The Billionaire's Assistant Page 8

  After another hour, the meeting adjourns. It’s as I’m shutting the door to my office that a wave of what smells like dog shit kicks me in the face. I gag and press the edge of my sleeve to my nose. What the fuck?

  I scan the ground, but it’s as clean as ever. The smell could be coming from the hallway.

  I step out in the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me. Peg gazes at me curiously but returns to typing on the computer. The smell dissipates. Again, I step into my office, shut the door. Still smells like shit.

  “Ms. Engleton!” I bark, feeling the blood throb at my temples.

  I hear the click, click, click of her heels as she pops into the doorway, looking confused. “Yes, Mr. Schaffer?” She tilts her head and gives me her undivided attention.

  “Why does it smell like shit in my office?”

  She wrinkles her nose, gives a little sniff. I kind of find it adorable. Something is definitely wrong with me. “You’re right. It does smell kind of weird in here, but then again, I just finished cleaning shit from the bathroom, so my sense of smell probably isn’t the best.” She bares her teeth in a scary sweet smile that forces me a step back.

  “You didn’t come into my office, did you? I don’t want you tracking anything all over the floor.”

  “I didn’t enter your office.”

  “Then why does it smell?”

  “Maybe you stepped in dog doodoo this morning.”

  “I didn’t—” I cut myself of, gritting my teeth. I haven’t been outside since this morning. Why would I smell the shit now? “It’s not that.”

  Leila blinks, purses her full mouth. Today, she wears a shade of dark pink lipstick that makes her lower lip look especially full. She always bites it when she makes a mistake. I’m sure she has no idea she’s doing it.

  She says, “Have you checked the bottom of your shoes?”

  I glare at her, but I have not, in fact, checked. Holding onto the edge of her desk, I check the bottom of my pristine leather shoes. No residue.

  “Maybe a dog pooed in the corner somewhere,” Leila suggests unhelpfully.

  “There’s no dog here,” I bark back.

  It sounds like she bites off a laugh. “Suit yourself.” She wanders off, back to her own sweetly-scented office, I assume.

  My nostrils flare. The foul odor clings to the inside of my nostrils. “Peg!”

  A few moments pass, then my receptionist bustles in, looking alarmed. “What happened?”

  “What do you smell?”

  Her eyes widen in alarm. “Poop.”

  So I’m not imagining it. “Why the hell does it smell like this in my office?” I demand, running a hand through my hair. This is the last thing I need. My office is my haven. Clean, quiet, orderly. The smell is ruining everything. It’s tainted. No longer safe.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Schaffer. I was at lunch.”

  Right. Most people were. I can’t say for certain who, exactly, remained in the office, but I know for certain Leila was here, as she was cleaning the bathroom. She would have the most motivation to hide shit in my office, though I can’t figure out where the hell it is. I refuse to sit in an office that smells like shit.

  Gathering my laptop and notepad, I move to Leila’s office. Her eyes widen as I enter her space. She sits at the desk, poised and—dare I say it—graceful. She eyes me warily as I set my things on her desk.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice is tight. She takes me in as if I’m a hawk and she’s a tiny forest mouse exposed out in the open.

  “Considering my office smells like shit, I can’t work in there. So I’m commandeering yours.” Pulling up the extra chair to the other side of her desk, I sit so we’re facing each other. The floral scent of her shampoo teases away the stink, and it’s oddly addictive. Could I use one of the empty meeting rooms to work instead? Of course. But that would mean missing the opportunity to infuriate Leila, which I thoroughly enjoy.

  She gapes like a dead fish, her fingers hovering over her keyboard.

  I take my time getting comfortable. At one point, I brush her calf with mine, and she squeaks, shooting to her feet and almost falling over in the process. The woman is a klutz. I bite my lip to hold in my laughter.

  “I’m going to find an empty room,” Leila states. Her chin lifts. She’s trying to be strong about this, but uncertainty clouds her face.

  For a moment, I allow myself the fantasy of locking the door and spreading her over her own desk, her skirt hiked up and my mouth sucking at her throbbing core. I’m also imagining her fingers winding through my hair and tugging hard until the pain in my scalp shoots a bolt of need to my balls and shaft.

  She would enjoy it. I’m sure of it. And I would enjoy it too. I’m also certain of that.

  Before I can do something inappropriate like order her to sit on my lap, she scurries out the door and disappears. Damn. I’m already missing the scent of her sweet shampoo.

  I spend the entire day in Leila’s office. Even when I call maintenance and tell them to get rid of the smell in my room, I still remain in her office. She’s spruced up the place with a few plants and some pictures. It has a feminine touch. She even has a candle, though I’ve never seen it lit.

  I’m halfway through an email to one of my investors when my phone buzzes with an incoming text. I check the screen to make sure it’s not anyone important, as I need to finish this email ASAP.

  I do a double take at the message. It’s from Rose.

  Hi. I’ve been thinking. Can we meet?

  My heart gives one hard thud. The strange thing is, I’ve been wondering the same thing. Should Rose and I meet? Thinking about her whimpered moans resonating in my ear, it takes everything in me not to call her and say yes, absolutely. The only way that experience could have improved was if I was shoving my dick into her wet, tight channel and crushing my mouth to hers as I swallowed her cries.

  Closing my eyes, I lean back in my chair. Think, Schaffer. Think of what will happen if you meet this woman and she recognizes you. I really don’t think Rose is a gold digger—she certainly doesn’t seem like one—but you never know. I’ve been burned in the past. My last long-term relationship was heading toward marriage. Turns out she only wanted my money. Didn’t care enough to remember my birthday. And yes, I’m still pissed about that.

  Let’s say I give this a go. We meet at a public place. Get a drink. Talk. She doesn’t recognize me. Then we click. We have hot, sweaty sex. Next morning I leave, return to my life, as she returns to hers.

  Let’s say she does recognize me though. Either she’ll be turned off by my wealth, or she’ll stick to me like a damn leech. I’m not sure which is worse, considering I rather like this woman and her quirks.

  When’s the last time I got laid? My last relationship ended two years ago. Yeah. Two years. And I’m twenty-eight years old. That’s a damn shame.

  “Mr. Schaffer?”

  My eyes pop open. Leila stands in the doorway. I clear my throat and straighten in my chair. “Yes?”

  “I sent the last of the memos to your clients. I’m going to head home now.”

  I stare at her until her eyes narrow. She hates when I do that, but the flush coloring her skin is too compelling to resist. “See you on Monday, Leila.”

  With a wave, she’s gone.

  I wonder how Leila Engleton spends her time on the weekends, but the thought is brief. Better to focus on tonight. I type out a quick reply to Rose.

  Meet me at Glass at eight tonight. Wear something revealing. And Rose? I’m looking forward to getting reacquainted.

  Chapter 13

  Leila

  “He said what now?” Charlie demands over the phone.

  “Reacquainted,” I hiss, as if Mr. Billionaire is standing only feet away.

  In reality, I’m in my apartment wearing nothing but my underwear, rifling thro
ugh my closet to search for something decent to wear for tonight’s date with Pizza Guy. My nerves buzz in equal parts excitement and dread. I’m afraid. Ecstatic, yes, but mostly scared shitless. I’m afraid my excitement is based on nothing more than a fantasy. But more than that, I’m afraid something might come of this meeting. Will our spark translate face-to-face? Please God, I hope it does.

  I’m also nervous about stepping into this man’s world. If we’re meeting at Glass, then Pizza Guy has to be wealthy, right? I have nothing against wealth, but I have my own insecurities. What do I have to show for a college education? Not much. Today was the first time in two months I was able to pay my rent. I slipped a check for Ms. Hayes under her door earlier. The rest of my paycheck went into my savings account. I still owe Ms. Hayes another thousand dollars, but I was more concerned with replenishing my emergency fund. Hopefully she won’t evict me before I receive my next paycheck.

  “Do you even know what Pizza Guy’s name is?” Charlie asks with a healthy amount of skepticism.

  “No, but I’ll find out soon enough.”

  “What if he has an ugly name?”

  The thought stops me. My hand hovers in front of a green skirt I wore once a few years ago. It no longer fits me, but I’ve held onto it because I have fond memories of being a size two. Fear nags at me. “That’s ridiculous,” I say, too loudly. Shit. What if he does have an ugly name?

  No. He can’t. Not when his voice sounds like hot caramel poured over cold vanilla ice cream.

  But Charlie has snagged onto the idea, and she runs with it. “Ooh, what if his name is Clarence or something dreadful like that? How tragic.”

  “His name is not Clarence.”

  Please, Lord, don’t let his name be Clarence.

  Charlie sighs pityingly. She’s working right now. Well, technically she’s on break. She’s been on break for the past, oh, thirty minutes. I called her as soon as I got out of work. With my best friend Amber still out of town, she’s the only friend I have, and I needed someone to help me prepare for my date. It’s been way too long since I’ve been on one of these.

  “What if it’s something worse like… like Donald? Or, ugh, Bernard?” There’s a pause, and then she starts cracking up. “If his name is Bernard, that would be hilarious.”

  “Ew, Charlie! Bernard makes me think of old men and flabby skin.” I shudder and return to my task of finding an appropriate outfit for the evening. Glass is a really expensive restaurant. It’s too bad the most expensive thing I own cost seven dollars from the Salvation Army.

  Pulling a little black dress from its hanger, I study it before tossing it onto the growing pile of discarded outfits, which King Henry has designated as his new throne.

  “Okay, okay,” she says with a laugh. Then she says, “Fuck off, dude!” Obviously to someone pissing her off at the bar, not me.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Fine,” she grumbles. “Just some guy trying to press his luck with me tonight. It happens. God, I can’t wait to get out of this place. I’ve been doing more research into selling my art and I want to try and approach a few galleries soon, see if they’ll feature me.”

  “Charlie, that’s great!” I smile. I really am happy for her. I have absolutely zero artistic talent and admire people who do. “Have you looked more into selling online?”

  “I have. First I’d need to make prints of my art so I can sell those. If I’m lucky, maybe someone might buy my originals, too.”

  “What do you paint, anyway?” I ask. The next article of clothing I pull out of my closet is a flowy blue skirt. It’s a possibility if I can find an adequate top to go with it. I place that on the bed and return to searching. A quick glance at my bedside clock says I need to leave in thirty minutes if I want to catch the train.

  “Mostly landscapes,” Charlie says. She sounds more bubbly than normal. That usually comes with the territory of talking about things you’re passionate about. “I use watercolors mostly. I’ve wanted to try out oil paints but they’re really expensive and I can’t afford them at the moment.”

  Ah, yes. Something I understand.

  Charlie sighs.

  “If this man sounds as sexy as you say he does you’re probably right that he has a hot name. Like, I don’t know, Liam. Or Fox.”

  “Fox?” Come to think of it, that name is pretty hot. “How about Adrian.”

  “Good one. Gabriel.”

  “Byron.”

  I stare at myself in my full-length mirror and watch my mouth drop. Charlie, who doesn’t know my boss’s name is Byron, keeps going. “Pierce. Tristan. Owen.” She stops, as if realizing I’ve stopped contributing. “How are you feeling?”

  “Um. Okay, I think.” My voice is a squeak. Why am I thinking about Mr. Billionaire, of all people? Plenty of men have sexy voices. “Hey, do you think you could help me decide on an outfit? I’m torn between two dresses.”

  “Yes, let’s see!” In the background, someone screams, and Charlie shouts something back. “Sorry,” she says to me. “My dumb boss wants me to get back to work. I told him to fuck himself.”

  My mouth drops further. If I said that to Byron Schaffer, I’d definitely get fired. That, or he’d think of another way to humiliate me. “I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

  “It’s fine. Send me pics.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I take the two dresses in question and pull them on. The first is one I’ve never actually worn. I bought it for a friend’s wedding last year, except the wedding never happened because two weeks before, the groom was discovered cheating on the bride—with her brother. Yikes.

  I gaze at myself in the mirror. The dress is a deep royal blue. It’s tight as sin, hugging every curve. My waist looks tiny. My hips look va voom. It stops at mid-thigh and cuts low, revealing the tops of my breasts. It’s stunning, no doubt about it, but it shows a lot of skin. I don’t want Pizza Guy thinking I’m trying too hard.

  The second dress is a sparkly black. It has a sweetheart neckline and a full skirt that hits my knees. Pretty gold accents sparkle along the bodice. I’ve worn it to a bunch of events. It’s more on the demure side, but I feel comfortable wearing it.

  After snapping pictures of myself in each dress, I send them to Charlie. “Tell me what you think.”

  “Wow. Both look great. But definitely the blue one, for sure.”

  My heart quivers. “The blue? You’re sure? You don’t think it’s too revealing?”

  “Didn’t Pizza Guy request something revealing anyway? You want this man to eat you up with his eyes. Wear it.”

  The longer I stare at myself in the mirror, the more I think this entire date is a mistake. Staying home and shoveling ice cream in my mouth sounds much more appealing. I shake my head. “Actually, I think I’m going to go with the black one.”

  “Leila—”

  “Black is the safer choice.”

  Reaching for the garment draped over the bed, I stop. Henry sits atop the black dress, his tail twitching this way and that, every inch the king. Except it’s no longer my dress. It’s shreds of fabric and gold beading. Utterly ruined now. The blue dress sits beside it, untouched.

  I give my cat the dirtiest, nastiest glare I can muster. “I hate you.”

  Royal blue it is.

  Chapter 14

  Byron

  Hours later, I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, wondering if I’m about to make a horrible mistake. I wear one of my suits. A subconscious decision. I’m so used to wearing suits it feels weird to wear anything else.

  I want Rose to see me as powerful, in control. I want to see her eyes widen with arousal. A strong, domineering businessman, about to make all her dreams come true.

  Giving myself one last look in the mirror, I quickly slip on my black dress shoes, grab my wallet and keys, and take the penthouse elev
ator down to the lobby. Outside, the car is already idling at the curb, Tony in the driver’s seat. I slide into the shiny black SUV. Glass is about a twenty-minute drive with evening traffic, but I want to arrive there early. Rose will walk into whatever mood I’ve already set, not the other way around.

  Inside the car, it’s quiet. Too quiet. I’m generally fine with silence, but this silence allows my thoughts to balloon, and I don’t like it. I decide to call my brother. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.

  “Byron,” says August. “This is a surprise.”

  “I’m going on a date,” I blurt.

  The silence almost seems to sink into my skin. Damn. Why did I say that?

  “Well this is interesting,” he says, in a way that makes me think he’s getting himself comfortable for the conversation. Such is the way with older brothers. Always the need to put you in your place. I love August more than anything, but if he’s going to go all big-brother on me, I’m hanging up. Vulnerability is hard enough without someone rubbing it in your face. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

  No way in hell am I telling him about Rose. “We met through mutual friends. That’s all you need to know.”

  August sighs. “Another rich bitch, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “She’s not rich.” It’s a breath of fresh air, honestly.

  “Hm.” The sound is intrigued. “Where are you taking her tonight?”

  “Glass.”

  Another vague sound. “Could be worse, I guess. At least it’s not too upscale.”

  August likes to use every opportunity to bash my way of life. I like nice things. It comes with the territory of having a shit-ton of money. He thinks I’ve forgotten our roots, but I haven’t. Every time I’m sipping expensive wine I ask myself how I can give back to the less fortunate, since the less fortunate used to be my brother and I, our single mother. My childhood made me who I am, but I don’t want to ever repeat it.

  August says, “Why aren’t you saying anything? Telling me to go to hell, or whatever?” He chuckles, then stops. “Wait, do you like this woman?”