Page 6 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 1

Chapter 3

Ispend the rest of the day alternating between praying they don’t fire me and wanting to quit and bolt for the door. Which doesn’t make for a great situation when I’m trying to do my very best work and impress everyone in the room. So far all I’ve done is convince everyone else in the room that I’m radioactive.

Also, completely inept.

“Um, Delaney?” Amber says, her voice all syrupy sweet. She holds up a stack of documents fresh off the printer. “Why do all these FOIA requests say 2118 on them? Last time I checked, it was impossible to request financial documents from the future.”

“Shit,” I mutter, doing a quick CTRL+F search on my laptop to see that, yep, I made that particular mistake a good twenty-seven times. What is wrong with me?

Probably a winning combination of my missing orgasm and my big mouth.

“Sorry,” I say. “I can fix it, one sec.”

“Actually, I already took care of it,” she says. She sounds like she’s talking to a kindergartener, and the sickly-sweet smile on her face tells me it’s 100% intentional. She doesn’t even consider me competition anymore. I’m simply someone to be managed. Tolerated. Maybe even ignored. She wrinkles her nose at me. “Why don’t you go take a break, ok?”

Why don’t you shove it up your tight little ass?Is what I want to say — which is what I would say — if I hadn’t given Amber the upper hand on a silver platter. In any other circumstance I’d clap back at her so hard her teeth would rattle. But today I can’t seem to muster even a speck of confidence. I’m just the girl who can’t have an orgasm, after all.

I suck in a breath to avoid the tears that I know are just seconds away, and nod. I push back from the table, and soundlessly slink out the door.

My first instinct is to go hide in the bathroom for a while, maybe even let myself have the good cry I know is coming. But as I pass the break room, I notice it’s empty. And there’s a display of snacks that rivals the 7/11 at the end of my block. Instead of a good cry, maybe a good sugar binge will do the trick.

I step into the gleaming white room, marveling at the white marble counter tops and stainless-steel appliances, but also shivering at the sterile nature of the room, of the entire building. Nothing about Scour is meant to make you feel comfortable. I wonder again if it’s a productivity strategy, if this is how they’ve managed to overtake the entire tech industry in under a decade.

The fridge in the corner is the size of a Cadillac. A touch-screen the size of an iPad displays an endless scroll of tweets from the company feed. I pull it open and grab a can of Coke, pausing for a moment in front of the frigid air that bursts out. Maybe this will help me stop fucking sweating.

On the counter, everything is in clear glass containers, like at a fancy candy store, silver scoops in porcelain bowls at their feet. I take one of the clear cellophane bags and start scooping: Swedish fish, gummy bears, M&Ms, mini snickers bars, malted milk balls, something that I hope isn’t chocolate covered raisins (because gross), and those things that looks like chocolate chips with sprinkles on them. I don’t know why, but getting a stomach ache or a cavity (or both) sounds like a really good idea right now.

My bag is so full that I have to use both hands to lift it. When I get back to the conference room, I know Amber is going to have something snide to say about my haul, but you know what? Fuck her. It can’t get any worse at this point, so I might as well drown my sorrows in a metric ton of sugar.

I turn around to hustle back, but am stopped by some kind of brick wall that’s been erected right in the middle of the break room. I drop my bag, the sugary contents spilling out the top. Milk balls roll across the floor, disappearing under the fridge. I look down to see my candy resting atop a pair of brown leather lace-up hiking boots. My eyes move upwards, following the line of dark skinny jeans, to an cool blue cashmere sweater, and then up … and up, until I finally connect with a pair of ice blue eyes, now narrowed at me.

Not a brick wall in the break room.

Nixon Blake.

Shit.

I want to bend down and clean up the mess. I want to take a step back, so I’m not pressed up against his rock hard chest. I want to apologize, or run far, far away. But I’m rooted to the ground, the force of his gaze gluing my feet to the floor. The only part of me that’s moving is my beating heart, which I’m sure must be pounding so hard it’s causing my chest to heave. But his eyes don’t leave mine, which only serves to make every part of me feel warm and wanting. Oh god, I want him. Because that’s what I need right now. To stand here in front of Nixon Blake and soak my panties. Fantastic.

We stand there for what feels like forever, and I realize that he’s daring me to make the first move. He’s not going to let me off the hook. Not for this, and probably not for what I said earlier. If I weren’t so freaked out, I’d file it away as another billionaire CEO strategy, the perfect way to get the upper hand.

I finally manage to gather my wits and take a step back, then I drop to the floor and start scooping up candy by the fistful and deposit it back into the bag still clutched in my fist.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter.

“Good first day?” He asks. When I look up (way up … Jesus this man is tall), I see that the corner of his mouth is quirked up. A smirk.

I can feel heat rush to my cheeks. I’m probably as red as Colin, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Fine,” is all I can muster in response, because I’m sure my face tells a different story.

“Are you sure there’s not a problem?”

I’m still on my hands and knees, chasing M&Ms. What the fuck do you think? The response is right there on the tip of my tongue, but I think I’ve said more than enough to get me in trouble. Being a smartass to the owner of the company is probably not a good decision at this juncture. Not when I’m already dealing with peak embarrassment. Not when I’m playing fourth chair at a competitive internship, letting someone like Amber take over the group when I know — I know — that this job is mine to lose. I worked my ass off to get here, and I was ready to thoroughly dominate. I should be the one ordering Amber around.

But I can’t say any of that. I can’t tattle. It sounds weak. It is weak. And Nixon definitely would not be impressed with that. Boss bitches don’t tattle. They take. They lead. And I’m a boss bitch.

Until today.

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