Page 19 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

“No, I’mperfectlycomposed,” I said, throwing the coat hanger I’d used across the room like a boomerang. It landed on Laundry Mountain without making a sound. “I’m the picture of poise and control—can’t you tell?”

“Uh-huh, girl. I know you’re being sarcastic, but the thing is, despite everything, I’ve never seen you shy away from a challenge.”

“But I’m a nervous wreck.”

“Roosevelt said that courage is not the absence of fear,” she said, “but doing stuff even when you’re scared shitless.”

“Yep. I’m sure that’sexactlywhat he said.” I laughed. “I better get going. I’ve still got to do my hair and makeup.”

“Your hair and makeup? Wow, you’re really going all-out for this interview. I can’t wait to hear how it went. But wait—what company is it? You were going to tell me if you got the interview. You got the interview.”

I gulped. “Promise to not get mad.”

“Girl, I’m not promising shit. Spill.”

“Windsor Architects.” I mumbled the words.

“What did you say? Wait. Did you say Windsor Architects…as inAceWindsor Architects?”

“Uh-huh. Maybe.”

“Girl. What the actual fuck? Seriously? You want to behisassistant? Cocky Ace’s assistant? Please tell me you’re kidding. Have you lost your mind? You seem to have forgotten the tears you shed for that ace-hole.” I heard a loud sigh when I didn’t say anything. “Now Ireallycan’t wait to hear how it went.”

“I can’t wait for it to be over either. Bye, Bonnie. Gotta run! Love you!”

“Let’s hope hedoesn’thire you. Love you, girl.”

The room seemed markedly quieter without Bonnie’s voice reverberating through it. Yes, she had a point, and yes, something was clearly wrong with me.

Mascara and lipstick were next on my to-do list. Makeup was non-negotiable when it came to job interviews. (It had nothing to do with Ace.) Also, I had this new lipstick that just looked phenomenal on me. After putting in my contacts, I quickly applied mascara with a few precise flicks of its round brush and finished off my “look” with a single layer of strawberry-red lipstick.

There I stood, examining myself in the mirror. It was understandable why some women made a habit of wearing makeup every day. Maybe I should, as well. Undeniablyhot, that’s how I looked, even if I did say so myself.

I left my hair hanging loose across my shoulders. Good hair day.Jackpot. Usually, when allowed to do as it pleased, my hair hung to the middle of my back in a frizzy sea of messy curls, but I didn’t usually give it free rein to do so. Normally, I wore it in a large bun on top of my head or in a thick low ponytail to stop it from getting tangled, but I was willing to risk any number of tangles to make a good impression at Windsor Architects.

As I put on my coat, I texted Damon, hooked my handbag’s handle in the crook of my arm, and boldly opened my apartment’s door.

Me:I’m leaving now, dork.

Me:Heart emoji.

Damon:Good luck, nerdy birdy.

The sun was shining outside—it was a welcoming sight and I decided to take it as a good omen. The first warm smells of spring were starting to take hold of the morning air: fresh blossoms, dew, and churned earth.

It’ll be warm enough for summer dresses soon, I thought excitedly as I made my way down toward the road that ran in front of my apartment building.

My cab was approaching, or what I hoped would be Jay in my cab. I counted my blessings as it decelerated, carefully coming to a stop next to me.

“At your service, mi’lady! Almost didn’t recognize you without your glasses,” Jay said in his distinctive British accent, leaning out of the cab’s open driver-side window. “That lipstick, though…phwwwhht,”he whistled.

I stepped over a puddle next to the curb, opened one of the cab’s backdoors, and got in.

Jay was my new friend from yoga class who had moved to the States from Hackney Wick, east London, a few years ago, for love. Specifically for Zeke, a sassy and quirky pro-choice guy I’d met at their wedding only a few weeks ago. According to Jay, Zeke used to be a “a dog with two dicks”—translation: a man-whore—but completely became a one-man man after meeting him.

Jay turned down the exotic music he was playing as I made myself comfortable on the back seat. “Where to, love?” he asked, peering back at me.

“Third Avenue in Manhattan, please, darling,” I replied, in a weak Brit accent attempt. “The building is on the corner of East 60th Street. And step on it.”

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