Page 6 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

Chapter Three

Alex

“CanI get you anything else, sir?”

Vivian’s crisp annoying voice breaks the tension in the room, and I see Rafael’s throat bob with irritation. “That will be all, Vivian.”

“If you like, I could call Mark and have your meeting pushed —”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rafael rumbles. “Leave us.”

His low gravelly voice reverberates in the large office, and I get a little flutter in the pit of my stomach.

I clear my throat and grab some paper towels from the cabinet under the wet bar to mop up his spilled green juice. I feel like such an idiot for spilling his drink all over his desk, but I’ve spent so much time hating Rafael Cabrera Garcia from afar that coming face to face with the man himself is a little . . . disconcerting.

For one thing, I didn’t expect him to be so . . . tall. He towers over me by at least six inches, and his bespoke suit seems to be having a hard time containing the raw power in his huge muscular frame.

His raven-black hair is longer on top than on the sides, contrasting with his caramel skin and accentuating his sharp features.

He’s even better-looking in person, which is just so annoying. How is it that some people are born crazy good-looking with a genius IQ, while the rest of us have to work our asses off just to scrape by?

“So you’re my new assistant,” he says, scrutinizing me with a pair of deep-brown eyes flecked with gold.

“Yes.”

“Vivian getting you settled?” he asks, shrugging out of his jacket.

Holy hell.This guy’s pecs. It’s just not fair that a man with a fuck-you amount of money also has a body like that.

“Uh-huh.” I swallow to wet my parched throat and try not to stare at his chest. “I, uh . . . think I’ve got everything under control.”

“You think?” Rafael’s chin juts out in a scowl as he tosses his jacket at me.

I catch it before it hits the floor, irritation swirling in my gut. So he is as arrogant as the tabloids make him out to be.

Still, he smells incredible — like Italian leather, some expensive spicy cologne, and . . . snow. It’s a surprising combination, and I’m furious with myself when I inhale deeply to get another whiff.

How does this guy smell like snow? It hasn’t snowed in Denver in weeks. Another secret of the rich and famous . . .

But before I have time to ponder that, Rafael goes around his desk and sinks into the leather chair. He doesn’t say anything to signal that my interrogation is over, but his cold silent dismissal is as good an indication as any.

He picks up his daily brief in one hand as he takes a sip of his coffee, and I cringe when he wrinkles his nose. He very ungracefully spits the coffee back into the mug, looking up at me with a mixture of horror and indignation. “What is this?”

“I-it’s your coffee,” I stammer, wondering what the hell I did wrong. I clear my throat. “I mean, your mushroom coffee. Vivian said —”

Rafael squints his eyes and shudders, looking as though he’s trying to banish the taste from his mouth. “Did you add the cashew milk?”

“Yes.”

“Did you steam it?” He’s looking at me like I’m an idiot.

“Yes.”

Rafael narrows his eyes at me, as if he can’t begin to fathom how I screwed this up. “Did you add the espresso?”

“The —” I break off, whipping my head around to stare accusingly at his pricey espresso machine. Vivian left out the jar of mushroom powder on the bar, along with a note indicating where I could find the cashew milk.

No one said anything about espresso.

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