“I’m not implying anything.” I shrug and cross my arms. “Just observing that the job skills are hardly the same for the two positions.”
Hell, they’re not even in the same stratosphere.
“You think that because I make a damn fine cappuccino, I can’t possibly have the skills to excel in my new role?”
“It’s a challenging position, and from what I understand, Miles didn’t exactly vet your résumé.”
Scarlett shifts her weight, gripping the strap of her bag like it’s a lifeline, and my cock stirs with interest as the scent of her perfume—lavender and roses—fills the air between us.
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” she says, voice wavering. “People are more than their positions. I won’t be Miles’s assistant forever. Executive assistant is what I do, not who I am.”
I exhale, forcing her intoxicating scent from my nose, and consider her words, turning them over like puzzle pieces in my mind. “You make an interesting point. I never really gave it much thought.”
“Of course you didn’t. Because you only care about what people can do for you.” She’s wrong—I only care about what they can do for Triada—but before I can correct her, she forges ahead. “You know that makes you a narcissist, right?”
“Quite possibly.” A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. I shouldn’t goad her, but the words are out before I can stop them. “Even so, it hasn’t exactly held me back.”
“Oh?” She does a slow blink. “And where is your assistant?”
Fucking fuck. This was a stupid idea. There’s no way I’m going to charm this woman into doing a damn thing. Not when I have the charisma of a feral alley cat.
Eye on the prize, Hart.
“I spoke with Miles earlier. He indicated you’d give me a copy of your meeting notes.” I try the disarming smile again before I deliver the ask. “As I said, I need them now.”
“I’m sorry, but that just isn’t possible. I’ll have them on your desk first thing in the morning.” She smiles, lips tight, but when she speaks, her tone is sweeter than pecan pie. “If the meeting had ended as scheduled, I might’ve had time to format them.” She glances at the clock on the wall, tension lining her eyes. “But it didn’t, and now I’m late.” Disapproval at my apparent lack of time management radiates off her in waves as she tugs the strap of her bag and adds, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”
The dismissal erases all thoughts of sweet talk and civility from my mind, and I grit my teeth to keep my jaw from falling open.
Well, that backfired spectacularly.
Chapter Four
Scarlett
Holy. Hell.I did not just say those words to Nick Hart—CEO, CFO, and intimidating AF tech badass.
I clamp my lips shut before more word vomit spews outExorciststyle, but the damage is done. Swear to God, the man looks like he’s going to burst a blood vessel. And I can’t even blame him because who was that sassy—no, assertive—woman who just brushed him off?
Oh, right. Me.
Flames lick at my cheeks for the eleventy-billionth time in a ninety-minute period, and I kind of hate myself. Not for blushing—though I might as well add it to the list—but for screwing up so colossally.
Who in their right mind insults the billionaire CFO who signs the paychecks?
To. His. Face.
Oh, God. I am so fired.
With less than a month on the job. Not a good look. I can practically hear my bank account cry out in despair at the prospect of returning to the coffee cart and its poverty-level wages.
Assuming they’ll take you back.
Screw. That. I amnotgoing back to the coffee cart. I need this job, and, according to Miles, I’m a damn good assistant.
“Excuse me?” Nick’s words eviscerate my thoughts, putting an abrupt end to my panic spiral. “Let me make sure I’ve got this right. First, you show up late and disrupt the meeting.” He looks me over, as if trying to find fault with my appearance. Which is ridiculous because at least I’m not wearing jeans like the douchey MIT grad. “Now you’re refusing a direct order?”
He stares at me, and it’s like I’m frozen in place, completely unable to move, let alone speak. It’s ninth grade all over again when Laurel Ann Myer accused me of stealing her pom-poms right before the homecoming game. I’d panicked then, same as now, and would’ve turned into a hyperventilating mess if Sofia Vega hadn’t intervened.
