My first weekat King Developers is like navigating a minefield of Noah King’s bullshit, and I’m already cursing every decision that chained me to this sleek desk outside his office. Early October’s chill creeps through the glass walls, New York’s skyline is sparkling with crisp sunlight, but in here, it’s a pressure cooker of Noah’s absurd demands and my barely contained urge to strangle him with his own tie.
I’m a very tolerant person, taught patience by two psychopaths, but he’s sure testing my limits. His smug face, those forearms flexing under rolled-up sleeves—they’re a constant reminder of the island, that almost-moment I can’t shake, and his icy shoulder after. I hate him, he hates me, but I need this job to keep my tiny apartment and what’s left over of my dignity, so I grind my teeth and play his game, hoping they’ll give me dental because this grinding sure will ruin my teeth at this rate.
On day one, he leaves the office early. As soon as I settle in. By his previous command, I’m supposed to be there when he is. So I wait and wait and wait.
After a while of waiting, then cleaning and organizing the desk and talking to a few coworkers, I receive a call from Esther who says that Noah won’t be coming back today, and she needs my help elsewhere. As long as I’m getting paid the same money, I don’t care what I need to do. Not seeing his face is a welcome bonus.
On day two,Noah storms in at seven a.m., barking orders at me without even glancing my way, only looking slightly surprised that I’m already at my desk.
“Coffee. Black. From that roaster on Atlantic Ave. Twenty minutes.”
I arch a brow, my pen pausing over my spiral notebook. “Atlantic Ave? In rush hour?” I retort dryly, leaning back in my chair. “You want me to teleport, or just sprint across the Brooklyn Bridge?”
He smirks, narrowing his eyes. “Figure it out, princess,” he drawls with a challenge. “Since you are such a qualified assistant.”
I flash a saccharine smile even though my fingers are itching to flip him off.
“Got it, your majesty,” I chirp, standing and grabbing my thrift-store jacket. I didn’t have warm clothes to take with me from the island when I left my parents in a rush, nor professional work clothes for that matter, so thrifting has become my friend—I should have thought that part through better.
I’m out the door before he can reply, dodging Manhattan’s honking chaos to hunt down his stupid artisanal coffee.
Ninety minutes later, I slam the cup on his desk, steaming and perfect, not a drop spilled. I microwaved it in the break room on the way here, so I know for a fact it’s almost boiling.
“Your highness’s coffee,” I announce, wiping the sweat from my brow. I had to run the remaining mile on my heels because the road was completely clogged. My feet are sore from the blisters, these beauties weren’t made to chase down coffee for a self-centered prick.
He gives a slow blink. “Does it have your spit in it?”
I feel my nostrils flaring. “Try it and find out.”
He takes a sip, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “It’s cold,” he says, spitting it back into the cup. I’m surprised his tongue didn’t fall off after tasting the boiling liquid.
“Next time, I’ll charter a helicopter,” I retort in a sharp voice, trying to restrain myself from lunging over the table and wrapping my hands around his throat.
On day three,he drops a folder thicker than my mattress on my desk, its thud echoing through the hallway like thunder.
“Fix this permit mess with the city,” he orders, gripping the edge of my desk and drawing my attention to his scarred knuckles for the first time. Were they like that on the island? “It was filed wrong. Again. Deadline’s today.”
I flip it open, scanning the disaster—mislabeled forms, missing signatures, a zoning code so wrong it’s laughable. It took me a quick google search on day one to get accustomed with the area where the new complex is supposed to be built. Filing for apermit can be done by a toddler. Noah is right, the old assistant was incompetent.
“I will file it. But no need to growl at me, it wasn’t my fault.”
His jaw clenches. As he leans closer, I catch the faintest scent of soap and skin and something sharp, like pine needles when you snap them between your fingers. “It was your predecessor’s,” he snaps in a low voice while his eyes glint with a hint of madness. “Means it’s yours as you sit in this chair, little mouse.”
So he does remember the island.
“Whatever you say,sir,” I reply, accentuating the last word. I noticed how his jaw ticked when I called him that the other day, and if he thinks he can call me ‘little mouse,’ raising my blood pressure, I can reciprocate.
I spend the whole day charming city officials with my honeyed voice, untangling the mess with a spreadsheet so flawless it could hang in a gallery.
By next morning, the permit’s filed, issued, and emailed to Noah with a smug “Done” in the subject line. He doesn’t reply, but I catch him glancing at my desk with an unreadable expression, either wanting to give me a raise or kill me. Most likely it’s the latter.
Martin’s a chaotic whirlwind, with his neon-green socks with tiny aliens and a grin that screams trouble, as he pops by my desk right before lunch.
“Bea, you’re surviving Noah’s warpath!” he exclaims, leaning on my desk, munching a bagel he stole from the lady in accounting. I’ve seen him get away with it, but I haven’t revealed my cards yet, saving it for when I need a favor. “I’m proud of you, girl.”
I roll my eyes, typing a client email. “Surviving? I’m just trying not to smother him with his own ego. God knows it’s bigenough to wrap around his neck many times over,” I mutter dryly, glancing at Noah’s closed office door.
Martin chuckles, crumbs flying out of his mouth. “You two are like a sitcom with switchblades,” he teases, winking. “Keep dodging his tantrums, queen. We need to finish this project, or those shares your sister sacrificed herself for won’t be enough.”
