Miles:She’s probably wearing glasses.
I lift my gaze and search the room. There’s only one woman seated at the lengthy table who fits Miles’s description, but since she works in marketing and couldn’t possibly be—
The door flies open, banging loudly against the stopper. I glance at the late arrival. Tardiness has no place at Triada Tech, but it isn’t the newcomer’s lack of punctuality that sets my pulse thrumming.
A mousy blonde scurries across the boardroom in a long pencil skirt and collared blouse, a wisp of hair that’s fallen loose from her bun floating behind her. There’s a flush in her cheeks as she scans the room from behind a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.
Me:The coffee cart girl is your new assistant?
Un-fucking-believable.
Miles:What’s the big deal?
Is he serious? Not only is she late, she hardly looks up to the job. Christ, she looks like one harsh word would have her crying into her hummus plate.
But I know better than to putthatin writing.
Me:Is she even qualified?
Miles:She has a degree. I think.
I stifle a groan.
Miles:I needed an executive assistant. She needed a better job. Win-win.
Yeah, if by win-win he meant he’d listened to his bleeding heart and bypassed the usual hiring process. Miles’s tendency to play fast and loose with the rules always comes back to bite us in the ass, but no one would ever call him Hartless, that’s for damn sure.
Miles:She never got my order wrong. Not once. Mind like a steel trap. You’ll like her.
Doubtful. I silence the phone and slip it into my jacket pocket. For the next hour, my only concern is the Epos launch.
I’ll deal with Scarlett Evans later.
Chapter Two
Scarlett
For the love of tacos, please let there be an empty seat in the back.I pause to catch my breath and open the boardroom door, but it slips from my grasp and slams against the doorstop. The resounding bang is like the shot heard round the world, and every head in the room swivels in my direction.
Fuckballs.
Flames lick the back of my neck as I scan the room for a place to sit. My last meeting ran over, and I had to haul ass from the other side of the Triada campus. Normally it wouldn’t be a big deal—because January—but Austin is in the middle of a freaking heatwave and it’s eighty degrees outside, the unseasonable weather raising a fine sheen of sweat on my skin. Now my blouse is stuck to my back, my hair looks like I’ve run a marathon (which, spoiler alert, I’dneverdo), and everyone seated around the ridiculous white table is judging the shit out of me for being late.
Nothing new there.
Growing up in a small town, you get used to judgmental stares real quick. It’s practically a survival instinct. Especially when you’rethatgirl. The one who’s quirky and awkward and never seems to fit in, even in her own family.
At least I don’t have to worry about Nick Hart making me do something embarrassing like sing “I’m a Little Teapot” for being tardy. That’s Miles’s lighthearted shtick. Rumor has it the eldest Hart brother has a pole shoved so far up his ass he couldn’t slouch if he wanted to.
And in the month I’ve been working at Triada Tech, every interaction I’ve had—or, more accurately, not had—with the guy has convinced me the rumor is true. Which is why I’ve made it my mission to avoid him when possible.
I need this job like I need my morning coffee and drawing the ire of the uptight CEO is definitelynoton my to-do list.
Still, if they’d taken my suggestion to invest in scooters for the massive campus, I would’ve been on time. And far less shiny. Honestly, what’s the point of even having an employee suggestion box if you’re just going to ignore all the submissions?
Spotting an empty seat by the window, I cut a path directly toward it, but just as I reach for the seatback, a guy wearing a faded MIT shirt steps around me and flops down in the chair.
“Sorry. This one’s taken.”
