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M.
CEO of HeronComm Inc.Oh. My. God.
I don’t know whether to clutch my sides at how dumb he’s being or feel touched that he admits he’d miss me if—no, when—I move the hell on from this company run by a crazy man.
Since I’m no longer worried, just amused, I change the subject line.To: Magnus Heron
From: Sabrina Bristol
Subject: Nope.Magnus,OMG. There’s literally no end to your God complex. How did you get so arrogant? Will you at least tell me that?S.
Executive Assistant to Magnus Heron, HeronComm Inc.My breath stalls in my lungs. Then my screen lights up with a shiny new email.To: Sabrina Bristol
From: Magnus Heron
Subject: RE: Nope.Miss Bristol,No. You’ll have to let your imagination run wild and love it. Just like I know you enjoy my immense confidence and off the cuff banter about big hoses.M.
CEO of HeronComm Inc.Holy crap. And here I hoped he’d forgotten that awful exchange in L.A. on my first miserable week slaving for this company.
His email sends a shiver down my spine because damn him a thousand times, he’s right.
A sick part of me enjoys this.
Ugh.
I need to end this before I get us both in trouble.To: Magnus Heron
From: Sabrina Bristol
Subject: ByeGoodnight, Mr. Heron. It’s been a long day and I’m turning in early to get ready for the send-off tomorrow.S.
Executive Assistant to Magnus Heron, HeronComm Inc.By some miracle, I catch myself and hit send before I type out, I have zero interest in dreaming about big hoses.
His reply rockets back a second later.To: Sabrina Bristol
From: Magnus Heron
Subject: RE: ByeSleep tight, Tinkerbell. Pleasant dreams of tattooed firemen wearing Santa hats.M.
CEO of HeronComm Inc.Dead. He just slayed me.
I can’t even enjoy the shameful, heated snicker that makes me blush. I just head for the shower and try to focus on Mom’s hunky firefighters.
Not Magnus Heron and his catastrophically oversized ego—or any hose he might have.* * *Finally.
It’s the last day of the conference and time feels like it’s back to moving normally. Thank God. It’s been a long few days, and I’ve never been so ready to leave a place.
We’re about to start another marketing session with speakers and panels. The room fills up with people fast. I stick with Angie and Hugo again, sitting behind Magnus when some starry-eyed seductress walks up to him.
Okay.
So, technically, I don’t actually know anything about her. She’s skinny, beautiful, and blond, dressed very professionally, not like a bimbo at all.
Still, I’m overwhelmed by the sudden urge to rip her hair out and feed it to her when she sidles up to him, planting herself right in his face. Way too close for comfort.
She grabs his lapel. “Is that an Italian coat?”
I roll my eyes, then glance from Angie to Hugo to make sure no one noticed.
“Yes, from Lombardy.” Mag’s feet turn slightly out, and he shifts so he’s a bit further from her.
“An Armani?” She doesn’t seem to notice he’s trying to get away from her. Her hand lingers on his lapel, that same wicked smile on her face.
“Canali,” he says, swatting her hand away gently.
You’d think that would do it. But this lady doesn’t fold easy. She just smiles like he hung the stars.
“It’s gorgeous. It brings out your eyes,” she whispers, pulling at her loose hair and winding it around her fingers.
“Thanks.”
He’s clearly uninterested, and I almost feel bad for her.
Now it’s just awkward for everyone involved...including me as I realize I’ve been green with jealousy.
My desire to pluck this chick’s hair out dissolves as fast as it came. I’m not sure what I was so pissed about. But I can’t help but giggle behind them.
Angie’s brows lift up and she almost chokes on the water she’s sipping from a bottle.
“Mag has a girlfriend,” I try to whisper, but the words come between giggles, so I’m not sure how loud they actually are.
I know it’s a twelve-year-old thing to say, but I can’t help it.
“Brina! He’ll rake you over the coals if he hears that,” she hisses, casting me a warning look, her eyes darting around.
Mag turns his head to glare and then swivels back to his admirer. “My team is here, miss. If you’ll excuse me, we have a discussion.”
“Oh, of course, but...do you have a card?” she asks.
“Not on me, but if you have one, I’ll take it,” he says.
She pulls a card from a binder tucked under her arm and hands it to him.
“Thank you.” He turns to face us. “Let’s all step out in the foyer.”
Once it’s just the four of us, I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to giggle.”
Mag shrugs. “Liability of hiring college kids.”
I glare at him. “I’m not a college kid and you know it.”
He shakes his head. “Garlic with a face on her Macbook, all giggles at a conference. Prove it.”
That wipes the smile right off my face.
At least now I know what kind of mood he’s in.
