Page 2 of Selfish Suit (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #1)
THE INTERN
IVY
T his is exactly what I get for dropping out of college…
I can literally envision some screenwriter in Los Angeles penning a character sheet that mirrors my life at this very moment.
Fade In—New York City traffic jam: Foolish girl sits in banged-up Honda Civic with UberEats order in passenger seat. She’s dropped out of college to start her own business, but it was far too early; now she can’t afford to return to take the final courses.
Then again, the writer would probably scratch most of that out once he realized that no character deserves to be that dumb…
I’m not even sure the money I’m making from UberEats is worth it anymore, since a huge chunk of it goes to the maintenance on my poor excuse of a car.
“Come on!” I bang on the steering wheel. “What the hell is causing the delay now?”
I look over at the perfectly wrapped bag from Olivier’s Trattoria and hope the customer will give me a tip despite my lateness.
The food inside smells absolutely amazing…
I mean, if he can afford to order from a place that lets the customer keep an insulation bag, there has to be light at the end of the tunnel for me.
As I inch forward, my phone buzzes in my lap.
Customer (D.S.)
This order was scheduled for 7:00.
Is there a reason why you’re fifteen minutes late?
Seriously? I ignore it.
All he has to do is look at my location and see that I’m in traffic.
He could also look out his window and see that the entire city is suffering under a sudden rainstorm.
Rain is pounding against the windshield in sheets, and the wipers are squeaking across the glass with weariness.
Traffic continues to crawl, and I turn on the radio, but the app buzzes again.
Customer (D.S.)
Now you’re twenty minutes late.
Thank you so much for this obvious information.
I’m adjusting your tip for every minute you’re late.
I hold back a scream.
If I didn’t need the eighteen dollars from this drive, I would eat his food and go home.
By the time I make it to the light that’s around the corner from the destination address, there are more messages from the impatient bastard.
Customer (D.S.)
What’s the point of you agreeing to deliver on time when you know it won’t happen?
Should I assume you’ve eaten my food at this point?
Ignoring him, I double-park behind a tinted Escalade, grab the tote, and sprint the block and a half to the building entrance—hood up, shoes slipping, wine bag threatening to split down the middle.
I stop under the overhang, shaking rain off my sleeves as I mash out a reply:
Walking in now. Thank you for your PATIENCE.
This building is directly across from my job, and if I’d known that, I would’ve never accepted this order. I learned long ago not to accept any orders from the men on Wall Street.
They’re stingy with their tips, and they actually flirt with me as if I should be honored to deliver their food.
I push through the revolving doors, dripping all over the marble floor as I flash a weak smile at the security guard.
“Delivery for a D.S?” I’m just noticing there are only initials on the order. “Does that stand for Double Asshole?”
He gives a blank stare.
“Can you tell him to come downstairs and get his order, please?”
“You can take it to him yourself.” He waves me through the entrance. “Floor 61. The boardroom on the right.”
“Thanks.” I head to the elevator and catch a glance of myself in the glass doors.
Not one of my best days…
The ride up is deathly quiet, just me, the soft hum of the elevator, and the faint scent of pasta wafting through the bag.
The doors slide open to reveal a hallway of silence and black marble, and I head to my right where a matte black door waits.
I knock.
Nothing.
I knock again, even louder.
Still nothing.
Screw it.
I push the door open and step into a space that looks more like an art gallery than an office. Clean lines and glass walls peek out beneath huge silver-framed portraits on the far wall. Through the windows ahead, the Manhattan skyline stretches endlessly in the distance.
At the center of it all—behind a desk the size of my first dorm room—sits the man responsible for all the chaos in my phone.
Dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with no tie, he’s sporting a diamond watch and a clenched jaw I can see from his side profile.
I can also see that he’s too damn good to turn around in his chair.
“Sorry about the delay,” I say. “I had a lot of orders and traffic was brutal.”
He doesn’t move.
“Um, is it okay if I place your food on this table, or…” I usually like to give it to the person in hand so they can’t claim they never received it, but I’m about to make him my first exception.
“Hello to you too, asshole,” I mutter. “You’re welcome.”
“Excuse me?” He turns in his chair, and my stomach pitches.
“What did you just say?”
“I…” My breath catches. I’ve seen this man up close two times before—once in our company magazine, and once on a brochure when I was being written up.
Dominic Sutton.
He’s a man who can literally take your breath away with one glance from his deep blue eyes. A man who can bring your entire world to a halt if you ever catch a smile on his perfectly molded lips—or catch a rare glimpse of him, unfocused, running a hand through his ink-black hair.
He’s also the man whose name is literally on the building. But he has other names, too…
CEO. Marketing god. Unofficial destroyer of employees. And “Mr. Fucking Selfish” in soft whispers through the hallways.
“I uh…” I clear my throat, nervously tightening my fingers around the wet handles of the bag. “I was saying that I’m sorry I’m late.”
“I heard you.” He points to the bag. “You can set the food down on the table.”
I oblige and tear off the fancy card from the restaurant.
“Squid ink tagliatelle with lobster and truffle cream, rosemary bread basket, and burrata with fig and balsamic,” I say, setting out all the perfectly wrapped dishes. “It’s still hot.”
“I doubt that.” His gaze drags over me, and I regret changing out of my business suit into this old pink hoodie and jeans. Pulling out his wallet, he walks over to me and takes out a hundred-dollar bill.
I bite my lip, trying not to look too excited, trying not to mentally calculate just how much that amount would help me this week.
He slides it back into his wallet and pulls out a ten-dollar bill instead.
“I always knew a few small bills would come in handy.” He hands it to me. “Here’s your tip.”
I stare at it.
“Technically, this is an extra tip.” He looks dead-ass serious. “I already left you an additional three percent in the app.”
“ Three percent ?”
“Technically six once you take this.” He moves closer with that ten. “Considering how late you are and how much you’ve inconvenienced me, I think that’s more than fair.”
“ Fair ?”
“Should I speak louder?” he asks. “Do you have hearing issues?”
“No, I do not…” I grit my teeth.
Walk away, Ivy. Just walk away.
“You can take the money and leave now, Miss UberEats,” he says. “I’m sure you have another customer to disappoint this evening. The door is?—”
“Fuck you.” I smack the ten out of his hands, glaring at him. “You’re a freakin’ billionaire who just spent three hundred dollars on a couple of entrées and you think I should be grateful for getting a three percent tip from you?”
“Pick my money up from the floor.” He narrows his eyes. “Now.”
“I thought that was my money?” I scoff, folding my arms. “But it can stay right there, and you can pick it up—maybe that’ll be the first time you actually do some manual labor.”
“Miss UberEats…”
“I bet you think people wake up hoping, wishing, and praying that they’ll get the chance to serve you. Newsflash—we freakin’ don’t. Second newsflash: you’re worse than any of the rumors I’ve ever heard about you in any department here.”
“How the hell can you be a billionaire with unpaid interns?” I can’t stop talking. “It’s ridiculous that we have to prove ourselves to you before we get paid on certain projects. And on top of that, you demand so effin’ much for so effin’ little.”
He arches a brow. “You work for me?”
“You deserve your ‘selfish as hell’ reputation, and I promise you there’s a reason you’re never in the top 100 of decent places to work for,” I say. “You’re the worst CEO in Manhattan, and you don’t deserve any more of my time.”
I pick up all the dishes from his order and return them to the bag.
Then I storm out of his office.
I press the down button on the elevator, and as the numbers above the doors light up, I realize I forgot something.
Shit.
I return to the office and see Mr. Sutton standing exactly where I left him, frozen in time and looking at the door.
That ten-dollar bill is still on the floor, and he’d probably leave it for someone else to pick up anyway.
Without saying a word, I pick it up, shoot him one last glare, and storm out again.
The elevator doors are opening as I arrive, and I immediately step inside and hit the door close button.
I’m looking forward to seeing what food at this price tastes like for dinner…