Page 16 of Daddy's Princess

I’m so focused on my drawing that I almost miss my stop. That’s a real problem for me. Whenever I have my pencil in hand, the real world ceases to exist. I make the three-block walk to the building that houses Titan-Rose Publishing in record time. A little jolt of excitement rushes through my veins when I swipe my security badge, and the little machine beeps and the indicator light turns green. It’s been a month, and the newness still hasn’t worn off.

I hope it never does.

Like every morning, my first stop is the breakroom. I set up the coffee pot to make Nadine’s coffee, then put my lunch in the fridge. I rinse out my now empty smoothie cup and refill it with ice water. When the coffee is made, I add three packets of sugar and enough cream to turn the rich, dark brew a light brown.

Nadine is at her desk like always, but this morning Britney is sitting in the chair across from her. I hand Nadine her coffee with a pleasant smile and wish her good morning. As has become our routine, she pointedly ignores my ‘perky,’ her word not mine, greeting, and takes a drink of her coffee.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Britney sneers, “It took extra time, but I think it was worth staying late.”

That gets my attention because Britney hasn’t stayed late a day in her life. In fact, most days, she sneaks off early.

“Well, I certainly appreciate the initiative, the reports look flawless. Mr. Titan will be pleased.” Nadine gives Britney a warm smile.

A warm. Freaking. Smile.

She hasn’t smiled at me once since I started. She’s not mean to me or anything, she’s just not overly nice. I glare at Britney from behind Nadine, and she bats her lashes in what I have dubbed the ‘who me,’ look. Once again, she’s taken credit for something I’ve done.

“I have to meet with Kevin before the big meeting. I trust you can go over the list with Sugar for what’s expected of you today?”

“Certainly, Ms. Ford.”

“What have I told you, Britney? Call me Nadine.” She once again smiles at Britney.

Did I enter an alternate dimension when I came through security this morning? Who is this smiling, ‘call me Nadine’ person that has taken my managers face? Nadine turns to me and her typical un-smiling, call-me-Nadine-if-you-dare face is on. She looks me up and down and seems to find me lacking. I can practically hear the ‘tsk-tsk’ she’s holding back.

“Very well, girls. Get to work.”

As soon as Nadine is out of earshot, I turn to Britney. “I was the one that made the changes to the reports. I was the one that stayed until nearly eight o’clock last night color coding, labeling, reorganizing, and binding those reports.

Britney sheds her model employee face and gives me a nasty smile. “There is no ‘I’ in team,Sh-ughar.”

She overly exaggerates the syllables in my name like always. She somehow got the impression that making fun of my name upsets me. It just makes me sad for her. If you aren’t clever enough to come up with original insults, what’s the point?

Yet, you managed to find the ‘I’ in the A-hole to claim the credit for something I did. Again,I think to myself because I totally can’t say that out loud despite how badly I want to.

“Nadine wants you to arrange the coffee and pastries in the conference room. Make sure to get gluten-free bagels for Ramona. Oh, and almond milk for Shannon, she’s lactose intolerant.” The list goes on like that until I’m dizzy from all the special requests. “Don’t screw it up, I hear Mr. Titan is a bit of a bear. A big yummy bear I’d share my honey with.” Britney snaps her gum and gets a predatory look in her eyes. “Nadine left me in charge. Do not fuck this up for me. This is my chance to prove that I’m worth better than fetching coffee and filing paperwork.”

“I would definitely hate to screw this up for you.” I give her an assessing look. “I mean, you are the one who always goes above and beyond, right? Wouldn’t want Nadine to see who her star intern really is, now would we?”

Britney lowers her eyes at me, glowering. “Go fetch the coffee, little girl. The grown-ups have work to do.”

I’m seething with impotent anger. I desperately want to lash out, but I know that will only get me thrown out of the program. I need this internship so I can prove that I’m worthy of being an illustrator at Titan-Rose. It’s my dream, and I won’t let Britney steal it from me.

I’ll fetch the coffee and breakfast for the meeting, and I’ll mark off all the other menial tasks that Nadine has me working on today from my to-do list. And most importantly, I’m going to make sure that Britney can’t take credit for my hard work anymore. No more Miss Pushover. No more ‘team’ projects.

Forty-five minutes plus four trips from Mr. Titan’s favorite café down the block and back plus three scalding hot coffee spills plus two bumps to the back of my head when I retrieved the serving tray from its hiding spot in the back a cabinet in the breakroom equals one frustrated, flustered, and peeved intern.

Britney is currently persona non grata in my world. Especially when I was carting a metric ton of bagels, croissants, donuts, Danish rolls, and a partridge in a pear tree only to find her leaning against Kathleen’s desk chatting. I catch a small bit of their conversation as I pass by. They are talking about Mr. Titan. Apparently, he’s in another magazine as the sexiest, richest, big dickiest, most eligible bachelor. I’ve not seen any of the articles. Gossip rags are not my thing. Well, magazines and newspapers aren’t my things in general. I’d rather immerse myself in a world of fiction than read the depressing crap they print in the papers.

Britney sneers at me as I walk past, balancing the heavy tray of breakfast pastries. She’s so on my list. This is just the newest in the long line of crap she’s pulled. I’m sick of her volunteering to work with me on ‘team’ projects, then leaving me to do the work by myself only to later claim the credit for herself.

Never again.

I’ve just finished setting everything up when I hear someone enter the room behind me. I turn to face whoever it is with a smile and nearly swallow my tongue in shock. “What are you…? How—?” I stutter out my words, unable to get my brain and my mouth to work together. What I really want to say is: What the fuck are you doing here? How did you find me?

Oliver freezes as he takes me in. I shift on my feet, feeling his scrutiny like a touch. I smooth my hands down my professional pencil skirt and fight the urge to look at my feet. “The better question is, what areyoudoing here?” he turns my question back on me.

“I work here?” It sounds like a question, not a statement of fact, so I repeat it, with confidence, “I work here. What are you doing here?”

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