Page 15 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

Chapter Six

Alex

An hour later,I’m back at my apartment packing for a weekend in Aspen. I’m not sure if making me work over Thanksgiving is Rafael’s way of punishing me or if this is just what he expects from his assistants, but at least I’ll have no trouble painting him as the demanding asshole boss when I write my story.

That knowledge is the only thing getting me through this conversation with my dad. I’d planned on driving home to spend Thanksgiving with him and my stepmother, but thanks to Rafael, that’s no longer happening.

“Yes, Dad, I know,” I grumble, shoving an extra pair of boots into my suitcase and leaning on the top to try to make it close. “I’m sorry, but this story is important.”

“You’re a hard worker, Alex, but I’ve never known you to work Thanksgiving.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” I say tartly, sweating as I try to tug the zipper into place. “This could be the story that saves my career. I really couldn’t say no.”

“I wasn’t aware that your career needed saving,” Dad replies. “I thought you were doing well at The Beacon.”

“I was, but UltraComm is making cuts, and I don’t want to find myself on the chopping block come Christmas.”

Dad mutters something that begins with, “back in my day, I never,” but I don’t catch the punchline of the guilt trip. A text comes through from Rafael’s driver, telling me he’s here to pick me up.

“I gotta go, Dad,” I sigh, finishing my wrestling match with my suitcase and flopping down on the floor. “I’ll call you from Aspen.”

“Safe travels.”

“Love you.”

I hang up the phone and stagger to my feet, grabbing my threadbare handbag and yanking my suitcase upright.

No matter what I do, I can’t win with my dad. If I say I’m taking a day off, he tells me I’m going to end up jobless and broke, but when I blow off Thanksgiving to work a story, he acts as though I’m being unreasonable.

The driver is idling in front of my apartment building when I come outside. He takes my suitcase and opens my door, and I climb into the back.

The light flurries from earlier have morphed into giant wet flakes, and the roads have a fine dusting of snow on them by the time we merge onto the highway. I already called a much nicer car to take Rafael to his home in Aspen. My driver is supposed to bring me to Aspen to meet him, so I’m confused when he pulls up in front of Match HQ.

“Uh, sorry.” I shake my head. “I need to meet Mr. Cabrera Garcia in Aspen. I already called a car to pick him up, and —”

“Oh, no,” says my driver, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Cabrera Garcia always drives himself when he goes away. He specifically requested that you ride with him.”

“What?” I yelp, my stomach clenching when I remember the way he bent me over his desk and took his belt to my still-sore behind. “But —” I break off when I see the valet pull up in Rafael’s shiny black SUV.

Rafael strides out of the building a moment later, looking annoyingly handsome in an immaculately tailored wool coat that fits his muscular frame like a glove.

I glance down at my fluffy gray sweater, which suddenly feels frumpy and inappropriate for riding in Rafael’s Range Rover. But my driver is already getting my suitcase out of the back, so I climb out of the car and walk over to Rafael’s SUV.

“Get in,” he barks, not bothering with any pleasantries.

I briefly consider diving into the back, but that seems as though it would be even more awkward, so I obediently climb into the passenger seat.

The inside of Rafael’s SUV smells just like him, except that the expensive Italian leather scent is more pronounced. The vehicle is already warm, and I practically groan when I slip into the heated seat.

The spawn of Satan doesn’t speak as he pulls away from the building, cutting off another driver as he merges into traffic. Rafael drives the way I would expect the demanding, entitled CEO to drive — as though he’s the only one on the road. He accelerates as he zips around a few slower cars, slamming on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a semi and gunning it through a yellow light.

By now, a slick wet snow has accumulated on the road, and the cars in the far-right lane have slowed to a crawl. I tense and grip the handlebar as he merges onto the highway, the engine groaning as he picks up speed just so he can squeeze between two cars and glide into the far-left lane.

“The road looks pretty slick,” I choke. “Maybe you should slow down?”

“No,” he mutters, casting a brief irritated glance in my direction before looking back at the road. “The sooner we get there, the better.”

“We’ll get there a lot sooner if we don’t cause a twelve-car pileup along the way,” I caution.

---