The Billionaire Bargain #1(7)
Oh God, please let me get through this conversation without bursting into tears.
Someday it was going to be different. Someday all my hard work and sacrifices were going to pay off. Someday I was going to be the one running the show, not scrambling around like a gofer for some incompetent ass getting paid twice what I did for a quarter of the work.
“Are you even listening to me, you flaky little—”
Yeah, and someday pigs will fly.
? ? ?
It was almost noon, and I had just finished cleaning up this latest of Jacinda’s messes, while also simultaneously manning the phones. It’s a deceptively simple phrase which translated to “answering complicated technical questions, soothing people’s nerves, suggesting things in ways that could make people think they thought of it themselves, transferring calls to answering machines, and being the safe receptacle for all the anger and frustration that people wished they could take out on the people actually responsible if those people didn’t also hold their jobs in the palm of their hands, so the girl on the phone would have to do.”
What was Jacinda doing, you ask? Well, those lovely nails of hers don’t maintain themselves. She had checked herself out for an hour-long break to get a touch-up at her favorite salon. Truly, the life of an executive is a hard one. Good thing they have all those stock shares, luxury homes, and tax breaks to keep them warm at night.
I leaned back in my chair, squeezing my eyes shut for a second as I stretched the tight muscles of my arms, neck, and shoulders before relaxing into what there was of its ergonomic support. There was about as much ergonomic support in this chair as there was in a medieval rack, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Feel like grabbing lunch?”
I gave a startled yelp and almost fell out of my chair as I sat up. “Grant—Mr. Devlin—I didn’t see you there!”
A glint of amusement danced in his eyes. “It is a bit tricky to do that with your eyes closed. If you find out the secret, do let me know.” He leaned on my desk, his white linen shirt gapping open teasingly at the neck. How the hell did he manage to even lean sexily?
“Uh, yeah, right.” Trying to save face, I scrambled for a notepad and pen. “Um…lunch, you said? I’m supposed to stay at the desk, but I can call out and order you some—where do you want—or, uh, what?”
That damn smile just got wider, like he was the Cheshire Cat. “Actually, Miss Newman, that was an invitation. You have gotten those before, haven’t you?” He didn’t wait to hear my answer. “There’s a lovely new Thai place around the corner I’ve heard good things about. Care to have lunch with me?”
“Uh, what?” Why the hell was the boss asking to have lunch with me? Was this about that eye-roll last night? Or the rant I’d unleashed on him in his car? Was he going to fire me over pad thai? Shit, I should’ve known he wouldn’t let it go that easily.
But then, if he was going to fire me, why bother with lunch in the first place? There were so many things that didn’t make sense, and I took refuge in the one thing I knew for certain: “I’m supposed to man the phones while Jacinda is gone. She said.”
Grant gestured behind him. There was a pimply guy there, one of the interns. I hadn’t seen him; Grant had that effect on people, making them blend into the wallpaper by comparison. “Paul needs some more phone experience. This is a perfect opportunity.”
Uh, well, okay. If he was going to give me an out, I certainly wasn’t going to get down on my knees and beg to stay in the glorious land of Taking People’s Shit Over the Phone. Whatever he had in mind, it had to be better than what I’d been doing all morning. And if I was getting fired, it’s not like I could do anything about it anyway. Although a few possible scenarios involving Grant and myself did flit through my mind before I could stop myself.
“You’re the boss.”
He gave a wolfish smile that set my blood on fire. “Indeed I am.”
FIVE
Soooooo, apparently“this lovely new pad thaiplace” is rich people language for Rama, the hottest new restaurant in all of San Francisco, written up in all the magazines with five stars and the kind of glowing terms usually reserved for religious texts. Reservations were supposed to be harder to get than the Holy Grail.
And we were being ushered through the front door right now.
Everywhere I looked there was carved ebony and white marble, gold leaf on Doric columns, spotless white linen tablecloths draped over tables staggering with a rainbow of food—salads, noodles, soups—that could have fed an army, but were currently being used to feed people with faces straight out of Forbes, U.S.A. Today, and Entertainment Weekly. I couldn’t have been more out of place if I were a cat in a dog kennel. I mean, I wasn’t exactly dressed like a bum, but in a room full of suits and chic outfits,‘underdressed’ didn’t even begin to describe it.
Which didn’t even matter, because the second we were through the door, I might as well have been invisible. Grant had to grab me by the arm—I definitely didn’t notice the strength of his arms, or the elegance of his long fingers, or the heat of his large hands—to keep me from getting swept away by the crowd of fawning employees swamping us, asking if he would have the usual, would he like he table by the window, there was a new red wine in stock that was simply beyond compare, one of only eight bottles in the world…