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SEVEN
Elliot
Day two.
It’s the second day having a Sports Illustrated model as my fucking assistant.
As soon as I left the office yesterday, I went straight to the bar and drank until they closed down and kicked me out. I’m surprised I got my ass out of bed this morning. I can’t remember the last time I drank that much, and I drinka lot.
Not only is Roxanne drop-dead gorgeous, which pisses me the hell off, but she’s stubborn as a mule.
Just like you, I think to myself.
I don’t need an assistant that’s going to butt heads with me every day. I need someone who is going to smile, nod, and do as I say. I’ve always been a dominant person, and Roxanne is the furthest thing from submissive. It’s not often that people at this company stand up to me without blinking an eye, but she did.
And I would be lying if I said her resistance didn't turn me on a little bit.
Okay, yeah. It definitely turned me the fuck on.
But it doesn't matter that she’s hot and explosive like a little firecracker. It doesn't matter that my stomach is knotted with anticipation to see her today. For the first time in my professional career, I’m a manager. I’ve wanted this for so long, and I’m not about to fuck it up. I have to keep this professional.
I’ve worked too hard to throw everything away for a woman in stilettos with emerald eyes, freckles sprinkled across her cheeks, and hair as black as the midnight sky.
I hate to admit it, but Skylar was right. I’m not in grade school anymore. I’m a grown-ass adult with many years of experience in the banking industry. I’ve worked with a handful of beautiful women; I know how to handle myself. Self-control isn't a problem for me.
Is that what you told the bartender when you shut down the pub last night? Self-control, my ass.
“Morning,” a deep voice bellows, distracting me from my thoughts. I lift my head to find a dark head of curly hair drifting through my office door.
Zion.
He does this a couple of times a week, comes into my office just to shoot the shit for an hour or so. I keep telling him that I’m too busy to gossip like teenage girls but, as always, he never listens.
“Morning,” I grumble, trying my best to be civil.
“Look at you,” he croons, plopping down on one of the two chairs across my desk. “Face shaven and hair styled. Is the old Elliot back now that you have an assistant?”
I huff out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. Zion shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
“What?” he asks, confused. “Did she end up being a no-show?”
I fucking wish.
“Oh, she showed up,” I scoff.
Zion tilts his head and furrows his brows. “What’s the problem then?”
“You’ll know when you see her,” I mutter.
As if on cue, two soft knocks come from the cracked door. Zion swivels his body towards the door at the same time that my gaze locks onher. I can’t see Zion’s expression, but I would bet money that his jaw is hanging wide open.
Fuck.Just the sight of her knocks the air out of my lungs. I know it’s creepy and weird to stare but when she’s in the room, it feels impossible to look away. I could stare at her for eight hours without needing to blink, thinking about all the ways she couldassistme with my needs.
I snap my eyes shut and force away the forbidden visual running through my mind.
What the fuck am I thinking?Imagining my assistant on top or beneath my desk is wrong on so many levels.
God, I hate her. No one should be allowed to look this stunningly beautiful.
