Page 22 of The CEO I Hate

“And where are you going?” Paula asked.

“To look for our no-show,” I said, crossing the room and slipping out the door. I marched down the hall of the creative wing, all the way to security at the front desk of the studio lot.

“Hey, Boss,” JT called as I approached his office. My head of security had been working here for years. Graying at both temples, people mistook him for a jolly St. Nick type. That was only until he opened his mouth and told them off. We’d always gotten along well.

I glanced at the bank of computer screens he oversaw. “I’m looking for a new employee. Mia Collins. Has she been past security yet?”

He scanned his clipboard. “Sure has. She signed in about thirty-five minutes ago.”

So much for the theory that she’d gotten stuck in traffic. “Any idea where she is?”

He shook his head. “I gave her a visitor’s pass since she hasn’t had a chance to get her ID from HR. Asked her if she needed directions and she told me no.”

Of course. Typical Mia. Growing up with risk-averse parents and an overprotective brother, she’d become independent to a fault. “She hasn’t turned up to work yet.”

He rolled his chair across his office, scanning the screens with the focus of a bloodhound. “There,” he said. “Camera fifty-two. She’s got herself over by post-production. Looks like she just passed the sound mixing department.”

“Thanks,” I said, giving him a nod. I turned, marching back down the hall. What the hell was she doing all the way over by post-production? At this rate, she’d stumble across one of the sound stages and right into the midst of a live production.

When I rounded the end of the next hall, I spotted that head of dark hair, her curls pulled up just the way I liked them. She’d traded her black interview pants for a pair of jeans that made her ass a very distracting problem.

But it wasn’t just Mia that caught my attention.

She was crouched on the floor, one hand scratching behind the ears of a very scruffy, very unbothered mutt. Some kind of terrier mix with one ear flopped sideways and a suspiciously dramatic overbite. The dog looked like it belonged in a buddy cop show or a ramen ad, not loose on a studio lot.

Mia, of course, was beaming at it like she’d just discovered a baby unicorn.

I shook my head, tearing my gaze away from the jeans. And the curls. And the dog.

“Mia!” I snapped.

She stopped short, turning sharply, eyes wide like a kid caught stealing cookies. The mutt immediately sat down next to her, tongue lolling out like it gave zero shits about my authority.

“You’re late.” I checked my watch. “Over thirty minutes late now. And what the hell are you doing out here?”

Her eyes narrowed as she stomped toward me, a scowl fixed on her face. Every one of her steps screamed that this was allmyfault. “I was early. You can check with security. I signed in with plenty of time. It’s notmyfault this place is a damn maze!”

“It’s a straightforward studio.” I pointed down the hall. “You’ve got development—which is where you’re supposed to be. Post-production—where you’re currently wandering. And production.” I pointed in the opposite direction. “How hard is that?”

“How hard is that?Really?” She gestured around wildly. “Then why does every wing of this building look the same? Why are none of the doors labeled in a way that makes any sense? And why do none of the halls have decent signage? I’ve been in theme parks with less confusing layouts.”

I scowled at her. “Why didn’t you ask someone for directions?”

“I did!” she snapped. “Twice. And I still got turned around. I went past Stage 7, Building C, and something that looked like a prop graveyard before I realized I was going in circles.”

“Well, Gretel, maybe you should have left yourself a trail of breadcrumbs.”

“Sure, Smiles,” she huffed. “Or, and hear me out, you could do the decent thing and just put up actual signs to let people know where they are and give them some prayer of figuring out where they’re going.”

“Let’s just go,” I said, leading her away from post-production. “You’ve already kept everyone waiting long enough. The writers, Paula,me?—”

She stalked along beside me, her boots hitting the floor, sharp and clipped. Every step radiated irritation. “Well, excuse me for not thinking to bring a GPS device and a personal sherpa to navigate your poorly designed building.”

I scoffed. “It is not poorly designed.”

“Then it’sincrediblypoorly labeled!”

Behind us, the softpat pat patof claws echoed against the tile.

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