

  “Coffee.” I nod soberly, as if I was given the task of protecting the Declaration of Independence. “I can do that.”

  “Might I suggest Stella’s? It’s his favorite café, just up the street. You have time to grab him a cup.”

  I’m already moving toward the door, my purse clutched to my chest.

  “He likes it with cream,” she calls after me.

  I would have gone with black. To match his heart.

  Grabbing Mr. Billionaire coffee takes fifteen minutes. I’m stepping out of the elevator when I hear him call to Peg from his office, “Please don’t tell me she’s late again.”

  Keeping my smile in place is harder than it looks. Keep it together. He’s your boss. He pays your bills!

  Poking my head into his office, I see him tapping away on his computer. “Actually, I’m here, and I come bearing gifts.” My heels click against the polished wood floors. I hold the cup away from my body, as I don’t want a repeat of yesterday. When I set the cup on his desk, he blinks down at it.

  “It’s not poisoned,” I say. “Much. Dash of cyanide, is all.”

  His head snaps up. I swear a twinkle lights his eyes, but it disappears too quickly, and I wonder if I imagined it.

  Jerking my chin at the coffee cup, I say, “How does it hold up?”

  Without taking his eyes from me, he lifts it to his mouth. I watch his throat work and feel like I’m watching him strip naked. Instead of answering my question, he says, “You spoke to Peg, didn’t you.” Again, not a question. An assumption.

  “Maybe you just misread me.”

  His gaze narrows. I feel... revealed. My body decides now is the perfect time to think sexual thoughts, and my nipples suddenly perk up.

  Bad nipples. Bad.

  “Okay, well, if that’s all,” I say, waving my hand in the air like I’m conjuring a spell. I back up a few steps.

  “Actually, now is a good time to go over your tasks for today.” He flips through some documents on his desk, speaking without looking up. “I have a meeting at eleven that I need moved to three. The meeting at three I need moved to two. Lunch was supposed to be with Mr. Grange from Klondike Enterprises at Leonardo’s, but I learned he’s lactose intolerant so you’ll need to make another reservation elsewhere. Call Farm Table and tell them you need a table for lunch at noon. Say you’re calling for Solonay. They’ll get you sorted. Have Peg get you onto my email account and begin sorting through the emails. Set aside anything you can’t respond to yourself—”

  He lists task after task, his voice smooth as butter. I stand there like an idiot. He’s said seven or eight things and I’ve already forgotten them.

  Mr. Schaffer looks up. “Following?” The intensity of his focus brings warmth to my face. I must look so incompetent right now. I feel incompetent. Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, I wonder why I was hired.

  I force a laugh. He’s not amused.

  “How about this,” he says with surprising patience. “I’ll email you your tasks, first thing every morning. That way it’s all down on paper. Is that better?”

  A breath whooshes out. A physical list is far better than trying to cram all that stuff into my brain. “That’d be great, thanks.”

  “Have Karen set you up with an email and password.”

  And with that, I’m dismissed.

  It’s only when I’m safe in the hallway, Mr. Billionaire’s door closed behind me, that I let my confidence falter. Shit. I have no idea what I’m doing.

  I’m back at Peg’s desk with a look of desperation. “Peg.” My voice comes out as a whine. “Help me.”

  She gives me a look my own mother would. Leila, it says. What have you gotten yourself into?

  “I’m supposed to see Karen,” I tell her. “Email setup.”

  “This way.”

  She takes me to a woman with blond hair pulled back into a high ponytail. She wear sky-high stilettos and a form-fitting blue dress. Her eyes are sharp as razors, blue as well.

  “Karen, this is Leila,” says Peg to the woman, who sneers at me as if I’m a dead animal that’s been dragged in. “Please help set her up with an email.”

  The woman taps one long fingernail against her desk, eyeing me. “So,” comes her cool voice. “You’re Byron’s newest assistant. Lily, right?”

  As if she didn’t hear Peg use my name. I fight the need to roll my eyes. “Leila.”

  “Of course.”

  She glares at me for an uncomfortably long time. I start to wonder if I have something hanging from my lip when she sniffs and turns back to her computer. “It should have been me as his assistant.”

  Ooookay, lady. Last thing I need is a grudge against me when I’ve done nothing wrong.

  It takes quite a while to set up my email and other accounts. Over an hour passes, and I really have to use the bathroom. “Be right back,” I tell her, heading for the staff bathroom. Only when I get there, it has an out of order sign taped to the door.

  Crap.

  My bladder strains. I drank a cup of tea plus a cup of coffee this morning. The first person who walks by me, I stop them. “Excuse me, the bathroom isn’t working. Is there another one on this floor I can use?”

  The man, in his mid-fifties, not-so-subtly adjusts his toupee. “It’s overflowed again, I’m guessing? That happens every once in a while. No, unfortunately, it’s the only bathroom on the floor. Aside from Mr. Schaffer’s private bathroom in his office, of course.”

  No way in hell am I asking my boss if I can use his personal bathroom.

  “You’ll have to go to the lobby and use theirs.” With a half-hearted shrug, he continues on his way.

  It won’t be long before my bladder lets go. I hurry to the elevator and take it to the lobby, squeezing my legs together as I wait. After relieving myself, I take the elevator back up to the office. It’s as I’m striding by Mr. Billionaire’s door that he calls out, “Ms. Engleton.”

  I freeze. Tentatively, I step into his office.

  His face is like a thundercloud.

  Not a strand of black hair is out of place, and his blue eyes are frigid as they take me in. A pit opens in my stomach, massive and swallowing. My mind is already sprinting, trying to figure out what I possibly could have done wrong in the last two hours. Didn’t spill anything. Well, except for a small amount of water from my water bottle, but I cleaned it up immediately and my desk didn’t stain.

  “Yes?” I say, forcing my chin higher so he won’t see a cowering woman.

  He folds his hands atop his desk like he’s a headmaster and I’m the naughty student.

  Mr. Billionaire says, “I’ve been calling your phone for over twenty minutes. Where have you been?”

  That’s news to me. I didn’t even know I had a phone.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “The bathroom was out of order so I had to use the one in the lobby—”

  He whips up a hand, silencing me. “You need to be in your office, Ms. Engleton. I can’t have you wondering off whenever you feel like it.”

  “I wasn’t wandering off! I had to pee and before that I was getting my accounts set up. You’re the one who wanted me to get help from Karen.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think it would take two hours to do so.”

  Another mental slap. I scowl. “Why don’t you just leash me if you want me within hearing range?” I snap.

  The effect is instantaneous. Heat—delicious, elicit, thrilling heat—blows his pupils wide. He takes me in through different eyes. Eyes that burn with awareness.

  “If that’s what you prefer,” goes his deep voice, “that can certainly be arranged.” />
  My nipples are seriously having a ball at my expense. I swear the temperature rises at least ten degrees.

  “Well,” I say in a wavering voice, tottering in my heels toward the door, “if that’s all—”

  “Leila.”

  I don’t know why my body has such a strong reaction to the way he says my name, but it’s like hands stroking over my skin in a delicious glide. A shudder runs through me. I stop at his door, turn. “Yes?”

  “Have you eaten lunch yet?”

  A bead of sweat slides down my throat, and I dab it away as discreetly as possible. “N-not yet. But thanks for the reminder.” I bolt for the hallway and my awaiting smushed peanut butter and jelly sandwich when he speaks again.

  “That’s not necessary.” I hear him stand. “Come. I’m taking you to lunch.”

  Chapter 8

  Byron

  If you had asked me yesterday if my new personal assistant would still be working for me on day two, and not only that, but that I’d be taking her to lunch, I wouldn’t have believed it. Yet here I am, walking side by side with Leila down the streets of Manhattan. The woman I was sure I’d fire yesterday.

  My only explanation is that I was compelled. The leash comment she’d made… I definitely hadn’t imagined the tension between us. I’m now imagining other ways I can get under her skin, bring that indignant flush to her face. With strands of curls having pulled away from her updo, she looked only slightly deranged. It was kind of hot.

  No matter how many years have passed, lunch in Manhattan will never get old for me. There was a time in my life when I took the subway every morning like everyone else. Hustling was the only thing I knew. I’m in a much better place now, but I always return to my roots.

  Leila stops in the middle of the sidewalk, stunned. “Joe’s Deli? You want to eat at Joe’s Deli?”

  My head tilts as I take her in. She blinks continuously, as if she’s trying to decide if the restaurant is a mirage or not. It’s not until a hefty man carrying bags of groceries knocks her sideways that she comes to.

  “Is something wrong with Joe’s Deli?” I ask.

  “No! I love Joe’s Deli. His pastrami sandwich is really good. I just didn’t think you knew it existed.”

  Curioser and curioser. I try not to take offense, as I think I know what direction this conversation is heading. “Why wouldn’t I know why this place existed?”

  She manages to make her eyebrow lift look like a work of art. “Well, it doesn’t exactly cater to your crowd.”

  Biting the inside my cheek to hold in a threatening smile, I say, “My crowd?”

  “You know.” She waves at all of me. “Filthy rich.”

  “Filthy rich?” My smile is too provocative to hold back. “Maybe I’m just filthy.”

  Leila makes a choked sound as the blush rises to her cheeks. “Honestly, I was expecting a stuffy, hundred-dollar-sandwich, no-peasants-allowed, Michelin-star restaurant.”

  “I go to those places—when necessary,” I say. No point in lying. I’m expected to dress and act a certain way. I’m expected to mingle with the upper class. But as much as my company has taken off in recent years, it’s not where I came from. “But you know I was raised by a single mother, right? And that we were on welfare for most of my life?”

  For the second time in three minutes, I’ve shocked Leila Engleton. She’s speechless.

  “I didn’t know that,” she says awkwardly, not meeting my eye. She peers through the deli’s front windows. “Hungry?” She goes on ahead of me, not waiting to see if I’ll follow her.

  Inside, it smells of cured meats. My mouth waters. It’s a pretty simple place, but that’s what I like about it. It doesn’t try to be anything other than a local deli. The countertops and tables are wooden, scarred. The chairs are plain metal with red cushions to match the green and white décor. Leila and I take our places at the end of the line.

  Joe’s Deli usually has a line going out the door, so we must have caught them during one of the rare slow periods. Leila shifts from foot to foot, looking everywhere but at me. My comment about growing up on welfare must have made her uncomfortable, but it’s true. I don’t shy away from my background. If anything, it’s made me stronger.

  “I’m glad this place is still here,” she says. “I heard they were going to close a few years ago due to financial trouble. Guess they found their footing in time.”

  I nod vaguely. The subtle sweetness of her perfume drifts upward, teasing my senses. “I heard that too. It would have been a shame for it to go under.”

  When we reach the counter, the old man at the cash register does a double take at me. As do the rest of the customers. It’s probably not often someone walks in wearing a suit.

  “Byron!” The man, who speaks in a thick Italian accent, wipes his hands with a cloth and comes around the counter, laughing as we embrace. His large stomach presses against me, and his gray hair is still combed back after all this time. When he lifts his head, brown eyes twinkling, I’m twelve years old again, buying a sandwich after saving my change for a month. “It’s been too long.”

  “It has,” I say, gripping his shoulders warmly. “It’s good to see you, Joe.”

  Joe notices Leila at my side. “And who is this?” he booms. “Your beautiful wife?”

  Leila looks like she just swallowed a glass of spoiled milk.

  “This is my personal assistant,” I correct him gently, ignoring the sudden flare of irritation at Leila’s reaction. I’m not too upset about the mistaken identity. Joe is right—Leila’s beautiful, in a flighty, messy, unstable way. And a pain in my ass. “Leila, this is Joe Fieri.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she murmurs, shaking his hand. Joe calls to his wife to take over the counter, and she hollers back from the kitchen to do it himself. The couple immigrated from Italy almost fifty years ago and they’re still married, despite their bickering.

  He claps his hands, startling the people in line behind us. “What would you two like? Anything at all. On the house.”

  Leila and I share a glance. Hers is surprised, confused, paralyzed. “Well?” I say to her. “What do you want?”

  “That’s not necessary,” she says quickly. “I can buy my own sandwich—”

  “She’ll have the pastrami,” I tell Joe. “Make that two.”

  The man grins. “Wonderful! Oh, that table’s free. Better grab it.” And he returns to the counter.

  I take the open table immediately. Leila’s look is one of reluctance, but eventually she, too, takes a seat, clutching her purse to her chest.

  “So.” I tap a finger against the wooden table, ankle propped atop one knee.

  She squirms. “So.”

  “Tell me about yourself, Leila.”

  She blanches. Pats at the curls escaping her ponytail. “Why?”

  I offer her an easy, non-threatening smile. “Because I’m interested in knowing more about my employees.”

  “There’s not much to tell. And I thought I was Ms. Engleton.”

  “We can drop the formalities for an hour, don’t you think? What were you doing before this?”

  She sits absolutely still. Then, as if with a great effort, her limbs thaw and she narrows her eyes. “Did you even look at my resume?”

  I didn’t, actually. Traveling took up most of my time that week. “No.”

  She scoffs. “Of course.”

  “Well?”

  Her full mouth pinches. Her nostrils flare. Leila may have trouble walking in a straight line without tripping over her own feet, but there’s a certain strength to her. Tenacity. I admire that in a woman.

  “If you must know, I was working at the children’s museum as a... custodian.” The last word is mumbled.

  Before I can respond, Joe arrives with our orders. My phone rings as well. I push to my feet. “Excuse me, I’ll be
just a moment.”

  Moving to an empty space near the back wall, I answer with a, “Hi, Liam. Did you make contact with Bruce?”

  Liam, head of Solonay’s international department, is currently in the UK. We’ve bought a building for our UK headquarters, which will open next year. Originally, we were to launch our international campaign this year, but a few hiccups set us back. It took an additional two months for the sale of the building to go through. That’s two less months we have to prepare for the launch next spring.

  “I did.” I hear paper rustling. “Things are good on my end—”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Joe speaking with Leila. I tune out Liam to overhear what they’re saying.

  “How long have you been working for Byron?” Joe asks her, watching her bite into her sandwich with gusto. Joe loves nothing more than to watch people eat his food. Leila licks crumbs from the corner of her mouth, and my stomach clenches. I pull my attention back to the phone conversation, but it doesn’t last long. Again, I’m drawn to Leila and what she has to say.

  She smiles self-consciously. “This is only my second day, actually.”

  “Good man, Byron. He’ll take care of you.”

  “Really.” The word: flat, skeptical.

  Too late, I know where he’s going with this. I have half a mind to interrupt before he reveals to Leila the information, yet I don’t want to reveal my eavesdropping.

  “Byron is the one who saved our deli.”

  Leila sucks in a breath, chokes, and starts coughing furiously. Joe passes her a cup of water, which she gulps down. “What?” she croaks.

  The man nods, gratitude shining from his eyes. “I’ve known Byron since he was a boy. When he heard we were in trouble, he gave us a loan. Zero percent interest. I refused, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Joe glances at me, and I half-turn away, trying to appear like I’m deep in conversation.