“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he asks.
Or…maybe not.
Fidgeting prevalent, I say, “Am I…supposed to?”
He removes a cell phone from his pocket, taps in a few things, then takes two,maybethree, steps to reach me on the other side of the room.
Showing me the screen, he presents Damion Anders, billionaire co-CEO of Anders & Sons.
I blink at the paparazzi photos presented in the headline section. I lift my gaze off the pictures of a giant man, who looks far larger in person, to the…well…in personversion.
My attention drops again.
To his…net worth…of 200.8 billion.
Thirty-four.
Born August 27th.
When I look up at him again, the corner of his mouth has lifted in something that could almost be considered the idea of a smile—the first I’ve ever seen on his face. “You’ve worked for me four years and didn’t know who I was?”
Workedforhimis a stretch. I’ve worked for Mr. Lundberg for seven years. He sends me to all sorts of places. Who knowsthe celebrities I haven’t recognized? I have a raging case offace blindnessas compounded bydoes not care.
I fear I’ve lost my smile. “Shouldn’t you have bodyguards, or something?”
“It’s a quiet enough town. I’ll bring extra protection in if it stops being as quiet. Until then, though, I think I can handle it. I’m not exactly someone the regular public recognizes. I’m like Jensen Huang or Sergey Brin.”
My head tilts. “Who?”
“Exactly.”
I have lost all my good sweet girl persona. Stepping back, I smooth my hands down my apron. “This doesn’t exactly mean I trust you any more than I did a few seconds ago, Mr. Anders.”
“I suppose that’s smart of you, but it does mean you can background check me yourself. Look for scandals, unsavories, birthday parties, charity events…” He wobbles his phone. “It’s all on here, at your fingertips.” He locks and pockets the device. “The offer remains open while you’re actively deciding. Let me know when you’ve made a decision.”
“Right…”
With my response, he turns and descends into his office, where—quite apparently—he does very importantbillionairethings…
Chapter 2
?
Curse persuasive essays, and also insane best friends.
Mirabelle
“Take the job,” Fawn—my best friend, roommate, and co-conspirator in all things—says. Hand propped at her chin, she lies across her bed, on her stomach, and scrolls through her laptop. “Holy—” she swears, “—take thejob, Mira.”
Sitting on the other side of our room in my bed with a heating pad on and pressed to a sore spot I haven’t been able to get out of my back for roughly, oh, four years, I scroll on my own laptop. Picture after picture ofDamion Andersslips on by.
Quite apparently, he madePeople’sSexiest Man Alive list last year. He didn’t top it, but he’s on it. I scroll through the list of men in awkwardly “seductive” positions, grateful to note that Mr. Anders is blessedly not among them.
This is…weird.
Objectifying.
I do not like it.
