Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Crossing one leg over the other I pull in a breath while I study him. Sven is gorgeous in a way that is completely unfair to the rest of the men on Earth. He’s tall enough that I could wear my six-inch heels and he would still tower over me. His body is lean, with just the right amount of muscle. His dark blond hair is overgrown on top and little shorter on the sides, giving him an unkempt, sexy look. His eyes are a startling blue that look green when he’s angry, and the long, dark lashes that surround them make them appear that much more enticing.
His nose is straight, his cheekbones are high, and his lips are full and are surrounded by a five o’clock shadow that takes his hotness up a few notches. He looks like he could be on the cover of GQ—hell, for all I know, he has been on the cover. The few nights I sat down at the bar, I heard women talk about him, and from what I gathered most of the female population of Vegas knows who he is. I swear every single leggy blonde, redhead, and brunette knew exactly who he was by name, and judging by the way they spoke about him, they probably screamed it a few times.
“Nice of you to show up, Mags,” he says, pulling me out of my perusal and setting his phone on top of the desk. Sitting up a little taller, I narrow my eyes and watch as he walks around the desk toward me, unbuttoning his suit jacket and taking a seat on top of the wooden surface, leaning a little closer than necessary.
“You said be here at five it’s five.” I hold up my hand when it looks like he’s going to say something else. “And we need to discuss my salary,” I state, uncrossing my legs then re-crossing them in the other direction, ignoring the way his eyes watch the movement and change color.
“Salary?” He frowns, and I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips at the confusion on his face.
“Yes, my salary. I mean, you didn’t actually think I was going to come work for you for free, did you?” I ask, raising my brow.
“Of course not. I’ll start you off at thirty-five thousand—”
“Yeah, that’s not going to work for me. At my old job, the one I just quit to come work for you, I made one hundred and seventy-five thousand a year, with four weeks paid vacation and one week sick pay,” I say, cutting him off. I actually make much more than that modeling, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Where the hell did you work?” he growls, making my girly parts tingle.
Ignoring my body’s reaction to him, I wave my hand around in front of me and continue, “That doesn’t matter now, so since I’m just starting out here, I’ll take one hundred and fifty thousand, but I want the same for paid days off, including sick days.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, what the fuck was I thinking?” he asks, tilting his head back and looking toward the ceiling for an answer to his question.
“You’re thinking you just got yourself the best assistant money can buy,” I retort then press my lips together to keep from smiling at the look of gloom on his face when his eyes meet mine.
Running his hand through his hair, his eyes scan me over and he shakes his head. “Fine, but you’re at my beck and call. That means twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, if I call, you come running.”
“I don’t work weekends.” I smirk then wonder why the hell I love fighting with him so much.
His eyes study me for a long time, so long that I fight the urge to squirm in my seat. “Fine, but five days a week, you’re mine twenty-four seven.”
“Sure.” I shrug, knowing he has no idea what he’s in for. “So what do you want me to do today?” I ask looking around his office, noticing it’s tidy. The top of his desk is clean with his top of the line computer and a neat stack of papers. The upper and lower cabinets to the right of his desk with a counter between are bare, only a crystal decanter that is half full of dark liquid and two glasses sitting on top. The leather couch behind me with the round, rustic wooden coffee table is clean with a stack of books on top, which I’m certain no one has ever read and is there just for show.
Everything seems to have a specific spot, but there is nothing overly personal in the space. Not a single picture of family or friends, no mementos of places he’s gone. It looks like a magazine ad for a man’s office. The little devil, who has taken up a place on my shoulder since meeting Sven, is begging me to move stuff around just to see what will happen if I do, while the angel on the other side is shaking her head in disapproval.