Page 1 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

ACE

IT STARTED GOING TITS-UP AT TALIA’S

“You weren’t in love with her, were you?” my buddy Miles asked with a cocky grin on his face.

“Don’t be stupid,” I grumbled and directed my gaze toward Gracie, the bustling bartender a few yards away, hoping she’d spot me. She didn’t. “She was anassistant.” I emphasized the last word and noticed that Miles didn’t follow immediately. It must have been the lead he had on me beer-wise because he wasn’t usually that slow on the uptake. “Sex and work don’t mix,” I continued. “Besides, I’m not looking to get involved. But I do need a new assistant.”

“Dude, getting an assistant is not that fucking hard,” Miles argued, and next to him, Oliver nodded in agreement.

“Then you’ve probably never tried to find a trustworthy and not completely incompetent assistant. Agencies, headhunters—they all keep putting me off. I need an assistant now, not in three months. My paperwork is piling up, my calendar is about to explode—I don’t get shit done.”

Being back in New York was daunting in its own way—never mind the fact my personal life also needed a complete makeover. At least I had three people back in my life I trusted, even though they got on my nerves. Damon. Oliver. Miles.

Damon had been the first of the group to befriend me when we were in college. The guy was a straight-talking, strait-laced businessman—incredibly driven—with a love for bikes, not unlike me. Miles and Oliver were brothers. Oliver was what you’d best describe as the watchful, protective kind, and, well, Miles was just the same fun-loving dude he’d always been. A real jokester. Unfiltered and snarky.

It felt good to be with the boys again.

Back then, Talia’s had been our favorite place to hang out: an old-school biker bar in the city, unchanged since it had reopened in the early ’80s, with several pool tables in the back. The beer used to be too warm for my taste, and it still was—I guessed some things never changed—but we liked going there anyway.

“What about the smart lady who sat in during our last meeting?” Damon asked. “Why don’t you get her more involved?”

“Mrs. Mills doesn’t have the architectural background that’s needed.”

“Look on the bright side,” Miles said. “At least you’re not getting bent over your boss’s desk by a delivery guy.”

Oliver erupted into raucous laughter. He raised his fist to Miles, but Miles faked him out and then pulled his hand away. In return, Oliver put Miles in a headlock and roared, “Not this time, brother. Not this time.” Even Damon smirked, which was saying something. The dude rarely smiled.

“Hey…guys?” a sugary-sweet voice asked from behind me. I swiveled in my seat, only to notice a face I didn’t recognize, holding a tray. “Can I offer you boys a shot?”

Oliver turned his head. “It depends on who’s offering.”

“The company I work for is sponsoring it.” The chick parted her red lips in a cheeky smile to reveal a mouthful of blindingly white teeth. “We’re supposed to offer customers shots when we’re not…dancing.” She threw a sassy wink at Oliver, then at Miles.

“Dancing?” Miles peered at the woman with a curious expression. “Since when does Talia’s have strippers?”

“It’s notthatkind of dancing.” She playfully slapped his arm, flipped her long ash-blonde ponytail over her shoulder, and rested her left hand on her hip. Her bright-green nail polish matched her green T-shirt perfectly. With her gaze, she directed our eyes from the top of her shirt to her tits, making each of us look down.

A white slogan sprawled across her curves in a thick Non-Serif:

Get Hot for Some Shots

The letter “O” in “Hot” was a fire emoji.

At first, I was certain that somewhere out there, a wannabe marketing executive had been mulling this little catchphrase over in his mind for weeks and was likely feeling immensely proud of it. Second, I asked myself how effective the slogan was—compared to the short-cut shirt that almost exposed her nipples.

“Strippers take offallof their clothes,” the dancer explained, giving Miles another sultry wink. “Wedon’t undress all the way…”

“You only undress a little bit?” Amusement swung in Miles’s voice, meaning, “Girl, you’re basically naked as it is.”

“Yeah,” she chirped. “It’s a new thing the bar is trying out—you know, to get some new faces in here. So, are you boys going to have some shots, or are you a bunch ofchickens?” She shifted her gaze and stared straight at me.

She hadn’t addressed me because she thoughtIwas a chicken. No. Clearly, she recognized the decision maker of the group.

“Sure, we’ll have some shots,” I decided, making up my mind on behalf of the four of us. “But right after we’re done here, I need you to find our waitress and ask her how long a man has to wait for a refill around here. Our glasses have been empty for ages.”

“I second that,” Oliver added.

“Who’s your waitress?”

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