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“Mr. Thornton was here,” she says, her eyes wild, and I freeze.
“What did he want?”
“He left a couple of files with me. I put them on your desk. And there was a note.”
When I open the door to my office, I blink.
It’s not a couple of files.
That’s a goddamn mountain!
After I push my coffee cup into Hanna’s hands, I cover the distance between me and the desk to read the note.
The first thing that crosses my mind is the man has elegant handwriting.
The second thing, as my eyes move over the words, is that I will kill him.
I crumple the note in my hand. Ignoring my spluttering assistant, I march toward the elevator. People jump out of my way, obviously able to tell I’m on a warpath.
Five minutes later, I’m exiting the eleventh floor and striding into the familiar fancy room that is supposed to serve as the office of the CEO’s personal assistant, but it’s empty. When Caleb took over, he told me not to hire him a personal assistant. Not yet.
I continue toward the blurred glass door with Thornton’s name on it. I’ve had plenty of conversations with Crawford in there.
I don’t bother knocking, still driven by fury.
When I open the door, I see a tall man with broad shoulders. His back to me, he faces the floor-to-ceiling windows, a cell phone to his ear. He glances over his shoulder, his body stiffening at the intrusion. I wave the crumpled-up note in the air, giving my identity away.
He raises a brow before facing forward and returning to the conversation.
Offended at being so blatantly ignored, I resolutely shove away the insult. Crossing my arms, I balefully stare at his back.
His accent is crisp, one that would have any woman wet after just a few words, and I hate that I like it. There’s an authority to his tone, one of a man who is not accustomed to hearing the word ‘no’.
My lips tighten.
He’ll be hearing it from me soon enough.
Averting my eyes from where his pants perfectly cup his backside, which looks very biteable, I scan the office, taking in the changes he made.
The coffee table is scattered with papers, unfinished takeout on one side. His suit jacket has been tossed over the arm of couch. In a corner of the room, a trench coat hangs on a coat rack. I blink at a damp towel dangling from a hook beside it, wondering what it’s for, before I feel the shift in the room. I snap my attention back to the man who has pivoted to face me.
“Miss Hill, I presume?” he says in that stupid accent that makes me want to grind my teeth. “How may I help you?”
I march over to his desk, then slam the note on the wooden surface, eyeing him frostily, “You can start by explaining what the hell this is.”
His hands are tucked in his pockets, his grey waistcoat defining his trim shape, as he gives me an inscrutable look. “It seems pretty straightforward.”
I scowl. “You can’t fire twenty people at once with no just cause!”
He watches me like a hawk, his blue eyes cold. “I can do whatever I like, if I think it’s in the best interests of this company.”
“You don’t even know these people!” I’m trying not to raise my voice, to not to sound like the hysterical woman my brothers often like to say I am.
“I know their salaries don’t match their output,” Oliver calmly Thornton says. “And I know all are receiving unnecessary perks that shouldn’t be parts of their jobs.”
“You’ve been here for two weeks. How on earth would you even know that?” I hiss.
His gaze sharpens. “Just like I know you happen to work overtime four out of five days a week… by going through your work record and your personal files.”
