He doesn’t even meet my eyes when he says it, like I’m so far beneath his paygrade he can’t be bothered to feign sincerity.
Of all the arrogant, lowdown, dirty…
Irritation sparks in my chest. If this is how Triada welcomes all their new employees, it’s no wonder there’s a morale problem. I open my mouth to say as much, but no sound comes out. I’ve never been good at standing up for myself—the mere thought of confrontation gives me hives—so when the arrogant seat snatcher turns his back on me, the dismissal is almost a relief.
Way to be a doormat, Scar.
“If everyone could take their seats.” The request comes from Nick Hart, and though the words are delivered with his usual cool detachment, the fact that they’re directed at me sends a shiver racing down my spine.
Or maybe it’s the chilly air of the boardroom clashing with my sweat-soaked skin.
Oh, is that what you’re doing now? Lying to yourself?
I squash the sarcastic little voice and move down the length of the table, clutching the strap of my messenger bag.
Where are all the empty seats? I’m notthatlate.
The grumpy CEO/CFO clears his throat, the sound echoing like a warning in the now silent boardroom.
Quit making a scene.
Mama’s reproachful words are as familiar to me as my own name, and like Pavlov’s dogs, I respond immediately.
My gaze darts around the table, settling on the only empty chair: Miles’s.
No way. No way can I just prance up to the head of the table and sit my butt down in my boss’s chair. I’m an executive assistant,notan executive.
Big difference.
It’s ridiculous. It’s brazen. It’s…my only option.
You can do this. It’s. Just. A. Chair.
Exactly. Just a chair. I suck in a breath, rally my lady balls, and march to the front of the room, planting one red kitten heel in front of the other.
Please don’t let me trip over my own two feet.
There’s no way my pride could handle it. Not gracefully anyway.
I pull out Miles’s chair, a cushy blue monstrosity with the Triada logo emblazoned on the back—three interlocking triangles—and sit. The instant that cushion hits my backside, I realize the flaw in my plan: my feet don’t reach the floor.
Becauseof coursethey don’t.
Could this meeting get any worse?
Leaning forward, I fumble for the lever to adjust the chair’s height. The heavy weight of judgment presses down on me as two dozen pairs of eyes track my every move. My fingers close around a flat handle, and, hoping it’s the correct one, I pull.
The seat drops with a loudthwumpand slams into the base.
So much for subtlety.
“Are you quite finished?” Nick Hart asks, each word scraping over my skin like a shard of glass.
I slide my laptop from my bag and turn to the CEO, meeting his steely gaze. He intimidates the hell out of me, but I’d roll naked in a field of chiggers before admitting it aloud. The way he struts around the office like God’s gift, he probably gets off on that sort of thing.
The BDE is strong with this one.
“Sorry.” I force a smile. “For being late. And for the chair. And—”
