I stop foot traffic again, people weaving around me.
Me:What?
Jackass QB1:I like to get in extra workouts outside our team routine. I can’t get anyone to meet me at the gym downtown where I live.
Me:Immediately no.
A frown emoji pops up.
Jackass QB1:Come on, bro. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s get all sweaty and talk about mergers and assquisitions.
I shake my head and start walking again.
Me:Go away, Ryan. And don’t call me bro.
Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I stride toward the office building, jaw set. I am not getting dragged into his games. If he’s serious about retaining the firm, he can make an appointment like everyone else.
Hoping I didn’t just blow up my career by telling “America’s Quarterback” to go away, I push through the street level doors of Bowen, Saxon & Finley.
The thought rattles around my brain for the annoyingly long elevator ride.What if he’s serious?
Stepping out the second the doors open, I make haste past the bullpen of paralegals to my office at the back of the twelfth floor.
My eyes stay glued to my phone in a practiced effort to avoid small talk. I loathe small talk. That’s why I go out for coffee. Can’t do break rooms. Would rather peel my toenails off with pliers.
Nearing the bank of offices past the bullpen, I look up and stop short for the third time this morning.
A stranger sits in the desk in front of my office. The desk my assistant Sophie was sitting at when I left to get the coffee that is now cold in my hand.
Jesus. Another one?
Why can’t I keep an assistant?
I assess this new one as I get closer.
What has HR sent me? She’s wearing a black pleather looking top, a black beret, and a slim black choker adorns her neck.
Stopping in front of the desk, I take in her black lipstick, glossy black nail polish, and eyebrow piercing.
I don’t hate it. Hell, she’d probably be the person I’d choose to talk to in a room full of strangers. She has style. Not myparticular taste, but she pays great attention to the details. It’s carefully curated. I respect that.
I just hope she can do her job.
“Who are you?” I prod, sternly.
The interesting creature stands, juts out her hand, and says, “My name is Dita. I’ll be your—”
“Assistant. I know,” I grumble.
Seemingly unaffected, she offers me a bright smile, and doesn’t hesitate her response. “Get back to your day, Mr. Stark. I will review your schedule for today and the rest of the week and slot myself in any openings you have so you can brief me on exactly how you like things done.”
I blink at her for a second before nodding and turning on my heel to step into my office. Hmm. Efficient. I like it.
“There’s just one thing, Mr. Stark,” she blurts out with a grimace.
I raise a brow.
“Ms. Clark is sitting in your office. I tried to tell her she needed an appointment.”
