Page 11 of This is a Kissing Book

“King of the Jungle.”

That would make this the jungle. Makes sense that I feel very much like prey when I hear a voice say, “I asked you two to bring these files to Ms. Drecken’s office.”

When in a high-stress situation, the three survival instincts are fight, flight, or freeze. I do the latter because I hear the low tone of the man’s voice before I see him. I know who it is.

And I’m in trouble.

Also worth noting, there’s another entrance to his office.

Not-Gopher-Matt is my new boss, and I just mistook him for errand staff.

I consider crawling under the nearest desk or making a run for it, but both options will result in my dismissal. I need this job, so I take my chances and remain on my feet.

Misha scuttles by me and, with her nose in the air like a snooty socialite, she doesn’t so much as peer my way.

Veronica looks me up and down like I’m in frumpy, off-duty attire. “Mr. Sullivan will see you now. I’m confident you’ll dazzle him.”

Smoothing my shirt, I draw a deep breath. My father, for all his flaws, was never intimidated by anyone—not even when it probably would’ve been in his best interest. He knew some sordid folks. Mom sure did dazzle on the Vegas stage. I’m made of half fearlessness and half dazzling. I can do this. Without hesitating or giving my new boss another reason to loathe me, I enter the cold, minimalist office.

I instantly recognize the gray suit, solid stature, and height—the impressive watch around his wrist, half hidden by the custom-tailored jacket cuff, and the large, masculine hands that no longer hold Ms. Drecken’s files.

I’m out in the open. It’s too late to bolt. His gaze pins me in place, burning with what feels like icy fire.

When I finally look up, meeting a pair of dark blue eyes framed by glasses on a broad, rugged face composed of hard angles, bearing no amusement, my inhale snags.

It’s the same guy from the doorway early this morning. The one who wouldn’t dance with me. Who refused to laugh.

L. Sullivan. My new boss.

He looks me up and down with bold disdain. As if I’m beneath him. As if I’m bitter chocolate and he prefers vanilla—safe, predictable, and sweet. Like I’m abstract art and he only understands a classical canvas.

“Hello, sir,” I meep.

The way he examines me makes me feel like a used car, ruining any chance of us being chums.

“Julia? I understand you’re my new special project assistant.”

Like a seabird that swallowed a fish, I clear my throat. “It’s Juliana, and yes, sir, that’s my understanding.”

“I expect you to manage your time efficiently.”

I nod, feeling chastised. Had it not been for the aforementioned women, I would’ve been at my desk as originally ordered.

“Would you like me to bring those files to Ms. Drecken?” When he doesn’t answer right away, I add, “My apologies about the mistake earlier.”

“No, that was a task for Veronica or Misha.”

I’m about to explain that they passed it off to me, but it seems he already gathered that. Giving a small nod of acknowledgment, I wait for Smug-y McGruffins to bark orders. I’m familiar with the cold, calculating type of man who thrives on order, efficiency, and perfection—and L. Sullivan is the epitome of the uptight and ruthless businessman.

His eyes graze over me. He blinks once, twice, three times from behind his Clark Kent glasses. If this were any other circumstance, I’d consider him exceptionally handsome. A perfect specimen of a wild cat in human form. The little shooting stars in my belly agree.

But this is a very tall concrete jungle and it’s a long way down to solid ground.

From behind us, like we’re between scenes at a theater, a couple of members of the building’s maintenance staff change out Veronica and Misha’s desks for an L-shaped unit with storage in a sleek, modern style.

In the moments I have my back turned, Mr. Sullivan disappears into his office, leaving me unsure of what to do next. I spend the next ten minutes arranging the items from downstairs on the slick surface of my new workspace. After that, I smooth my skirt. I take a seat and log in to the computer, hoping my credentials are the same. Sure enough, I’m inside the Meridian Holdings interface and expect to find some tasks in my inbox.

Nope. Apparently, my new boss just wants me to keep this swivel chair warm.