Page 28 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

While I listened to the news, I used a tiny rake to tidy up the loose soil in the pot around my bonsai tree. “A storm’s on the way, and it’s a big ’un!” the weatherman bellowed. “It should hit us by Monday morning. Be sure to keep your raincoats with you, folks! You’re gonna need them.”

I stood up, walked over to my small television, and turned it off. A storm. Sounded like lazy foreshadowing. I’d probably find out I wasn’t hired soon.

It had been 142 hours since my interview with Ace. Over 142 hours of anxious waiting. With each passing hour, I was growing more and more worried that I hadn’t gotten the job. Before I knew it, I was back to trying to find ways to distract myself. My newly acquired bonsai tree was one of them. The day after the interview, I got around to attempting to make éclairs again and burned them. (I got “a little” distracted by the dozenBusiness Insidermagazines I scoured in search of more gossip on Ace Windsor. No luck.) The second day, I binge-watched old Agatha Christie movies. Since then, I’d gotten back into knitting, and had even re-started bird watching in my landlord’s garden. I was busier than ever, but I couldn’t get Ace Windsor out of my mind.

Rrrr. Rrrr.

My cell phone vibrated. Pulling it out of my jeans’ pocket, I unlocked its screen. It was a message from Bonnie.

Bonnie:Hey, girl. So, how did your interview go? Heard back yet?

Me:Not yet. I’m trying to stay positive, but I think they may have decided to go with someone else.Sad face emoji.

Bonnie:Hey, don’t be sad. Remember, he’s ajack-ace!

Me:Maybe he changed.

Bonnie:Ha! Men like him never change. They get worse. That’s what money and power do to people. The second he has you in his monster claws, you’ll see his ugly face. What car does he drive? The more expensive the car, the douchier the guy.

I had no idea what car Ace was driving.

Me:Shrugging no clue emoji.

Bonnie:I’d bet my life and everything I own that he drives a sports car. You’ll be much better off without him. Trust me. You should count your blessings if hedoesn’thire you. Then, you’ll find a better job. Chin up! Love you, girl!Heart emoji.

Me:Love you too.

Me:Heart emoji.

I locked my cell phone’s screen and shoved it back in my pocket. “Oh, bonsai tree,” I said to the little leafy plant sitting in front of me. “What am I going to do?” It didn’t reply.

After a brief yoga routine, I decided it was time to shower. My apartment’s selling point was its spectacular bathroom. The estate agent had called it its “crowning glory,” and he hadn’t exaggerated. It was what had convinced me to rent it in the first place.

The bathroom’s back wall was occupied by a clawfoot bathtub that could comfortably seat an adult elephant. Its shower, which filled a third of the huge room, boasted two showerheads. My beautiful apartment was homey and humble in every department, except for that one room. I supposed that one of its previous owners must have had a “thing” for bathrooms. I liked to imagine it was a seventy-seven-year-old dethroned dowager duchess—I named her Elisabeth of Witherleicester—who poured all of her renovation capital into that room, just to be able to take a bubble bath in majestic surroundings, reminiscing of her time amongst the royals and her secret love for a handsome earl. I had no idea if duchesses took bubble baths, but in my fabulous fantasy, they did. I, for my part, didn’t mind that all her funds had only covered the bathroom. If anything, I was grateful—and optimistic: The only reason the Dowager Duchess of Witherleicester hadn’t renovated the rest of the rooms wasn’t because she had run out of money or miscalculated the cost. It was because her blue-blooded hero had swept her away to his castle on his white steed before she had time to renovate the rest. Thanks to my duchess, I often sought solace in a piping-hot shower or a sudsy bubble bath, basking in the oh-so-very-romantic idea of her life.

The pretty ornate mirror above the bathroom sink was completely steamed up within minutes. Undressing quickly, I peeled off my layers of clothes and placed them on the counter next to the sink. My phone was resting on top of them. I had to keep it close in case Windsor Architects called.

Steam swirled around me like eddies of water around a smooth pebble. I drew a little heart in the steamed-up mirror and then got into the shower. The hot water battered my skin and gave me goosebumps. My head tilted backward, allowing the water to soak my hair and run over my face.

The day’s worries washed off me like dust or dirt.

I’ll be okay even if I don’t get the job. I’ve got everything I need to be happy: Me.

Ring. Riiiiing.

My ringtone drowned out the sound of water running down the drain.

It was him.

Ace.

At least I hoped it was.

Immediately, I wiped shampoo out of my eyes and stumbled out of the shower, butt-naked and covered in soap bubbles. A small voice warned me not to get my hopes up, believing it was him or news about my interview at Windsor Architects. It was probably just Damon or Bonnie. The warning voice didn’t decrease my speed. Unfettered, I slid across the bathroom floor like the world’s most graceful figure skater and collided with the bathroom sink.Ouch! Graceful as a figure skater my bruised ass.

Scooping up my cell that had almost tumbled to the floor from the collision, I noticed that its screen read “Unknown Number.” So, it wasn’t Bonnie or Damon.

My heart fluttered as I answered the call.

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