Page 4 of One Wicked Night with the Boss

“Do you or do you not know how to use a crosswalk?”

“Yes. I mean, of course.”

He folded his arms, making his crisp white button-down stretch over broad shoulders. He wore his sleeves rolled up, and dark hairs dusted powerful forearms. “An interesting assertion considering you stood across the street a full ten minutes without pushing the button.”

My cheeks heated. “Oh. That. Well—”

“I don’t work with stupid people, Miss O’Sullivan. Are you stupid?”

Some of the lust clouding my brain dissipated. I lifted my chin. “No. I’m far from stupid.”

He regarded me a moment. Then he gave a short nod. “We’ll see.” He pointed to a chair in front of his desk. “Sit.”

I couldn’t help feeling like an obedient dog as I started forward. But it was either follow orders or turn around, so I went to the chair and sat.

He settled himself in his own chair, then pointed at my knee. “Is that a portfolio?”

I touched the leather case. “Yes. I thought I might show—”

“You thought wrong.” His blue eyes were hard as he stared at me across the desk. “I don’t take interns.”

“I know.”

“I don’t care if daddy’s money bought you a spot in Harvard’s architecture school.” He sat back in his chair and rested his hands on the arms, making his heavy diver’s watch catch light from the window. Up close, I could see the dark shadow of a day beard on his jaw.“You’re here to be my secretary.”

“The temp agency said assistant. And my father didn’t buy my spot.” Saying the last part made my blood heat. Why did rich guys always assume everyone else operated the same way they did? As if they couldn’t fathom a world in which people succeeded on talent alone. His attitude was all the more infuriating because he was talented. He didn’t need money to open doors for him.

He rested a suited ankle on the opposite knee, looking for all the world like a king surveying a peasant. “Call yourself whatever you want, as long as you complete the tasks on that list.” He lifted a finger, indicating a sheet of paper on the edge of his desk.

I leaned forward, intending to pick it up. As I did, my shirt’s buttons strained, pulling ominously across my chest. Alarm shot through me, and I snatched the paper and sat back before I had a wardrobe malfunction. Heart hammering, I scanned the list. Then I lifted my gaze. “You want me to clean your bathroom?”

His blue eyes were beautiful. And arrogant. “No one is forcing you to stay.”

“It’ll take me at least a few hours to do all this. It’s already past three . . .”

He didn’t reply. He just watched me. Which was reply enough. Take it or leave it, his gaze seemed to say. It wouldn’t bother him either way. He’d just add me to the long list of assistants who fled after confronting Boston’s worst boss.

And I could kiss my internship dreams goodbye.

I ran my gaze down the list again.

“I pay well,” he said quietly, making me look up. Something gleamed in his blue eyes—a sense of impending victory, maybe. But it was there and gone so fast I couldn’t tell. “Harvard degrees don’t come cheap, Miss O’Sullivan.”

He was right about that. He was also right about his pay. I’d make more cleaning his toilet than I would as an architectural intern at another firm. So could I swallow my pride and do it?

You’re an O’Sullivan. You can do anything.

I sat up straighter. “Where do you keep your cleaning supplies?”

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