Cold.
Blunt.
Uncompromising.
A total asshole.
He was as handsome in real life as he was in his picture on the cover of Forbes or any of the other publicity shots I’d clicked through as I stalked him during my MBA at Berkeley. One morning, I’d arrived super early, seen him in his running gear—sweaty, panting, Lycra clad. Thighs so strong they looked as if they might be made of marble. Broad shoulders; a strong Roman nose; dark-brown, glossy hair—the kind wasted on a man—and a year-round tan that screamed, I vacation four times a year. In the office he wore custom suits. Handmade suits fell a particular way on the shoulders that I recognized from the few meetings I’d had with my father. His face and body lived up to every expectation I’d had. Working with him, not so much.
I hadn’t expected him to be such a tyrant.
Each morning, as he swooped through the throng of open-plan desks to his office, he never so much as greeted any of us with a good morning. He regularly yelled into his phone so loud he could be heard from the elevator lobby. And last Tuesday? When I’d passed him in the office and smiled at him, the veins in his neck began to bulge and he looked as if he was going to reach out and choke me.
I smoothed my palms down the fabric of my Zara skirt. Perhaps I irritated him because I wasn’t as sleek as the other women in the office. I didn’t dress in the regulation Prada. Did I look as though I didn’t care? I just couldn’t afford anything better at the moment.
As the most junior member of the team, I was at the bottom of the pecking order. Which meant I knew Mr. King’s sandwich order, how to untangle the photocopier, and I had every courier company on speed dial. But that was to be expected and I was just happy because I got to work with the guy I’d looked up to and admired for years.
And here he was, shaking his head and wielding a pen with the reddest ink I’d ever seen. With each circle, crisscross, and exaggerated question mark he made, I seemed to shrink.
“Where are your references?” he asked without looking up.
References? When I looked at the other reports we produced, they never had the sources in the report. “I have them back at my desk—”
“Did you speak to Donny?”
“I’m waiting to hear back from him.” He looked up and I tried not to wince. I’d put in two calls to Max’s contact at the World Trade Organization, but I couldn’t make the guy talk to me.
He shook his head and grabbed his phone and dialed. “Hey, hotshot,” he said. “I need to understand the position on Everything But Arms. I heard your guys are putting pressure on the EU?” Max didn’t put the phone on speaker, so I watched as he scribbled notes over my paper. “It would really help for this thing I’m doing about Bangladesh.” Max grinned, looked up briefly, caught my eye, and looked away as if just the sight of me irritated him. Great.
Max hung up.
“I put in two calls—”
“Results, not effort, get rewarded,” he said in a clipped tone.
So he gave no credit for trying? What could I have done other than turn up at the guy’s place of business? I wasn’t Max King. Why would someone at the WTO take a call from a barely paid researcher?
Jesus, couldn’t he give a girl a break?
Before I had a chance to respond, his cell vibrated on his desk.
“Amanda?” he barked into the phone. Jesus. This was a small office, so I knew Amanda didn’t work at King & Associates. I got an odd sense of satisfaction he wasn’t just sharp with me. I didn’t see him interact much with others, but somehow his attitude toward me felt personal. But it sounded as if Amanda got the same brusque treatment I did. “We’re not having this discussion again. I said no.” Girlfriend? Page Six had never had any reports of Max dating. But he had to be. A man built like that, asshole or not, wasn’t going without. It sounded as though Amanda had the honor of putting up with him outside office hours.
Hanging up, he slung his phone against the desk, watching as it skidded across the glass and came to rest against his laptop. Continuing to read, he rubbed his long, tan fingers over his forehead as if Amanda had given him a headache. I didn’t think my report was helping much.
“Typos are not acceptable, Ms. Jayne. There’s no excuse for being anything less than exceptional when it comes to something that only requires effort.” He closed my report, sat back in his chair, and fixed his stare on me. “Attention to detail doesn’t require ingenuity, creativity, or lateral thinking. If you can’t get the basics right, why should I trust you with anything more complicated?”
Typos? I’d read through that report a thousand times.
He steepled his fingers in front of him. “Revise in accordance with my notes and don’t bring it back to me until it’s typo free. I’ll fine you for every mistake I find.”
Fine me? I wanted to fire back that if I could fine him every time he was a penis, I’d retire inside of three months. Asshole.
Slowly, I reached for my report, wondering if he had anything else to add, any words of encouragement or thanks.
But no. I took the stack of papers and headed to the door.
“Oh, and Ms. Jayne?”
This is it. He’s going to leave me some morsel of dignity. I turned to him, holding my breath.
“Pastrami on rye, no pickle.”
I stood glued to the spot, breathing through the sucker punch to the gut.
What. A. Douche.
“For my lunch,” he added, clearly not understanding why I hadn’t left already.
I nodded and opened the door. If I didn’t leave right now, I might just throw myself across his desk and pull out all his perfect hair.
As I closed the door, Donna, Max’s assistant, asked, “How did it go?”
I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know how you do it, working for him. He’s so . . .” I started to flick through the report, looking for the typos he’d referred to.
Donna rolled her chair away from her desk and stood. “His bark is worse than his bite. Are you off to the deli?”
“Yeah. Pastrami today.”
Donna pulled on her jacket. “I’ll walk with you. I need a break.” She grabbed her wallet and we made our way out into downtown New York. Of course, Max didn’t like any of the sandwich shops near the office. Instead we had to head five blocks northeast to Joey’s Café. At least it was sunny, and too early in the year for the humidity to make a trip to the deli feel like a midday hike along the streets of Calcutta.
“Hey, Donna. Hey, Harper,” Joey, the owner, called as we entered through the glass door. The deli was exactly the opposite of the type of place where I’d expect Max to order his lunch. It was very clearly a family-owned place that hadn’t seen a remodeling since the Beatles were together. In here there was nothing of the slick, modern, ruthless persona that made up Max King.
“How’s the bossman?” Joey asked.
“Oh, you know,” Donna said. “Working too hard, as usual. What was his order, Harper?”
“Pastrami on rye. Extra pickle.” Nothing like passive-aggressive revenge.
Joey raised his eyebrows. “Extra pickle?” Jesus, of course Joey knew Max’s preferences.
“Okay.” I winced. “No pickle.”