I can see the intrigue in his eyes when he asks, “Why green?”
“Because green is the color of money, and if I want money, I better get my ass into gear and make some.”
The corner of his lip twitches as he glances at his hands.
Already hiding smiles. Gah, my favorite part of historical romances that I read during my lunch hour. The burly hero who has a stick up his butt and a chip on his shoulder finds the heroine to be entertaining, but he never lets on.
Well, guess what, Rath Westin, I see you.
“Take the pen and let’s get down to working.”
Reluctantly, after a few seconds of staring at it, he takes the pen from me and uses it to tap on his paper.
“Today you have—”
“I’m aware of what’s on my schedule. I don’t need you listing everything off.”
“Oh, competent in reading his own schedule, understood.” I write a note. “When entering your meetings, would you like me to make notes about what they’re pertaining to so I don’t have to list them off to you?”
“Notes and pictures of the people I’m talking to. I like to know what they look like so if I see them in person, I’m not caught off guard.”
I tap my pen to my temple. “Ooo, and that, folks, is how he gets ahead of the game. Noted. Do you need a brief bio, two to three sentences about their personal life or recent accomplishments?”
His jaw twitches. “Yes, that would be fine.”
That would be fine, my ass. He’s totally salivating over that idea.
“Not a problem. If you’re set on your schedule, would you like to let me know what you need from me?”
“Yes, I would.” He slides a piece of paper across the table and says, “I need all of those done by end of day.”
I pick up the list and don’t even look at it, as I realize exactly what he’s doing. He’s challenging me, to see if I can keep up with him and his ridiculous demands. And I keep my mouth shut about the use of paper . . . Mr. Better-Use-Your-iPad.
Please, Rath, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen a high-powered alpha try to prove he was right. He could not be more cliché if he tried.
The ominous list, the gruff attitude, the rumpled hair, and alpha attitude . . . same personality, different man.
It’s sad that he thinks he’s going to scare me away. Little does he know, this list is about to become my bitch, and it will be done by noon, not end of day.
Standing, I give him a quick smile and say, “When breakfast arrives, I’ll bring it right in.”
“Knock beforehand.”
“Why, do you get naked in here?”
His eyes sharpen. “It’s polite.”
Who’s he to act like the polite police? Pretty sure he has yet to thank me for the office or any meals.
But I keep my mouth shut—pick my battles. I nod and take off for my desk, leaving him alone with Sir Dragomir . . . who is a bitch to move, so I’ll be interested to see if he attempts to change his position at all.
Once back at my desk, I set my notebook down, take a deep breath, and look at his list.
Written in stinging handwriting is a list I don’t think anyone could accomplish . . . unless you’re me.
1.Pick up laundry from dry cleaning.
2.Buy five more of those shirts I like.
3.Talk to John, ask him about GP.
4.Go to Maxwell lunch, apologize.
5.Personally deliver Hoosier files by 10 a.m.
Hmm . . . there seems to be some decoding necessary and it’s already eight thirty, so it seems like I need to enlist some much-needed help.
The elevator dings and Brute and Bulldog walk in with breakfast, coy smiles on their thick faces when they see me.
Just the two guys I need to recruit.
“All right, Joel, I’m buckled up, let’s go.”
After handing Rath his breakfast on a tray that was decked out like a room service cart, bud vase included with a pretty daisy, I told him I’d be out of the office but if he needed me, to give me a call or shoot me a text.
He’s already sent me a text, asking me to have a rug delivered to his office so he doesn’t have to hear my heels clack against the floors of his office.
Isn’t he a treasure?
Then I enlisted the help of Brute and Bulldog to assist me in decoding the list, which they did—such great men, I gave them each a fun-sized pack of Skittles as a reward—and then I went to Joel, who was waiting for me after I text him that we were on the warpath today.
First stop was the Hoosier files, which I dropped off at nine thirty. Then we whipped around to collect the dry cleaning. From there, we checked the shirts and lo and behold, found the ones he was talking about, because four of the eight shirts that were recently dry-cleaned were the same, and Joel remembered Rath talking about them one day. Told him Tom Ford made the best shirts. I then ordered five shirts for him in his size to be delivered to the office and charged to his account.
Done.
Talk to John, ask him about GP. That was a little puzzling until Brute said there’s a man in Rath’s building by the name of John and he’s the garage parking attendant. So, we rushed over to Rath’s apartment, spoke with John and thankfully he knew what we were looking for, which was for Rath’s parking spot to be repainted. That was done within the hour with a bribery of a shimmy, wink, and fun-sized pack of Skittles.
And then it was a smooth downhill from there. Maxwell lunch. He was speaking of Gary Maxwell from High Nine, Rath’s favorite bar. We apologized for Rath skipping out the other day without paying, advising that he’d had an emergency and was extremely sorry. Gary was awesome, knew Rath would make good on it, and then I slipped him a pack of Skittles as well. After that, we went to the rug store, picked out a gunmetal gray, velour, cut pile rug—perfect that my heels won’t catch—and asked them to deliver it in an hour.
“We have half an hour before noon, think we can make it?” I ask, food in hand.
“We’re three blocks away. Easily. I’ll drop you off in the garage that gives you access to his private elevator. Take it right up and then shock the shit out of him,” Joel says, already on Team Charlee.
“I plan on it.” I smile to myself. “Also, I really appreciate you helping me out. This means a lot to me.”
“Anything for a girl who wants to prove herself. I like your spirit, Miss Cox.”
“Please, call me Charlee. I will wither away if you call me Miss Cox.”
“Well, we don’t want that, do we?”
I shake my head. “No, because then who would hand out Skittles?”
“It wouldn’t be Mr. Westin, that’s for damn sure.”
We both laugh and then I lull my head toward him. “I think we’re going to have a wonderful friendship, Joel.”
“I think so too, Miss Charlee.”
I guess I’ll settle with that.
I check the tray one more time and then pick up the package of shirts that were just delivered followed by the food.
We stopped at the local salad shop down the road, got Rath a steak salad with a Coke Zero, and a sugar cookie, because I thought he might like the pick-me-up.
On a deep breath, I knock on his door and when he yaps at me to come in, I push through. The tray of food from breakfast is on the floor next to the door and everything has been eaten. I hide the smile that wants to pass over my lips and head across the floor, sans shoes.