Page 2 of Heartless Boss
This place is as alive as a rock concert.
The line is so long my back is pressed to the door. I stand behind a guy in a gray suit with his phone glued to his ear.
The only good thing about working at the Underwood Banking Headquarters is getting discounts on certain coffee shops, chain restaurants, and their gym.
If I had a choice to be anything but a personal assistant, I would be a pastry chef with my own bakery, slapping smiles on customers’ faces with my sweet treats. But, sadly, student loans from an incomplete degree bury me in a mountain of debt, keeping me from opening my own business.
So I’m stuck waiting for the next chapter to come.
I’ve been working for the wolf in the suit for a whole two months, and it hasn’t been a walk in a park.
I can’t do anything right.
Last week, he dang near bit my head off because I didn’t tell the delivery guy to make sure his steak didn’t touch his mac and cheese, so he tossed the food into the trash and made me reorder his lunch.
I don’t know how his last PA put up with his crap. If I could find a job that pays more than my current salary, I’d leave this one in the dust.
Point blank—this job is like prison, you do your time and you get out.
The line moves, and I stand in front of the granite counter. Tina is slouched behind the register, greeting me with a perky smile. Pimples dot her face, and her inky black hair is piled into a high ponytail that sways back and forth.
“Does Mr. Underwood want the usual?” Her voice is soft, and her pale cheeks turn pink. She wears a smile on her face as wide as the ocean. It’s cute that she has the biggest crush on him. If only she knew the real Gunner, she wouldn’t be so smitten with him. I think most women who work here want him. Too bad he isn’t all that pretty on the inside.
“Yeah,” I say, slapping a fake smile on my face.
She parades to the black machine, clutching the pot, and pours his coffee into a tall brown cup with the Underwood Banking logo stamped across it. She slides the cup onto the counter while her long bony finger taps the cash register.
“One large cup of joe, black. Tell Mr. Underwood I said hey.” The register dings, spitting out the drawer, and she pushes it back with her hip.
“Will do,” I murmur before rushing out of the café.
When I make it back to his office, I set the cup on his glass desk while he’s talking on the phone. I nibble on my bottom lip, waiting to tell him about his next meeting. His office is bigger than my shoebox apartment. He has a huge bathroom with a shower, a toilet, and an eating area with a mini-fridge stocked with Gatorade and water. His desk is clean, bare, and boring. A wide window showcases the skyscrapers of the city, Brooklyn, and the Statue of Liberty. It’s like looking at New York City from a bird’s-eye view.
Rolling his eyes, he slams the phone down on the desk, grabs his cup, and takes a long sip. “Took you long enough.”
“You have a meeting with Darien Casey about American Banking in thirty minutes,” I say as annoyance drips from my words.
I turn on the balls of my feet, go to my office, pack up my HP laptop in my pink bag, and head to the massive conference room located on the twentieth floor.
Darien peers up at me, flashing me his straight white teeth. He sits at the long white table, and I take my seat across from him, setting my laptop on the table and hitting the power button.
“Where’s dickweed?” His tone is as serious as a heart attack. I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from bursting out laughing.
I like Darien more than Gunner—he’s more laid-back and doesn’t act as if he has a stick up his butt all the time—but he’s anal about certain things. Two weeks ago, we had a business meeting at the River Cafe, and after we finished eating, he collected all our dishes and stacked them on top of each other because he hates looking at messes. He curses like a sailor and wears his arrogance on his sleeve. I have three words to describe him: Tall. Dark. Handsome.
His hair is inky black, his skin is naturally golden, and his eyes are stormy gray. He isn’t wearing a tailored suit like he usually does at meetings. Today, he’s wearing a tight, white shirt that hides his six-pack and black denim jeans.
He’s happily married to Alana, Gunner’s sister. She’s supermodel-gorgeous and pregnant, due any day now. I would bet my whole paycheck their child will turn out so pretty she’ll be able to star in a Carter’s Clothing commercial.
“In his office.”
“He better hurry the fuck up, I have shit to do.”
“Shut the fuck up. You’ll wait if I want you to wait,” Gunner’s voice booms as he slams through the conference room door. The scent of cinnamon wafts through the air and is almost intoxicating. My heart tingles in my chest and something tugs deep inside my lower belly. Slowly, I scoot my chair away from his.
“In case you forgot, I have to meet with my very moody, pregnant wife at a birthing class.”
“Grow a pair and stop letting Alana boss you around,” Gunner says, resting his arms on the back of my plastic chair.
