Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
I’m starting to get why so many people quit this job. If I didn’t have to cover both my expenses and my parents, I’d be gone in a flash.
“What? No smart-ass comeback this time? You’re a quick study, Miss Bristol, and I like it. I’ve sent a new project list, also. You’ll need to go through it the same way you did yesterday’s assignment. Once you’re done with that, you can start making courtesy calls to clients who haven’t rebooked and let them know you’re offering them the chance before our calendar fills up.” He runs a hand through his sandy mane of hair.
“Okay. I’m on it.” I have to physically bite my tongue to restrain said smart-ass comeback.
“After that, there’s plenty of filing to keep you busy. Old records on paper as well as our digital system which desperately needs some TLC. Remember to answer my emails along the way. Finally, you’ll be happy to know there’s something else right up your alley...”
He leaves me in suspense.
“What?” I ask. What now?
“We have a meeting with a large pet brand at one o’clock this afternoon you’re expected at. You won’t be doing any talking, but I will need you to record what’s going on. Having a record makes it easier to keep everyone on the same page. Are you going to remember all of this?”
I nod, biting my tongue extra hard. “I’ll write it down as soon as I get to my desk.”
“Next time I call you to my office, bring a pen and paper, or have a notepad app ready. If you need supplies, ask Ruby. I’ll see you this afternoon. Don’t be late again.”
“Again?” I echo, unable to smother the edge in my voice.
He smiles like he’s caught me and he enjoys it. Prick.
“You weren’t here at five. Don’t pretend you were.”
“How would you know? You weren’t even here when I got in. Don’t pretend.” I fling his own words at him with a cheesy smile.
“Oh, I was here before four. I had a meeting with the creative team lead at five. I’m sure you remember Hugo from the park?”
Damn.
Busted.
Also, knowing he was here earlier than anyone else makes me hate him a sliver less. I can’t be angry at a supervisor who holds himself to the same expectations—even if those expectations are Joe Stalin worthy. “I won’t be late.”
“Good.”
He goes back to his desk, and I start for the door. Thank God.
“Wait, Miss Bristol,” he calls. I cringe. “One more thing I forgot.”
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
Ugh. Does he just want me taking extra steps? I head back to his desk.
He pulls a drawer open and hands me a black card.
“Armstrong said you needed this.”
My face warms. It was one thing for Armstrong to know my desperation, but it bothers me that Heron knows it, too. Not that I’m turning down a chance to use company credit for whatever insane snipe hunt he sends me on next.
“Thank you,” I say, trying hard to be sincere.
And then, before I realize what I’ve done, I curtsy again.
6
Bad Art Project (Magnus)
It’s almost time for the meeting with Woof Meow Chow, so I voice dictate the email I’m working on, press send, close my laptop, and grab my briefcase.
I have to say, things are better.
Before Sabrina Bristol, I couldn’t hold down an assistant to save my life, and the last girl wasn’t nearly as good as her first impression seemed. Finishing everything I dumped on her last night should’ve been impossible.
Somehow, she managed.
For the first time in over a month, my inbox isn’t overflowing. It’s like standing up from a weight machine after an hour at work, taking a deep breath with two hundred pounds of raw power still hanging over your head.
Miss Bristol is air. Room to breathe. And she’s whatever the hell else a man should say about a beautiful woman who does her job while looking like Venus incarnate.
When I arrive at the conference room, the entire C-level team is already there, including my new assistant. The dress she’s wearing today hugs her body the same way the sweater dress did the day I met her in an explosion of cinnamon rage.
But this is no sweater.
The creamy skin of her shoulder rests on either side of her delicate black dress straps.
Is it as soft as it looks?
Her face is expressive, this whirlwind of emotion and bright-eyed gumption.
I can always read her real thoughts in those big brown eyes, and I like it.
A grin spreads across my face. I wonder what her face would show if I ever traced my finger along the edge of the black fabric from the shoulder strap, diving right where it swoops above her cleavage.
Fuck.
Not thoughts I ought to be having about my new EA.
Not fantasies I should ever let myself have about any EA, especially this one.