“Then say no more.” This pulls me back to reality, and I catch Andrew extending his hand to me from the corner of my eye. We shake hands firmly, both of us smiling.
“I'll send the papers to your office. I might need to trouble you with a few signatures in person, but I'll do my best to keep that to a minimum. I know how busy you are.”
“Excellent.” Andrew starts to walk away but pauses to add, “Tell your father I’m tired of beating him at golf.” His low laughter echoes through the apartment.
“Oh, you can play with me anytime; I promise not to bore you.”
God, don't even think about calling me. I hate playing golf.
“I won’t forget that offer,” Andrew says with a grin.
“I'll walk you out,” Lauren says, pointing to the door.
As I watch her interact with Andrew, I catch snippets of their conversation—something about his daughter and other trivial topics. I question whether hiring her was the right move. It seemed amusing at first, but now I’m reminded of why I needed to keep her at a distance.
When she returns to the apartment, she smiles. “You did it!” she says, walking toward me.
I stay put, leaning casually against the living room window with my hands in my pockets. I give her a single nod, keeping my expression neutral. Selling places like this to the wealthy is just dull for me. It’s not what I’m really after.
The Compass project is my greatest ambition and the only thing that will make me stand out in my father's eyes. The project involves a massive building on the outskirts of Brooklyn—luxurious apartments, nightlife, all within walking distance. It's the biggest project I've ever undertaken, and I’m just waiting for the investors to present it to my father ... and prove to him that I can handle it without his constant intrusion.
“Of course I did. I always get what I want.” It sounds more like a threat than a fact, but it’s her fault—she makes me like this.
Lauren nods, and for a moment, I see disappointment in her eyes, as if she’s beginning to remember what kind of man I am. She gathers the papers on the kitchen counter silently. My dry, authoritative response leaves her like this, but this is me. I don’t know what she expects. When she finishes, she gathers everything close to her chest and waits for me. I expected a barrage of questions, or at least an inquiry about why I didn’t answer her question about the view and the mornings when she asked. But she remains silent, and we proceed to my car. I drive this time.
The reason I had her drive earlier was simple: she was afraid of driving an expensive car. No one working for me should have obstacles or fears holding them back. I figured that driving would boost her confidence—exactly what she needed. Though, now that I think about it, Stella was never allowed to touch the car, even with a ten-foot pole.
I take a slight detour down Park Avenue and turn onto 55th Street, heading to The Polo Bar. It’s about noon, and I’m craving lunch at my favorite spot.
“This isn’t the way to the office,” she says, her voice tinged with confusion.
“Your power of observation never ceases to amaze me, Bunny,” I reply, signaling as I find the nearest parking spot.
“It wasn’t too hard to figure out; the office is in the opposite direction,” she responds like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, which makes me smile. “And I asked you to stop calling me that.”
I pull into a parking space under a building where they charge anarm and a leg just to breathe in the vicinity, but it suits me just fine. As I park, I ask, “Why don’t you like your nickname? It’s adorable.” I put the car in reverse and fit it into the tight space.
I know she hates that nickname, which is exactly why I use it.
“It’s not adorable; it’s demeaning. If you want me to keep working for you, then stop it already.” There’s no playing games here; she’s genuinely pissed off.
“I’m sorry; it’s a hard habit to break.” I open the door, and she quickly gets out of the car to follow me.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
I walk determinedly toward the street, while I hear her heels running to catch up. “To have lunch. I know a little place just a block from here, and I’m famished.”
“Lunch?” She looks at her watch. “But it’s only twelve o’clock.”
“And?” I stop and wait for her with my hands on my hips.
When she stops in front of me, she answers, agitated, “And my lunch hour is from one-thirty to two-thirty.” Her innocent eyes wait for a response.
My hands itch to touch her face. “Are you my assistant?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you adapt tomyschedule, Lauren. Today, I want to have lunch at twelve o’clock. And you’re lucky enough to be here, so you’ll be eating at one of the best restaurants in Manhattan. Are you going to complain about that?”
