Coldhearted Boss(36)

“Right. Okay.” I match his no-nonsense tone. “Let’s focus on work. I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I’d like to learn more about the construction side of things.”

I’m not even sucking up right now. It’s the truth. Yesterday, Robert barely skimmed the surface. I want to be useful, want to know what’s going on. I’d like to see a blueprint and have some inkling of what it is I’m looking at. Is that a bathroom or an elevator? No idea.

“Not on this project.”

His rejection stings, but I move along. It’s called picking your battles, and it’s how I’m going to win this war.

“Okay, no problem. Why don’t you just give me a list of tasks you’d like me to complete today and I’ll get to work.”

“First, I want you out of my hair.”

I stop walking. He continues, then realizes I’m not beside him.

He turns back to find me.

“How’s this?” I ask, half shouting.

His eyes squeeze closed and he tilts his head to the sky, praying for patience.

Laugh, dammit!

He regains his composure and shakes his head. “I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t have enough work for a personal assistant.”

Crap. I thought he was just saying that in the heat of the moment as a way to get me to quit. I have a mini panic attack. He can’t fire me. He needs me. No, I need him. I need this job!

“But you’re the boss,” I point out, dumbly. “You’re a busy guy. Busy guys need assistants.”

He arches a brow.

“I did your laundry.” I’m desperately trying to prove my usefulness.

“Yes, and look how well that turned out.”

Point taken.

“What did you think of your cabin last night?” I goad. “Spotless, right?”

“Our cabin.”

“What?”

He looks away. Sips his coffee. “It was fine. I liked how you arranged my toothbrush and toothpaste.”

Of course he did because he’s a neurotic control freak. It’s probably the reason he makes a good manager on building projects like this.

“Okay, well, that just goes to show that maybe there are things I could do to help you around here, but you don’t have time to micromanage me. So, here’s the solution: I’ll come up with ways to be useful, and I’ll try hard not to pester you while I do it.”

“You’re pestering me right now.”

I nearly smile, because I swear he’s teasing me—I mean, no one is this rude—but his beautifully arrogant mask doesn’t crack even a bit.

This guy.

I swear.

“Noted. No more pestering.” I start walking backward and he stands there, watching me. Then I throw up a salute, turn, and head in the direction of the mess hall so I can start brainstorming ways to be useful.





Chapter 15





Ethan





An hour after we part ways, Taylor walks into the trailer while I’m on a conference call with my partners and, without saying a word, she picks up the coffee cup on my desk and replaces it with a new one, its contents still steaming. Then she reaches for the trashcan under my desk and carries it outside. A few minutes later, she replaces it, empty.

I sit there, watching her as Grant drones on about one thing or another. He likes the sound of his own voice, which is why these calls always take thirty minutes longer than they should.

Taylor walks over to the desk Robert and Hudson share and tidies it up, wiping away dust before carrying their trashcan out to be emptied as well.

When she comes back inside, she moves quickly and quietly, keeping her gaze on the ground. It’s like she’s trying to blend in with the wall, which is absolutely impossible for someone like her.

Most of the time she wears her hair up in a ponytail, hidden. Today, it’s down and longer than I thought it’d be. Not Amish-girl-wearing-a-denim-dress long, but long enough that it catches my attention. It’s pretty. Pretty! Jesus. It’s brown, but to call it that would be like calling a tree plain ol’ green. There are other colors in there too, chestnut and honey, and right then, she glances over her shoulder, apparently aware of the attention I’m paying her.

I look up at the ceiling and recline in my chair.

“Grant, can you wrap this up?” Steven says, making me chuckle under my breath. “This could have been condensed into a two-sentence email.”

“You guys never read my emails!” he argues.

It’s the truth, but he only has himself to blame for that. Too many forwarded memes means he basically has to mark something URGENTLY URGENT in all caps before any of us bother.

Grant rushes to finish his rambling diatribe about nothing all that important and my gaze skates right back to Taylor as she finishes tidying up the other desk.

In jeans and her work boots, she shouldn’t be all that noteworthy. I’ve never heard a guy beg to see his girlfriend in a pair of boots versus a sky-high pair of heels, but maybe I’ve been stuck in the middle of the woods for too long because Taylor in a simple outfit of boots and a t-shirt has me nearly enraptured. The shirt pulls a little too tight over her chest. Her jeans are too big on her, but that just means they hang loose on her small waist, allowing a sliver of skin to show when she leans over. She tugs them back up and puffs a piece of hair away from her face as she surveys the space. Short of bringing in a vacuum and mop, she’s done all she can. She smiles to herself and then leaves.