“If you’re working for me, Miss Cox, you won’t have much time for anything. Get used to that.”
Well, isn’t he pleasant? Was Renita talking about the same person who’s sitting in front of me?
He’s a very nice man.
Oh yeah, very nice indeed.
No welcome.
No hey, how are you?
No first day on the job fruit basket—not that I need one, but it’s a kind gesture.
Tapping my pen on my paper, I ask, “Did you have breakfast this morning? You seem a little crabby. Low blood sugar will do that to the best of us. Want me to call down for something? You know, a good lox and bagel might do the trick. Or . . . are you a sweets kind of guy? Dare I say, a donut connoisseur?” I ask with a smile.
“Are you always this chatty?”
“Usually worse.” I pose my pen. “Now was that a donut or lox and bagel?”
Chapter Four
RATH
Pure desperation can do funny things to a person.
Like encourage them to make a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Like hire a new assistant without interviewing them, basing the hire off recommendation alone.
I’m not a complete idiot. I called Harold this morning to make sure she was credible. The jolly man went on forever about how Charlee Cox was one of the best people he knew and that I should be grateful to have her working beside me.
Right about now, I’m questioning Harold Danver’s sanity.
The girl’s chattiness is unlike anything I’ve ever heard and her candid remarks, with no filter whatsoever, are astonishing to say the least. Asking about my blood sugar, calling me crabby, she really holds nothing back. Even on her first day.
And yet, she hasn’t set up her computer, doesn’t have her iPad, and is doodling absentmindedly on her paper while I talk.
Does she even realize her pen is moving?
I want to say no by the blank stare she’s giving me.
“So . . . what will it be?” she asks. “Either way, they both have holes you can bite into. Assuming you like holes.” She shakes her pen knowingly at me. “Oh yeah, you’re a hole man.”
Jesus.
Christ.
I know she doesn’t mean it in a dirty way, the way I seem to be taking it, but I still wonder, does she understand what she’s saying?
“Not hungry.”
“That’s fine. I’ll order both. It’s on me. Think of it as a first day thanks for hiring me surprise. Let me just text my friend real quick. It will be here in less than ten minutes.” She types quickly, then pushes up her glasses and focuses back on me. “Now, I have some questions for you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” She laughs. “Because I’m here to help you do your best work.” She shakes her head and chuckles. “Such a silly billy goat. Oh”—her eyes widen—“that could be a fun nickname. I can call you Billy for short. How does that sound?”
“It’s Mr. Westin.”
She taps her pen to her chin. “You know, Billy just doesn’t sound right, so I’ll keep working on it. Don’t worry, I come up with the best nicknames.”
“Mr. Westin.”
“Yes, and I’m Miss Cox . . . you know like a bag of—”
“Yes, that doesn’t need repeating.” Seriously, what is with this girl? And what did I get myself into?
“Oh, that’s right, I already told you about the bag of penises at the convention. Sorry, I get a little nervous sometimes and just run my mouth, but let’s get back to work, the heavy-hitting stuff.” She zeros in on me and with her pen ready to jot down notes. “How do you take your coffee?”
These are her hard-hitting questions?
“You don’t need to know that.”
“Uhh, are you insane? Of course, I do. I don’t need you snapping at me to get you coffee only for you to turn around and chuck it at my freshly pressed blouse. Ironing is a sport in my apartment. At least a half day on Sundays I spend ironing my clothes and watching reruns of New Girl. Have you seen that show? Who’s your favorite character? You know, at first I was like who’s this Schmidt guy and then—”
“Enough.”
“No, Enough is not a character, unless I missed an episode, which I know I haven’t. Ninety percent sure about that. But if I had to guess, I’d say you’re totally a Winnie the Bish kind of guy, am I right?”
I rub at my temple. “I said, that’s enough. Enough chatter. Just go set up your computer.”
“Oh dear, do you have a headache?” She studies me, worry etching her brow. “Want me to get you some water?” She looks over my desk. “I don’t see a water bottle in sight. Are you hydrating? Don’t worry, I’ll put it on my list of things to remind you to do. If you’re going to run the world we need you fed and hydrated.” Leaning forward she whispers, “When you pee, is it clear?”
“Out,” I shout, pointing with my finger. “Out, now.”
She startles back, clutching her pad of paper to her chest. “I’m s-sorry, but, do you want me to leave?”
“Yes, for Christ’s sake, that’s what out means. OUT.”
“Oh dear. Was it something I did? Said? Because honestly, I think we’re on the brink of being productive here. If you would loosen up a little more, we would be able to really crack the code on this boss-assistant working relationship.”
“I swear to God Himself, if you don’t leave in the next ten seconds, I’ll have someone escort you out.” I point again. “Drop your things off and go.”
“Okay, sure, yeah.” She stands and gives me a parting glance. “You know, your skin does look a little dry; a little more hydration might help.”
“You have five seconds.”
On an “eep” she scurries away, leaving me with a sense of failure once again.
Another one bites the dust. Just like that.
I assumed from my gut instinct she was going to be a good match. Apparently, she decided to flip her crazy switch this morning and turn into an obnoxiously loud and constant chatterbox. Unfortunately, that’s not what I need, especially with the high volume she came at me this morning.
Dehydrated . . . I’m not fucking dehydrated. I drink plenty of water.
Pressing my fingers into my forehead, I let out a giant sigh. What the fuck had Harold and Linus taken to recommend Charlee Bag of Dicks? She is not the assistant I thought she was going to be.
But then five minutes later, my security team brings me both a donut and lox and bagel. Without even thinking, I down them both. Not because she got them for me, but because I’m a depressed motherfucker who can’t seem to find an assistant worth a damn.
Harold Danvers just lost a whole bunch of credibility.
“Either you lost a deal, or the new assistant is already driving you insane,” Roark says, saddling up next to me at High Nine, our favorite bar. Thankfully Sutton is out of town, giving me free access to my best friend.
Staring into my half-empty glass of Stella, I say, “She didn’t last past ten.”
“What?” He laughs. “But Harold Danvers—”