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“And your boss?” she asks, her eyes sparkling. “I looked him up on my phone, you know. Nathan James. Phew, he’s a hottie.” She makes a little fanning gesture with her hands, and I laugh.
“Actually, it turns out I’m working for his brother, the other Mr. James. His name is Drake if you want to look him up too.”
“Oh, I will—is he just as good-looking?”
I pretend to think about it, then pull a face. “He’s okay, I suppose. Not as classically handsome maybe. A bit bigger? Not my type at all, but I’m sure some women find him attractive.”
I must be doing a good job of lying, because she seems to buy it hook, line, and sinker. Her fingers fly over her phone, and she makes a funnyooohnoise and holds up the screen. Drake is right there in front of me at what looks like an actual film premiere. He’s on the red carpet with a stunning blond, his dark eyes glaring at the photographer. Damn, he is sex on a stick.
“Personally, I think he’s even better looking,” Mom says. “He has that suave-on-the-surface-but-savage-just-beneath thing going on, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. But I think you missed your calling. You should have been a romance writer.”
She waggles her eyebrows at me. “It’s never too late. Maybe I’ll publish one. I’ll use a really cool pen name like Francesca de la Croix or something.”
I shake my head and laugh as she prattles on. I’m in no position to comment, having recently spent a whole night pretending to be called Scarlet.
I make my way into the kitchen, where I plate up our cannoli. She rarely has much of an appetite, and I love trying to tempt her with her favorites. I peek through the pass-through and see that she’s still staring at her phone. Possibly conjuring up smutty scenes of passion that involve my boss. Hah. If she only knew.
Leaning back against the counter, I sigh. Okay. So today was a shocker of a debut at James and James. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so many emotions in such a short time span, but here I am. Still gainfully employed and ready to fight another day. Now all I need to do is figure out how to work with Drake withoutremembering how his tongue felt on my most intimate parts or how his strong hands tangled up in my hair when he kissed me. Because those things aresoeasy to forget.
Nope, it’s not going to be easy, and maybe if this was only about me, I’d go back to the temp agency. But it’s not only about me—it’s about that wonderful woman in there. The woman who raised me and loved me and nurtured me, and she deserves so much better than the shitty hand nature dealt her. I would do anything for my mom, and that includes working with Drake James.
“Honey,” she says, her eyes still glued to her screen. “Could you bring me that cannoli? Something about your new boss makes me really like the idea of a sweet tube full of pistachio cream…”
Chapter
Eleven
AMELIA
The next day at work is a lot less intense, mainly because Drake—Mr. James, I remind myself—is in meetings all morning. He was double-booked for one and triple-booked for another, and one of my first tasks as his assistant was untangling his schedule. He’s fresh from Chicago and seems to be in demand, with constant requests coming in from new and existing clients. I can tell I’m going to have my work cut out for me managing his schedule, but I enjoy a challenge.
Kimmy wasn’t lying. I do love organizing things—anything from a spice rack to a busy managing partner—and more to the point, I’m good at it. It feels nice to be working somewhere that skill is valued.
I’ve been fielding calls for him all morning, and it will take me a while to catch up on who’s who. I will eventually understand exactly which calls need to be put through immediately and which can wait. I’ll know how he likes his coffee and what he enjoys for lunch and the numbers of his favorite restaurants. I’ll know everything about him, because that’s how a good secretary makes her boss’s life run smoothly.
Of course, I already know a few extra things that a secretary typically wouldn’t know about her boss. Like how big his cock isand the way his hands feel on my ass and how his tongue tastes against mine. None of that will help me with work, though, so I need to bury that knowledge so deep inside me that even Indiana Jones couldn’t dig it up.
I make my way down to the break room, which is located in the basement of the building. There’s a much fancier version on my level, where clients can wait for meetings and senior partners and their staff can access barista-quality coffee and artisan baked goods. It’s swanky and beautifully decorated and makes me feel like I’m going to stain or break something.
Down here, the staff room is a little more real, and I feel a lot more comfortable spending my breaks with the guys from the mail room and the ladies who do payroll than I do the managing partners. For a start, it’s a Drake James–free zone, which means it’s a refuge from the man. I’m guessing I’ll need that at some point.
I pour myself a coffee and decide to grab a snack. I’ve yet to master the art of eating at regular times, and my sugar levels will plummet sometime in the next hour. I join the small group of people milling around by the bakery bar and grin when I see one poppy-seed bagel left in the basket. My favorite. I reach out to take it at exactly the same time as the man standing next to me, and our hands bump.
We both pull back and do that awkward dance strangers do when they’re trying to cover up being embarrassed. “Please,” he says, gesturing at the bagel, “be my guest. I hate poppy seeds anyway.”
“Really?” I ask, looking up at him. He’s tall and lean, with a mop of sandy hair and sparkling blue eyes. “Why were you reaching for it then?”
“So I could throw it in the trash. Eliminate its evil from the world. Protect the universe from contamination. Usual stuff.”
“You’re carrying out a one-man war against poppy-seed bagels?”
“I am,” he says, puffing up his chest like an action hero. “It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it. I’m Jacob, by the way. I work in accounting. I always hate adding that bit, because now I know whenever you think of me, I’ll be ‘Jacob from accounting’ in your head.”
“What makes you think I’ll be thinking of you at all?”
“Foolish hope? And please—do have the bagel.”