“Thanks for that,” I reply, thumbing through the stack of client files that have somehow tripled behind my desk.
She doesn’t respond, and even with my back turned, I can practically see her staring expectantly at me, just like she has every time she finishes a task before I’m ready for her to. So far I’ve chosen to ignore her, make her say something before giving her something else to do.
I’ve run out of small, meaningless tasks to give her, and when it comes to throwing real work her way? Well, let’s just say I’m not sure I’m ready to do that yet.
After a couple more minutes of silence, she clears her throat, absentmindedly tapping her pen on the pad of paper next to her laptop.
I slowly turn from my paperwork, making a point to meet her gaze. “Yes?”
“Well, I was just wondering, when are you going to let me do something real?”
“Something real?”
“Everything you’ve had me do so far is grunt work. The kind of thing you have some airhead intern do. I don’t know what my brother told you, but I graduated summa cum laude, so I’m sure I can handle something more substantial than data entry, alphabetizing folders, and in-box organizing.”
When I finally look up from the stack of papers in my hands, I’m surprised by how stern and direct her gaze is. For someone on the third day of a crappy summer job, she’s really not fucking around.
“Plus,” she says, sitting up straighter in her seat, “I should know how to run the office when you’re not here. For, you know, when you’re out meeting with clients.” She gives me a double wink. The little brat.
I don’t bother pointing out that I’m not currently seeing any clients because that would only prompt her to ask why. I shudder, remembering our game of fifty questions from her first day. She’s a nosy little thing without many boundaries, or personal filters, apparently. And I’m certainly not ready to tell anyone, least of all her, that I can’t get my joystick to function properly.
“All right, fine. You can take over these new client files. Don’t forget to attach the disclaimers and the privacy agreements. The last thing we need is a publicity shitstorm just because the new hire isn’t familiar with the rules of the trade.”
Sienna nods and flashes me a smile, but I can tell it’s forced. If this job has taught me one thing, it’s how to tell when a woman’s faking it. And that smile was fake as fuck.
It’s week fucking one. What does she want from me? Christ.
I drop the new client files on her desk, leaning on the back of her chair and arching a concerned brow. “Look, I’m sure you can handle it. I just don’t want to give you more than you can manage to start out. New jobs can be hard enough, and what we do here is so unorthodox, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were . . . distracted.”
Her eyes grow wide for a moment, a look of horror and disgust quickly taking them over. “If you think I’m going to drool all over you like one of your little groupies, let me assure you, that won’t be a problem.”
I shrug and cross my arms, stepping back to lean one hip against my desk. I’m about to point out that she couldn’t afford a ride on this love stick, but then I remember she said Ryder’s a trust-fund kid. Which means she is too. She could probably afford multiple rides on this love stick.
That realization should annoy me, but it doesn’t. A familiar ache in my gut throws me off my game for a second, and I notice that Sienna’s chest is heaving with frustration. Seeing her so hot and bothered only makes me want to push her further.
“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t blame you if working here made it hard to focus.”
She sits up straighter and crosses her arms, the upper curves of her breasts just barely peeking out of the neckline of her blouse.
The ache in my gut grows stronger. What the hell is wrong with me?
“I don’t need to pay for sex,” she says quickly, “if that’s what you’re implying.”
“If that’s what you think this profession is about, you might as well be some airhead intern.”
Sienna scoffs. “Oh, like what you guys do here is so noble.”
“You don’t think a woman prioritizing her own pleasure and happiness isn’t a worthwhile pursuit?”
“Not when it’s exploited for monetary gain,” she snaps, seemingly pleased with herself.
“Ask any of our clients about their experiences with us, and I assure you, ‘exploited’ is the last word they would use to describe it. Come to think of it, we have the paperwork to prove it. Let’s add filing client-satisfaction forms to your to-do list.”
She pauses, a pretty blush creeping over her cheeks and chest.
On a roll now, I take a breath and continue. “I’m sure you’re professional enough to handle reading all about how pleased your brother’s clients were to take a ride on his . . .”
She holds up both hands. “All right. I, uh, better get to work, then.” Grabbing the files I dropped on her desk, she quickly opens the first one and scans the page, the blush lingering on her rosy cheeks.
I return to my desk, feeling satisfied that I won that round. As I sit down, a new email comes in, arriving directly into the EVERYTHING ELSE folder Sienna set up for me. It’s Charlie, reminding me for the twenty-seventh time that my deadline for the book is quickly approaching.
“Fuck,” I mutter quietly, but clearly not quietly enough.
Sienna nervously raises her head, chewing on her lower lip with her brows knit together. “Did I do something wrong with your email?”
“No, it’s not that. My agent, Charlie, has just been all over me lately about this book deal.”
Her brows wing upward. “You’re writing a book?”
“Supposed to be. The finished manuscript is due in four weeks, and I’ve got nothing. Well, not nothing. But I don’t have much.”
“Why don’t you ask them to extend the deadline? Or just back out? I’ve seen your finances, and it looks like you’re doing fine.”
“Can’t. Already spent the advance.”
“How responsible of you.” She rolls her eyes.
Jesus. This girl. She doesn’t cut me one ounce of slack.
“On my mom.”
Sienna must really think I’m an idiot who can’t handle his money. At her puzzled expression, I explain.
“I’m trying to move her closer to me, and I already put a down payment on her new place.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize . . .”
“Don’t be.”
I’m about to turn and put my back to her again so I don’t have to feel like I’ve been sucker punched every time I look at her, but I’m struck with an idea. My mouth starts moving before my brain has processed what I’m about to say.
“Actually, maybe you could help me with the manuscript. Ryder said you were good with this kind of stuff.”
Sienna side-eyes me. “I stopped writing essays for other people in, like, the eleventh grade.”
“No, I don’t need that. I know what I want to say. Maybe you could read some of it, point out where it’s lacking, help me create a writing schedule so I can stay on track, things like that.”