I rub the scar along my jaw and force myself to look at my computer screen instead of at her.
FUCK.
She’s probably going to quit anyway. Most people would. Show up for your first day and discover you slept with your new boss? Yeah. That’s a resignation letter waiting to happen.
I tell myself that would be easier.
Yes. I’ll just wait until she quits on her own.
But maybe she needs the money.
Shit fuck shit.
My phone buzzes. Paloma, VP communications, needs to meet about donor engagement strategy.
I stare at the text. She should be contacting Bree directly for scheduling, but then again, Bree’s been here all of five minutes? HR probably hasn’t sent the announcement email yet with her contact information, or if they did, it’s buried under a hundred other messages.
I text back:Schedule with my secretary, Bree Dawson.
Then I forward Bree’s email and extension.
There. Done.
For a moment, I wonder if I could just handle my own scheduling.
That would mean I don’t need a secretary.
But if I don’t need a secretary then I’d have to admit I hired someone I didn’t need.
Or worse, admit that I’m keeping her around despite the catastrophically bad judgment that would represent.
No.
She stays.
She does her job.
BecauseI doneed a secretary. My time is important to me.
We’ll just have to pretend Friday night never happened.
Simple.
Right?
Except nothing about this is simple. I can still smell the perfume from when she entered my office. That alluring mix of vanilla and jasmine that was all over my body Saturday morning when I finally made it back to my penthouse and stood in the shower trying to scrub it away, along with the memory of her.
Didn’t work.
I force myself to focus on the quarterly projections spreadsheet Dashiell, my CFO, sent over.
I’m halfway through the second tab when movement catches my eye.
Bree’s standing. Smoothing her skirt. Walking toward my office.
Oh fuck.
Here it comes.
