Chapter Four

RATH

Pure desperation can do funny things to a person.

Like encourage them to make a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Like hire a new assistant without interviewing them, basing the hire off recommendation alone.

I’m not a complete idiot. I called Harold this morning to make sure she was credible. The jolly man went on forever about how Charlee Cox was one of the best people he knew and that I should be grateful to have her working beside me.

Right about now, I’m questioning Harold Danver’s sanity.

The girl’s chattiness is unlike anything I’ve ever heard and her candid remarks, with no filter whatsoever, are astonishing to say the least. Asking about my blood sugar, calling me crabby, she really holds nothing back. Even on her first day.

And yet, she hasn’t set up her computer, doesn’t have her iPad, and is doodling absentmindedly on her paper while I talk.

Does she even realize her pen is moving?

I want to say no by the blank stare she’s giving me.

“So . . . what will it be?” she asks. “Either way, they both have holes you can bite into. Assuming you like holes.” She shakes her pen knowingly at me. “Oh yeah, you’re a hole man.”

Jesus.

Christ.

I know she doesn’t mean it in a dirty way, the way I seem to be taking it, but I still wonder, does she understand what she’s saying?

“Not hungry.”

“That’s fine. I’ll order both. It’s on me. Think of it as a first day thanks for hiring me surprise. Let me just text my friend real quick. It will be here in less than ten minutes.” She types quickly, then pushes up her glasses and focuses back on me. “Now, I have some questions for you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She laughs. “Because I’m here to help you do your best work.” She shakes her head and chuckles. “Such a silly billy goat. Oh”—her eyes widen—“that could be a fun nickname. I can call you Billy for short. How does that sound?”

“It’s Mr. Westin.”

She taps her pen to her chin. “You know, Billy just doesn’t sound right, so I’ll keep working on it. Don’t worry, I come up with the best nicknames.”

“Mr. Westin.”

“Yes, and I’m Miss Cox . . . you know like a bag of—”

“Yes, that doesn’t need repeating.” Seriously, what is with this girl? And what did I get myself into?

“Oh, that’s right, I already told you about the bag of penises at the convention. Sorry, I get a little nervous sometimes and just run my mouth, but let’s get back to work, the heavy-hitting stuff.” She zeros in on me and with her pen ready to jot down notes. “How do you take your coffee?”

These are her hard-hitting questions?

“You don’t need to know that.”

“Uhh, are you insane? Of course, I do. I don’t need you snapping at me to get you coffee only for you to turn around and chuck it at my freshly pressed blouse. Ironing is a sport in my apartment. At least a half day on Sundays I spend ironing my clothes and watching reruns of New Girl. Have you seen that show? Who’s your favorite character? You know, at first I was like who’s this Schmidt guy and then—”

“Enough.”

“No, Enough is not a character, unless I missed an episode, which I know I haven’t. Ninety percent sure about that. But if I had to guess, I’d say you’re totally a Winnie the Bish kind of guy, am I right?”

I rub at my temple. “I said, that’s enough. Enough chatter. Just go set up your computer.”

“Oh dear, do you have a headache?” She studies me, worry etching her brow. “Want me to get you some water?” She looks over my desk. “I don’t see a water bottle in sight. Are you hydrating? Don’t worry, I’ll put it on my list of things to remind you to do. If you’re going to run the world we need you fed and hydrated.” Leaning forward she whispers, “When you pee, is it clear?”

“Out,” I shout, pointing with my finger. “Out, now.”

She startles back, clutching her pad of paper to her chest. “I’m s-sorry, but, do you want me to leave?”

“Yes, for Christ’s sake, that’s what out means. OUT.”

“Oh dear. Was it something I did? Said? Because honestly, I think we’re on the brink of being productive here. If you would loosen up a little more, we would be able to really crack the code on this boss-assistant working relationship.”

“I swear to God Himself, if you don’t leave in the next ten seconds, I’ll have someone escort you out.” I point again. “Drop your things off and go.”

“Okay, sure, yeah.” She stands and gives me a parting glance. “You know, your skin does look a little dry; a little more hydration might help.”

“You have five seconds.”

On an “eep” she scurries away, leaving me with a sense of failure once again.

Another one bites the dust. Just like that.

I assumed from my gut instinct she was going to be a good match. Apparently, she decided to flip her crazy switch this morning and turn into an obnoxiously loud and constant chatterbox. Unfortunately, that’s not what I need, especially with the high volume she came at me this morning.

Dehydrated . . . I’m not fucking dehydrated. I drink plenty of water.

Pressing my fingers into my forehead, I let out a giant sigh. What the fuck had Harold and Linus taken to recommend Charlee Bag of Dicks? She is not the assistant I thought she was going to be.

But then five minutes later, my security team brings me both a donut and lox and bagel. Without even thinking, I down them both. Not because she got them for me, but because I’m a depressed motherfucker who can’t seem to find an assistant worth a damn.

Harold Danvers just lost a whole bunch of credibility.

* * *

“Either you lost a deal, or the new assistant is already driving you insane,” Roark says, saddling up next to me at High Nine, our favorite bar. Thankfully Sutton is out of town, giving me free access to my best friend.

Staring into my half-empty glass of Stella, I say, “She didn’t last past ten.”

“What?” He laughs. “But Harold Danvers—”

“Harold Danvers is a lying piece of shit, and I’m pretty sure he set me up.”

Roark orders a Guinness and I glance at him for a second, questioning his choice since he’s a milk drinker these days. He shrugs and says, “One glass won’t kill me.” When it’s placed in front of him, he takes the tiniest of sips, the foam sticking to his five o’clock shadow. “She was a dud?”

“She was annoying. Wouldn’t stop talking. Called me crabby.”

“Well, you are crabby a lot of the times when you’re at work.”

“You would be too if you were working with morons.” I twist my beer with both hands on the bar top.

He chuckles. “I wonder what your employees would think if they saw you outside of the office. They wouldn’t even recognize you. You’re completely different.”

“I keep my two lives separate. If they knew the frat boy in me, they’d never respect me.”

“Respect you, or fear you?”

“Both.” I sigh and wave down the bartender. When he comes up to me, I say, “Nachos please, extra jalapenos.”

“Sure thing.”

He takes off and Roark asks, “So, she wouldn’t stop talking, because of that, you canned her?”

“Trust me, you would have too. I just didn’t think she was a good fit. I should have interviewed her first.”

“That’s usually how conventional businessmen proceed with new hires, but then again, when have you ever been conventional?” Roark gives me some side-eye and asks, “Are you sure it has nothing to do with you thinking she’s pretty?”

“Are you fucking kidding me with that?”

He shrugs. “Just checking one last time.”

“You act as if I’m some horndog who can’t keep it in my pants. Vanessa was a onetime deal, okay? Never happening again.”

He throws his hands up in surrender. “Okay, just checking.”

Jesus. You make one mistake and that’s what you’re known for. Vanessa was a mistake, a giant one at that.

I hired her based on her qualifications, but late nights and her seductive and suggestive ways started to wear me down until one cliché night of working late led to breaking the seal on the sexual tension between us. I got lost in her and quick.

To the point that when we broke up, I made it quite clear that no matter what, we never talk about her.

Ever.

Apparently, Roark has no problem bringing up my past though.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Start from scratch again. Have Renita put out some feelers for someone new. Maybe get some recruiters involved. I can’t be dealing with this shit on my own for much longer.”

“Understandable.” Roark sighs and sits back in his chair. “So . . . what did you think of the tux choices for the wedding?”

We both exchange a knowing look before I say, “If he chooses brown, I’m going to be pissed.”

Roark nods. “Right there with you. The navy blue was sharp, the brown would make us look like little piles of shit standing at the altar. I can’t believe Julia approved that color.”

“I sent her a text earlier asking about the tux color and she said she gave Bram complete control over the men’s side. We just had to go with the wedding color scheme.”

“I love your sister, but that was a stupid mistake.” The nachos are placed in front of us and we both reach out and scoop up a pile of cheese and jalapenos.

“Bram can be very persuasive and you know him, he wants to be involved as much as possible. He’s not a groom who just shows up; he’s going to every single appointment with her and has a hand in every decision. He even went to get her dress with her.”

“Are you serious? I thought grooms weren’t supposed to see that shit before the wedding.”

“He went with a blindfold, kept saying how gorgeous she was even though he couldn’t see.”

Roark shakes his head in disbelief. “Why are we even friends with him?”

“I question that every day.” I take another bite of nachos and ask, “So, are you gearing up for another round of fantasy football?”

He nods. “I’ve been doing my off-season studying. I’m going to annihilate you two motherfuckers.”

Yeah, we’ll see about that. Thank God for fantasy football, High Nine, and nachos. Right now, it’s the only way I’ll be able to cling to being human.