Page 72 of Grumpy Billionaire Bad Boy

Archer's jaw tenses like I struck a nerve. He rises to his feet, his hand planted on his desk as he leans toward me. "An important one."

"Hardly," I respond with a bite to my tone. I don't know why he has me so fucking defensive about this, but I couldn't stop if I tried. The only thing I can think to do is prove him wrong. "I'm leaving."

Archer remains firmly in place when I walk away and storm to the door, only shooting him a final glance before I leave his apartment.

I release a breath on the other side and pull myself together. This is not the energy I need if I'm going to get a job. I'm only a few steps away from Archer's front door as someone jogs up the stairs.

"Hey," Camille says, her smile reaching all the way to her eyes. There's something so wholesome and genuine about her that sort of sets me on edge, and the more I take in her features, the more I see her brother, who Archer threatened on the street during our date.

"Hey," I reply. "I was just?—"

"Oh my God, I never texted you." Camille covers her mouth but drops it immediately. "I am so sorry. You have no idea how busy my schedule has been. I don't know each day from the next. I can't believe I forgot, actually, yeah I can, but seriously, I'm so sorry. Will you forgive me?"

"Of course," I tell her, the vague recollection of our agreed-upon coffee date resurfacing—her memory not much better than mine. "Don't sweat it."

"How can I make it up to you?" She peeks around me. "Are you busy now? Do you have a minute? We could go now, but I understand if you already have plans. No Archer today?" She barely takes a breath between each word.

"No, his grumpy ass is in there working."

Camille laughs. "Sounds about right. He never leaves that place."

"I'm free, though, if you want to grab a coffee now." Why not add one more thing to the to-do list that's piling up? Getting a job will make Archer mad, I might as well add securing an apartment, too.

"Yeah, let's go. You good with the place down the street?"

Camille and I make our way downstairs, having the most basic small talk the entire journey to the coffee shop. We cover the weather, a new restaurant in the neighborhood, and we even touch on sports. I mumble and nod along, my mind struggling to stay with her as it focuses on the other things I'm supposed to be doing.

“Tell me about you, London," Camille says while holding the door to the coffee shop open.

I force a smile. "Not much to tell. California transplant, just trying to get my footing here and start over."

"What about hobbies? What do you like to do for fun?"

I think about her question, and I hate how itfeelsso simple, that an answer should immediately pop into my head, but nothing comes to mind. "I like to read," I confess. "And bake." I'm not that good at the latter and yet there's still something so comforting about it that I enjoy.

"Oh, that's cool. I never was very good at baking, or cooking. I don't follow directions well." Camille shuffles into line behind an older man with silver hair. He orders a small black coffee, pays with cash, and is gone in less than a minute.

We place our orders and settle into a small table, my back to the patrons and unease creeping up my spine.

I shake it off and move to the spot closer to Camille. "Better spot to people watch," I partially lie.

"No doubt." Camille taps her chin. "This is what I like to do for fun. Make up stories about other people and try to imaginewhat their lives are like." She points to a man in line with a briefcase. "This guy. Public defender, twice divorced, only sees his kids every other weekend, struggles to get it up in bed."

I suppress a laugh and nod along. "Spot on." I scan the crowd, settling on a young duo at a table in the corner. "Those two, first date. She's trying to come up with an excuse to leave."

"One hundred percent."

A barista brings our drinks to our table and I fidget with the handle of the mug, not quite wanting to burn my mouth just yet but wanting to have a sip. "What do you do for work?"

"What don't I do?" Camille sighs. "I'm a personal assistant, which means I do grunt work twenty-four seven. It's not all bad, but it's unpredictable and a bit overwhelming at times. I love it, I do, but sometimes I forget what it's like to have a life."

"That sounds terrible, why do you do it?"

"It pays well."

I nod like I understand even though I've never worked a day in my life. I won't tell her that, though, because then she probably wouldn't lease me her apartment.

"I'm confused. You're a personal assistant but you're leaving town, that's why you're subleasing your place?"

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