Page 7 of Working For A Billionaire

"Come in," he orders impatiently.

He doesn’t look up from his computer as I walk in and sit, waiting to hear where’s the fire. Since we returned from Vegas last month, Harrison has been doing everything possible to keep me out of the office. I know why. He doesn’t want to talk about what happened, and honestly, neither do I. It was one of those things you’d rather forget, because it could create trouble.

Not that I didn’t have fun. I did, but sleeping with your boss shouldn’t be in your job description.

I am not complaining. Not even a little bit. Being at work has helped keep my mind off things, like the constant repairs in my apartment. Hell, most days, I can barely keep my head above the surface.

That being said, I can still tell when he is stressed. His shoulders are always tense, his voice clipped, and he keeps himself busy at every opportunity.

"Shawn Anderson should be here shortly. When he gets here, let me know. I left a list on your desk. See that you finish everything today."

"Yes, sir," I say, nodding my head, trying to keep within the confines of our professional relationship.

That one-night stand has been forgotten like it never happened. A part of me is grateful not to have to go through that awkward talk. Yet another part of me secretly wishes it would happen again, regardless of the consequences.

My to-do list sits on my desk, written in red marker. If the day goes anything like the morning, I will need as much time as possible to complete everything.

"Well, it's nice to see you haven't run away yet," I hear Mr. Anderson say as he approaches my desk ten minutes later.

"Not yet." A wave of nausea washes over me as I look up to greet him, and I cover my mouth with my hand until it passes. "Sorry, I’ve had a rough few days."

"Yeah, I can see you are not feeling well," he says with a sympathetic smile. "Maybe you should see a doctor."

He looks genuinely concerned, which is more than I can say for the rest of the world these days. I force myself to smile back at him.

"It's just a stomach bug, nothing serious. I am sure it will pass soon."

"Oh, that's too bad," he says, shaking his head. "For a second, you reminded me of my daughter, Gabby. She is eight weeks pregnant, and if you don’t mind my phrasing, she’s been feeling sick as a dog lately."

Pregnant? Ugh. God forbid.

"Congratulations," I reply, trying to sound sincere while focusing on keeping my breakfast down.

"Thank you. I hope you feel better soon."

"Thank you. I hope your daughter’s nausea passes soon, so she can enjoy her pregnancy,” I smile, returning the compliment. "I will let Mr. Rutherford know you are here."

Mr. Anderson nods his head. "Okay."

I knock on Harrison’s door, but there is no response. I hear his voice from the inside, figuring that he must be on a call. I wait a little nervously, until I’m finally called in, and I inform him that Mr. Anderson has arrived.

"Send him in," he says, barely glancing in my direction.

I exit the office and gesture for Mr. Anderson to go in, pretending I'm not bothered by his disinterest. The bubbly man smiles at me as he passes me.

When the door closes behind him, I put my head down at my desk for a second as everything starts to spin.

What is going on? A part of me wonders if I ate something bad. I don't remember ever feeling this sick before. Why am I suddenly feeling so faint?

I push the thoughts from my mind. It’s probably nothing. Just stress.

I lift my head again, trying to focus on the list of errands, but all I can think about is how amazing Harrison looks this morning, wearing a gray dress shirt paired with black slacks and shiny loafers. He is far too handsome to have such an awful personality.

Once Mr. Anderson leaves, I start crossing off tasks, determined to complete them all before the end of the day. Between scheduling meetings, picking up dry cleaning, and jumping every time the boss calls, I completely forget about eating.

Suddenly, my mind turns blank, and everything goes dark. When I open my eyes, I am sitting on the floor, staring at my shoes. I blink several times, trying to clear the fuzzy fog that has invaded my brain. My stomach feels like I am going to be violently ill, and my body aches all over.

When everything stops spinning, I start to get up, but my body feels weak. Still disoriented and confused, I look around the parking garage and realize I don't remember returning to my car. I must have passed out. A horrible way to end a horrible day.

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