Chapter 1
Meet cute-----and he's gone
August
Amelia
Drunk me is not allowed to get on the internet anymore.
Finding new recipes? Great. Helpful, even.
Watching cat videos? Hours of fun.
Buying random shit? Relatively harmless.
Applying for a job I’m not qualified for? Fucking stupid.
Drunk me decided I’d make a good personal assistant to the CEO of some billion-dollar tech company.
In her defense, she’s not wrong. I would rock the shit out of it.
I’m the oldest of seven kids, and I’ve always been the family planner and sibling wrangler. In high school, I was in charge of arranging all the events for the dance team, even before I became the captain. When I was fifteen, I started working at the dance studio where I’d been training my whole life. By the time I moved to New York for college, I was teaching a few lower-level classes, setting the class and rehearsal schedules, ordering costumes, and about a million other tasks that needed done.
Four years later, I still help with family and studio stuff from across the country. I was fucking with the family calendar just last night after Mom sent me a frantic message about needing to be in two places at once. I had to rearrange a couple of things, but I got it worked out.
So yeah, I can handle being a personal assistant.
But I doubt a twenty-two-year-old college dropout is what Delgado Technology Corp. is looking for.
The waiting area outside the HR office is filled with people all interviewing for the same position I am. My cute dress didn’t feel too casual before I left my apartment, but it does next to power suits and pencil skirts.
I can’t believe I used my good makeup for this.
“I heard he goes through assistants like pots of coffee,” a woman across from me says quietly. “The longest anyone has lasted was two months.”
“I bet he screws them and then fires them when he gets tired of them,” another woman replies.
A man leans in close to them. “My cousin knows one of the temps, and apparently, he’s incredibly picky, grumpy, and unapproachable. Most of his assistants beg to be transferred because he wants perfection. He doesn’t have a playboy rep—he has an asshole rep.”
The first woman shrugs. “Well, the benefits are fantastic, and getting a foot in the door here is worth putting up with some jerk for a month or two.”
My palms start to sweat. I’m sunshiny most of the time, albeit with an undercurrent of sass and snark. Well, maybe more than an undercurrent. I can deal with grumpy assholes, but I don’t like working for them.
As the last applicant to arrive, I’m last on the list. I wasn’t late, but I wasn’t early, either. I pushed myself too hard dancing in my living room last night, trying to work through my nerves, so my leg is bothering me, and I’m moving slower than I want to be.
If my soul is happy, my leg is not. It’s a trade-off.
“Amelia Sinclair?” The woman conducting the interviews looks at me, and it takes me a second to react because I almostnever hear my full name. I’ve gone by Minnie for as long as I can remember, but drunk me didn’t think that sounded professional enough.
Again, she’s not exactly wrong.
I stand and follow the woman into her office. She motions toward a chair with a tired smile before walking around her desk.
“I’m Katie, head of HR.” Her eyes flick to what I’m assuming is my resume. “Hmm. You don’t really have the experience needed for this position.”
I told myself that same thing earlier. But hearing her say it sparks that thing inside me that likes to prove people wrong. It’s not even about needing this job. Idoneed a new job, something that pays better and isn’t working from home like I’ve been doing because I can’t stay cooped up in my apartment anymore, but it doesn’t have to bethisjob.
Well, it didn’t… Now, I’m not walking away without a fight.
