Chapter Eleven

Prepared for an onslaught of who knows what from the Good Morning Brigade, I steel myself as the elevator doors open and wince, waiting for a blast of glitter to smack me in the face or a serenade from a mariachi band to strike up. But instead of confetti cannons, or music blaring, or a boisterous good morning from Charlee waiting on the other side, it’s deathly silent. The blinds are pulled down, there’s no bouncing blonde in sight, and there doesn’t seem to be a speck of color anywhere in the vicinity besides Charlee’s desk.

What the hell is going on?

I stride down the hall where I find Charlee quietly typing away at her desk. She’s wearing a black dress and her makeup is done like it was this weekend; natural with no added flare. I thought I told her she could dress however she wanted in the office.

Confused with the drastic change, I say, “What are you doing?”

She stands and almost looks like she’s ready to go to a funeral with her hands folded in front of her and a demure look on her face.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, everything is fine,” she answers, her voice flat and even. Dancing boisterous Charlee is startling, but reserved quiet Charlee is downright terrifying. “I held off on your breakfast unsure if you wanted one. I didn’t want to force it upon you.” She walks over to my office door and holds it open. The blinds are shut, just the lamp on my desk is turned on, like it was before Charlee came to work for me. My jungle plants are all next to the door and Sir Dragomir is still by my desk, but there’s a wheelie cart next to him.

What the hell is happening?

“Movers are coming to pick up what I couldn’t move this morning. I tried to get everything done before you arrived, but unfortunately only a few people can be bribed by Skittles on a Monday morning.”

Picked up? Moved? I rack my brain for what I possibly said over the weekend that would make her change the office back to the boring, bland space it was . . . before Charlee . . . but nothing is coming to mind.

“What are you doing?” I ask, greatly concerned with the change.

“Putting everything back the way you liked it.” She holds her hand out. “I’ll take my list now and will stay out of your way.” Utterly confused—you never know with this girl—I hand her the list and cautiously walk into my office.

There has to be something I said to generate this reaction, turning her into a reserved, mute of an assistant, not the woman I hired.

It wasn’t because I blocked our conversation by the koi pond, was it? Because I shut her down before she could ask about Vanessa? I know it was harsh, but it wasn’t territory I would cover with her.

Word travels around the office, there are gossips everywhere. I’m sure Charlee has heard something about the girl who broke my heart, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to divulge the details. But would she really shut down because of that?

No.

There was a shift between us this weekend. Not a bad one, more of an appreciative shift, one that brought us closer in a work sense, which I thought was a valuable move professionally.

Hell, I even called her the most vibrant person I’ve ever met. I gave her another goddamn compliment that’s outside her skills of work, things I shouldn’t be doing, but something I know she deserved. It seemed like she appreciated the compliment, at least I thought she did.

But would she really change over that? Would she alter her personality? The way she works? The way she brightens my day with her color-coded pens and her vibrant midday dance music? Not that I’d admit this to her—or anyone, well, maybe Bram because otherwise he’d sulk—I was looking forward to finding out what color Monday was.

Once in my office, I set my briefcase on my desk but don’t sit. Instead, I pace back and forth, trying to come up with logical reasoning for her behavior. But with every pass of my desk, I become more and more confused, my mind drawing a blank.

Shit.

It’s hard to concentrate when it’s so dark in here. In a matter of seven days, she’s fucked with my entire process, making me crave the light rather than the dark.

I go to the windows and start fumbling with the blinds, unsure how to open them. I graze the sides, look for a string or a lever, anything to get some light in here, but come up short. I go to the next window and then the next and then the next until I’m so aggravated and irritated that I scream Charlee’s name.

“Charlee, get in here!”

She rushes into my office and stares at me, eyes wide, a nervous jitter in her hands. “What’s wrong?”

“Why did you shut these goddamn blinds?” I fling my arms at them.

She steps back, shock in her eyes. “Be-because I thought that’s how you liked it. Dark, so you can focus.”

“Well, I can’t focus,” I say, pacing my office now. “I can’t focus now that I’ve had light in here. So, open them up and don’t touch them again.”

“I’m so-sorry, Mr. Westin.”

“I said call me Rath,” I roar, losing control. I grip my forehead and take a deep breath, steadying my racing heart. Christ, in the matter of seconds, I’ve gone from being nervous to leave the elevator, to confused as hell, to a raging asshole.

All because of one girl.

From my desk, Charlee easily flips a switch and the blinds open. On a shaky breath, she says, “The switch is right here, so you can control it from your desk.”

Light pours in, highlighting her beautiful yet terrified face, and immediately fresh guilt because of my dickish temper consumes me.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asks, taking a step back.

Yeah, for you to not look at me with those wounded, puppy-dog eyes.

For you to be yourself again.

For you to annoy me with your loud good morning and chatterbox mouth.

Not saying what’s blaring through my head, I nod and motion to one of the chairs she picked out for my office. “Sit.”

Not giving it a second thought, she takes a seat and sits tall, folding her hands on her lap. “I don’t have my notebook. Should I go grab it?”

I shake my head. “I need to talk to you. This isn’t about a list or anything like that.”

“Oh, okay.”

Still buzzing, I avoid taking a seat and rather place my hands on the back of my chair, gripping the leather tightly as I summon a controlled voice. “What’s with all the changes?” My question comes out harsher than I anticipated. “If you’re going to create a work habit, stick with it. I like things to be consistent. I like routine. If that means you blare horns when I come off the elevator in the morning, then blare horns, but just stick with it, whatever you choose.”

Nose cutely scrunched, she asks, “Do you . . . like all the changes I made?”

“I mean”—I push my hand through my hair and quietly say—“they weren’t bad.”

And just like that, her smile returns and her vibrancy brightens her face. “Oh, my goodness, I had no clue.” She clasps her hands together in excitement and even though I feel like I’ll never live it down, admitting to liking her quirky ways, the tension in my neck and back ease when I see that beautiful smile of hers reappear. “I was turning everything back to the way you had it because I thought you hated my adjustments and I wanted to do something nice for you since you did something so—” Her voice catches in her throat while her hand falls to her chest. “How you did something so, so kind for my grandma.”

What the hell is she talking about?

“Kind? I just—” Ohhhh. Fuck. I should have known. “Did your grandma call you?”

She nods, her eyes watering. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with my tears and emotions, but I can’t seem to help it. She was so excited, Mr. Westin. She even named one of the fish after you.”

“I told you to call me Rath.”

“Right, yes, sorry. My mind is a mess.” She shakes her head and blows out a long breath. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for what you did for her and the community. You really brightened a lot of people’s days, not just my grandma’s. And I want you to know, I didn’t tell you about the fish and the benches so you would buy them.”

“I know you didn’t.” I finally take a seat at my desk, feeling uncomfortable from the grateful attention. Clearing my throat, I casually say, “My grandma would have wanted the same thing at her apartment. Figured it’s the least I could do. Think nothing of it.” I try to brush it off as unimportant, but I should know better by now that Charlee won’t allow that to happen.

“Well, I thought a lot about it. I thought about how you selflessly made such a sweet gesture, one that brought a lot of joy to others. It was thoughtful and kind, and incredibly giving. That’s why I tried to return the office back to your normal, the way you liked it, all dark and quiet. I know I pushed you last week, and I didn’t want you to feel tortured or uncomfortable because of me and my way of working. I can adjust to your routine, Rath.”

Two things I fucking hate right now: the way Charlee is tiptoeing around me and realizing I’ll have to admit I like the way she set up the office. I’m going to have to suck up my pride, bite the bullet despite not wanting to give in, and tell her the truth. Oddly, Charlee seems to know exactly what I need in my life to do the best work I can, which includes an occasional historical romance. A romance I stayed up late last night reading because I desperately needed to find out if Lord Eric finally claimed his wench.

He did.

On a pile of hay as their “mattress.” Carnal fucking. It was hot as shit.

But back to the task at hand. I move a pen on my desk, and steel myself for what is about to come out of my mouth. Unable to look her in the eyes, I say, “The changes you made to the office were fine. You may proceed with them.”

Jesus, could I sound any more robotic?

And just as I predicted in my head, a rainbow bursts out of her eyes from pure joy as she asks, “Sir Dragomir can stay too?” Without even looking at her, I can hear the smile in her face.

Clutching the pen in my hands, I answer, “We’ve established a bit of a rapport. He’s fine where he is.”

“And the others?” I clench my teeth tighter and look up to see her positively beaming.

Fuck . . . she’s so beautiful when she smiles.

Looking off to the side, I quietly say, “Well, they’re his cousins, after all.”

“Uh-huh,” she answers knowingly. “Well, who are we to split up a family?”

“Precisely.” I clear my throat and pull out my laptop from my bag. Wanting to end this humiliating discussion . . . “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like some of that oatmeal you made last week.” Because it was really fucking good, and it’s what I craved all weekend.

Chuckling, she nods. “I’ll get right on it. And can I ask, future ideas to brighten up the office, should I run them by you, or should I continue to surprise you?”

Hiding my smile, I say, “The surprises keep me on my toes, a good business practice.”

“Mm-hmm,” she answers, seeing right through me.

She’s positively giddy as she skips out of my office to make some of that heavenly oatmeal, and even though she’s proven me wrong, I feel incredibly right at the moment. Until I think about what she said . . . I know I pushed you last week, and I didn’t want you to feel tortured or uncomfortable. I can’t help it. I laugh. Cheeky wench. Cheeky fucking wench—as Lord Eric would say.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, coming up to Charlee’s desk where she’s reading and twirling a can of cherry bubly™ in her hand.

Not bothering to look me in the eyes, she holds her finger up just as an alarm sounds off. Huffing in frustration, she sets her Kindle down and gives me the stink-eye. “I was reading and you totally knocked me out of the mood.”

“You should be working,” I say, looking at her desk with two notepads full of to-dos. “I really need those finance documents delivered.”

Sitting up in her chair, she folds her arms over her chest and says, “According to the employee handbook established by you, I get an hour for lunch to myself. During that time, I like to read and eat my salad. You cannot take that away from me, even for finance documents, which I sent to finance, had them look over, then brought them back up here and set them on your desk while you were out to lunch.” She motions with her fingers at my face. “I suggest you try to take your foot out of your mouth now.”

I hate that she’s so good.

Most of the time, I hate it.

“What about my dessert? Did you pick it up?”

“Your pastry box is on your desk with all the specific pastries on your list . . . your majesty.” She bows and twirls one hand in front of her. Fucking sassy woman.

Her actions make the corner of my mouth tick with humor, despite her need to bust my balls any chance she gets. “Good, come into my office.” The word come feels dirty falling off my tongue, but I ignore the wave of heat that rolls down my spine as I charge into my office with a bag of supplies in my hand as she follows behind me. I set the bag down on my desk and start taking the items out.

Sparkling cider, glass champagne flutes, dainty flowered plates, and of course a mega pack of fun-sized Skittles.

I pop open the sparkling cider and pour us each a glass. I hand a confused Charlee one as she takes a seat.

“Scoot in closer.”

She does and then I hand her a plate and pop open the box of pastries. “The lemon Danish is my favorite.” She glances up at me, those clear blue eyes of hers pinning me with lust that shoots straight to my dick. And for a moment, a pregnant pause forms between us, our eyes searching each other, before she reaches into the box and pulls out a cheese Danish.

“I live and die for a cheese Danish,” she says quietly as if she feels the need to explain her choice.

I take a lemon, and then I hand her the bag of Skittles.

She studies the bag for a few beats before looking up at me, head tilted cutely to the side. “Excuse me for being confused, but what’s happening here?”

“It’s been two full weeks,” I say before taking a bite of my Danish. “Two full weeks and we haven’t killed each other, nor have we slipped up on any work. We’ve actually become more efficient.” She lights up. “So, we’re celebrating. The cider and the Danish are to say congratulations, and the Skittles are so you can keep bribing people.”

She laughs and then thoughtfully says, “Thank you. This means a lot to me.”

“Just know, this doesn’t happen often, and we’re not becoming friends or anything.”

“Oh, of course not. Heaven forbid,” she says sarcastically.

“This is me as a boss appreciating his assistant.” I don’t know why I say it like that, but I’m feeling weird and oddly happy at the same time. After this past week and the hard work Charlee put in without even batting an eyelash, I knew I had to do something special for her. And yes, this might be very small, but it’s at least something.

“Got it.” She chuckles and shakes her head while peeling a piece of her Danish apart. “Wouldn’t want to confuse our roles.” There’s a sense of irritation in her voice and I call her out on it.

“Don’t be upset.”

“I’m not upset, Rath, but you know, you could get to know me a little. It wouldn’t kill you. After all, I am the person who makes your breakfast and makes sure your panties are picked up from the dry cleaners.”

I give her a get real look. “We both know I wash my own panties like every other normal asshole out there.”

“Positive about that? Pretty sure I saw some silk briefs in last week’s batch.”

“Silk is suffocating.” I clear my throat. “But we’re off topic.”

She perks up. “Wait, have you worn silk panties before?”

“Things we don’t talk about . . . panties.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, then since this is my two-week celebration party, why don’t we exchange questions so we can get to know each other better? We’ll keep them very simple, nothing too deep, because Lord knows you’ll flip your lid and send me back to my desk.”

“You act as if I’m a tyrant.”

“Did you or did you not explode over blinds recently?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Completely relevant. You just about lost your mind. I thought you were about to have a heart attack, right here in your office, next to Sir Dragomir. He would have had to go to plant counseling, and I heard horticultural psychologists aren’t cheap.” Fucking Charlee Bag of Dicks.

“You’re obscenely ridiculous, you realize that?” I shake my head at her.

“Yes, but that’s what makes me fun.” She tacks on a smile. “Now, are you in? Questions?”

I have a feeling she’s not going to let this go and even though I would never admit it, I’m curious to find something out about her that goes beyond the generic stuff I already know. “Fine, but nothing too personal.”

“Yes, that was established.” She takes a napkin off my desk and pats her mouth. “I’ll go first. If you could have any job in the world besides what you’re doing, what would you be?”

Hmm . . . good question.

I lean back in my chair and take a bite of my Danish, thoughtfully considering my answer as the tartness of the lemon dances with my taste buds.

“If I could be anything at this point, I would probably say a bakery owner that specializes in pastries and only pastries. No cupcakes, no cakes, no cookies, just pastries like eclairs and bear claws and almond croissants and—”

“I get the point.” She laughs. “Who knew you had such a sweet tooth? Are you a good baker?”

I shake my head. “No, that’s why I said own a bakery.”

“But that usually implies that you’re the one who’s doing the baking.”

“Unless you want stodgy and burnt pastries, don’t ask me to bake for you.”

“We are going to have to fix that,” she says, logging away that information, which only makes me nervous. For some reason, I can picture coming in on a Friday to Charlee in a white pastry hat, the kitchen decked out, and an apron waiting for me with “boss man crust pants” stamped on the front. “Okay, you’re turn, ask me your question.”

My question has to be good, something intriguing, something that will surprise me when she answers.

But, my mind falls short, and I can’t come up with one good goddamn question. So, lamely I say, “If you had to do anything else for a living besides be my EA, what would it be?”

“Oh, come on, you can’t ask me the same question,” she argues, a giant roll to her eyes.

“I can when I’m the boss,” I answer, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Pulling the boss card a little early. Fine,” she sighs. “I guess if I had to be anything other than the best assistant in the world, I would have to go with planner designer.”

“Like an office supply planner?”

“Uh, yeah. Daisy and Dot have the best planner out there but I still would make some changes, little tweaks here and there especially for people in my position where we’re juggling a million things at once. I have a good eye; I think I could make a damn good planner.”

Interesting. I nod and listen to her—and there’s a lot to listen to as she’s in Charlee’s Land of All Things Stationery—thinking of a new project that will probably blow her mind, and also, light up that smile.

“Charlee, can I see you in my office please?” I ask over the phone intercom.

It took a few days, but I was able to pull everything together without her knowing and now that the time has come to tell her, well fuck, I’m a little nervous and far too excited.

The office is back to its usual organized and colorful chaos. That’s what I like to call it. I’m greeted every morning in the same way, but always somehow different. Sometimes Charlee is decked out in her color for the day, sometimes she wears a print, sometimes her look is more subdued. It all depends on the day, but what I have noticed and relied on as a constant of her unpredictability is that every Thursday, she always wears green and reminds me, we make the money on Thursdays. I now wear green too, and I work my hardest on Thursdays. How the hell did that happen? More than that . . . how did I not know how unproductive my Thursdays had actually been?

We’ve established an easy routine: she greets me, quickly talking about anything important that I need to be advised of for the day, I hand her a list of tasks, and she tells me which healthy breakfast she prepared for me that morning. It’s completely ridiculous that I still write up the list because, yes, I know how Dropbox works—but it’s now our thing. I frequently roll my eyes as I’m writing the damn thing, because she knows what’s on it before I even give it to her. She’s that good. But her smile . . . as I hand her the list each day, there’s a certain cheeky grin that appears, and it only appears when she gets the list.

We’re a smooth unit, working harmoniously together and it’s terrifying how much I truly rely on her now. Not just her extremely hard work ethic, but I rely on seeing her cheerful eyes when I step off the elevator. I rely on her flowery scent to fill the office with brightness in the morning, and I rely on her quick-witted, one-liners, and droll comebacks to make me feel whole.

In a matter of weeks, she’s become indispensable to me.

“Sure thing,” Charlee says into the phone and then quickly strides into my office, wearing a green dress that fits snug against her curves, flairs at her hips, and looks far too good for the workplace. “What’s up?” She takes a seat and props her green pen against her notebook, a notebook that she already needs to replace soon because she’s on the last few pages.

“I have a new project for you,” I say, calmly.

“Oh fun. Okay. Does it have anything to do with the new kale smoothie I made you? I know it was a risk adding the chia seeds without your knowledge but they are really good for you.”

It was a risk, but they were good. I enjoyed the new addition.

“Nothing like that.” I steeple my fingers together on my desk “This is a new responsibility, a big project actually, one that you’ll be taking the lead and working with the art department on.”

“Really?” She shifts in her chair, perking up, pen poised. “I’m intrigued, what is it?”

“As you know, I had a meeting with the management staff two days ago. In the meeting we discussed the overall organization through the different departments and the efficiency that everyday tasks were being accomplished. I explained to them the process we have up here on the eighty-eighth floor and how well organized and efficient you are.”

She fluffs her hair. “Do tell me more.”

When she does shit like that, cute shit like that, it makes me want to do dirty things to her to counteract the cuteness. And that’s something I’ve become quite aware of, a feeling I’ve been earnestly tamping down.

Keeping my voice still, I say, “I told them you have insightful ideas when it comes to organization, and I’d like to see those ideas on paper.”

“Okay, so you want me to do a PowerPoint presentation or something?”

I shake my head. “No, I want you to develop a task planner for the senior assistants to use to increase their day-to-day efficiency. I want you to work with the art department and create something inspiring, unique, something that will . . . move employees to work harder. Not that we’re having productivity issues, but I get the feeling that you’re not the only assistant who prefers using pen and paper over technology. I’d always believed it would slow an assistant down, but it doesn’t. Not for you anyway, and I wondered if there were other assistants who’d work more efficiently with your system. My guess is the art department would consider physical planners and online planners to run through our internal network.” She’s silent. Completely silent. I blink. Uhh. “Charlee?”

Her jaw falls open. Shock hitting her first, followed by a vast array of emotions as her eyes well up with tears. “You’re kidding, right? This is a prank.” She looks around my office. “Is Ashton Kutcher going to laugh in my face while wearing a trucker’s hat any minute now?”

“This isn’t a prank. I don’t joke about projects.” I keep a steely façade. “This is very much serious and I hope you take it that way. I want a companywide planner developed for all departments and you’re at the helm of the product design.”

“Oh . . . my . . . God.” She waves her hand in front of her face and sucks in a deep breath. “Rath, I don’t think you know how magical this is for me.”

I shuffle some papers around, feeling uncomfortable from her overwhelmed reaction. I know it’s a big deal for her and that she’s grateful, but receiving thanks is not easy for me.

“Just make sure you do a good job,” I say, feeling stiff and awkward.

Get it together, man.

“Of course, I’ll do a good job. I’ll do an exceptional job because you gave me such a wonderful opportunity. And don’t worry, I won’t let this distract me from my everyday tasks with you.”

“I know it won’t, because you’re good at prioritizing. I’d like to see a prototype next week.”

“Yes, of course. Eeep.” She claps her hands and bounces in her chair. I divert my eyes away from her bouncing chest. Christ, when did I become such a pervert with this woman? “I want to give you a hug . . . badly, I’m a hugger, but I know we don’t do that.” She clenches her fists together. “Just envision me hugging you.”

I can envision it all right and that’s the problem. I can envision her pert tits pressed against my rock-hard chest. I can envision the way her head fits right under my chin, or the way my hand casually rolls down her back until it hits the swell of her ass.

I can envision way too much, and that’s why I’m staying on this side of my desk and not giving in to temptation.

“Yes, well. Why don’t you go get started? I’ll send you an email with the two people you’ll be working with. Renita would also like to be involved. She’s keen to get started.”

“Renita is lovely. I’d enjoy working with her. Before I go, is there anything else you need? Food, a drink . . . a pastry?”

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

She nods and stands but before she goes, she clutches her notebook to her chest and she says, “I want you to know how much this truly means to me, Rath, that you’re giving me this chance and putting trust in me to make something special for the company. It means the world to me.”

She doesn’t have to tell me, I can see it written all over her face, and it fills an empty hole in my heart, seeing the joy she’s getting out of something I’m giving her.

“Don’t let me down,” is all I say as she walks away. Once the door is shut, I lean back in my chair and let out a long breath of air.

And then smile.

I smile like a goddamn fool.