Dirty Rumor: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(57)

Sandra's office suite is at the far end of the building. I hang a right around the meeting rooms. My heart beats harder as I approach the double glass doors that lead into her office. It hasn't happened recently, but when I was first starting out at Basiqué, there were a couple of occasions where she got here before me.

Disaster.

I pull open the door and the quality of the air, the silence of it, tells me she's not here.

Relief trickles down my spine, but the feeling only lasts a hot second before it's replaced by an adrenaline-fueled focus. I do this job at a high goddamn level, so high that I've outlasted ten other assistants over the past year. Sandra usually has two, but the last girls have been so ineffective—so easily broken by the job—that right now there's just me.

I prefer it that way. The more control I have over Sandra's schedule and everything else that comes across my desk, the less chance of error. She hates errors, so I hate errors.

Stowing my bag in the closet behind my desk, I turn to survey the office. Sandra's desk is beyond another set of doors, usually left open. The morning light coming through the picture window behind her desk bathes everything in a warm summer glow.

Outside the doors is a pair of desks facing one another. I have the larger one, and though the smaller one sits empty, I dust it off every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Sandra never notices. If she did, there would be a problem.

First things first. I gather Sandra's daily magazines and stack them on her desk in her preferred order, and then I call down to the coffee shop on the ground floor. She likes her coffee black and at a drinkable temperature, which I've found is best achieved by adding exactly one ice cube to a fresh cup. Manuel, the guy who works the morning shift, is one of my favorite people. He knows this shit is no laughing matter and never lets me down.

"Hey, Cate," he says, the noise of the espresso grinder loud behind him. "The usual?"

I drink skinny lattes, extra hot. I used to get them flavored, but about four months ago I woke up one morning completely unable to stand the sickly aftertaste of the vanilla flavoring. Same goes for chocolate. I've always loved sweets, but who has time to dwell on that kind of thing? Tastes change. The most important part is the caffeine. Obviously.

Since it's Monday, I pull out the feather duster and run it over Sandra's modern glass desk and computer screen, paying special attention to the keyboard, and then I do the same for my desk and the empty one. Manuel will be up shortly with the coffees, which leaves me forty minutes to start working through my email and confirming appointments for the day. It doesn't matter that Sandra might cancel them all the moment she walks through the door. God help me if they're not confirmed, double-checked, in advance.

My computer starts up with the softest whisper. It's sleek, top-of-the-line, and syncing capabilities that keep everything—my phone, the tablet I carry when I accompany Sandra to shoots and other events, and all the information stored on the computer—in line.

Email is light for a Monday, so it only takes a few minutes to fire off replies. I decline two interviews on Sandra's behalf—they're from publications she's explicitly told me she will never entertain—and answer three queries from editorial and a couple more from different photographers on Basiqué’s staff.

I'm just setting down the phone from the final confirmation call when an alert pops up on my desktop. Manuel is here with the coffee, waiting outside the double doors.

I take the drink carrier from him and hand over five dollars for a tip.

"You got any plans for tomorrow?" he asks.

I look at him, my forehead wrinkling. "Is there something special about tomorrow?"

His eyes go wide. "The Fourth of July! Only the biggest party holiday of the month. Don't tell me you're spending it in the office!”

I hadn't thought about it.

I open my mouth to answer but from the corner of my eye I see a flurry down the hall, people rushing to get to their desks.

Sandra is here.





Chapter 2

Cate





"Thanks so much, Manuel!" I say, my heart already thrumming in my chest. I only just catch the look he gives me as I spin around and head back into the office. It's a look that wonders why I care so much that my boss is in the building. But I have no time for Manuel and his looks now. The coffee has to go on Sandra’s desk and I need to be at the door in thirty seconds at the most.

In three strides I'm at my desk, putting my coffee back behind my computer monitor, and it's another step to the closet, where I tuck the drink carrier into a recycling bin that looks like a high-end laundry hamper. Sandra didn't want a plastic bin in the closet, even though she has a separate one behind the second desk for her coats, so I spent a Saturday finding the perfect alternative.

There's a full-length mirror on the wall next to the double doors, and I take a moment to make sure that my appearance is on the sharpest point imaginable. My ensemble today is Chanel. I picked it up from the dry cleaner on Friday, along with the other pieces that will hopefully get me though this week, as long as I don't have any food catastrophes. That should be easily avoidable. Lunch breaks are an unnecessary distraction.

My hair is piled on top of my head, impeccably dried and arranged in the messy, carefree look that actually takes an hour to achieve. The only thing I need to touch up is my lipstick. It's my signature shade—Rouge D’Armani, No. 103—and I keep a tube of it in my desk at all times. I swipe it on, the movement expert.