I need her to prove my confidence in her isn’t misplaced.
Because if I made a mistake? I don’t know what that says about me either.
I expect her to get flustered by the barrage of tasks I throw her way. Instead, she taps into her device.
When she’s done, she looks up. "Anything else?" Her tone is placid. Her gaze steady. I’d have thought her calm but for the telltale flutter of the pulse at the base of her neck.
“Draft the press release about the new takeover. Details are in your inbox. I expect to see it within the hour."
She firms her lips, but when she speaks, her voice is serene. "Of course."
“Get a hold of the Madison’s latest press releases and tell me what they’re not saying. I want it before the end of the day. Keep on HR until they push through the contracts I signed yesterday.”
She draws in a sharp breath and continues tapping into her device.
Damn, she’s unshakeable.
“Find me the number of that journalist who keeps poking around about the new startup I’m funding. I’ll handle them myself.”
She nods.
“Order new cuff links from Harrods and have them couriered here before lunch."
She frowns. "What kind of cuff links?"
"Figure it out." I smirk.
That should push her over the limit.
She purses her lips. “I think the Christmas tree ones are your vibe.”
“Excuse me?” I blink.
“Or m-a-y-b-e—” She taps her chin, like she’s auditioning for one of those ridiculously stupid holiday rom-coms women seem to find funny, but which are pathetic. Finding love while getting marooned in a snowstorm? Bah. How lame.
“Yes, I have it.” She snaps her fingers. “The Santa’s hat cuff links are more you.”
I open my mouth to tell her off, then take in the sparkle in her eyes. Huh. Is she winding me up?She is winding me up.Too bad I don’t find it funny at all.
I gnash my teeth, ignoring her attempt at levity. No doubt, she thinks I’m a miserable sod who can’t take a joke.Which I can’t.Might as well lean into it.
“Get IT up here. My system lagged for three seconds this morning. Unacceptable,” I bark.
"It’s 7:10 a.m.; IT won’t be in yet."
I stare at her.
She flushes. "Right. I’ll figure it out."
I pick up my phone, scanning the stock market updates on the screen.
"Book me a dinner reservation for three at The Edge for eight tonight."
She stills.
For a few seconds, I stay focused on my phone. When there’s no reaction or movement from her, I drawl without looking up, "Problem?"
"Chef James Hamilton received his third Michelin star for The Edge. It’s bound to be booked out for the next twelve months."
