Page 40 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

I knelt to retrieve my piece of fake jewelry. Just as I wrapped my fingers around the earring’s shiny circumference, a loudsnapmade me gasp. My breasts bounced (and not in a good way), and I instantly knew what had gone wrong: my bra’s clasp had broken. I could feel its well-padded cups brushing against my tender skin as I stood up.Shitshitshit. What was I going to do? I hooked my earring back into my earlobe, all fidgety. Were all of my work outfits going to be this disastrous?

Still kinda slouched down and hiding behind the desk, I committed to taking my bra off through one of my dress sleeves. In the middle of just that, the elevator pinged.Are you kidding me? Now? I wish I could hide under this desk…I had to hurry. In my mind, not wearing a bra was better than wearing a bra that was tunneling around in my dress like a lost mole. At the speed of light, I wriggled both arms out of the bra’s straps and stuck one of my hands down my dress’s neckline in order to remove the malfunctioning undergarment. Whipping it out, I momentarily brandished it in front of me like a victorious gladiator holding his opponent’s severed head aloft.

“Stella?” A stern male voice sounded from above me.

All the blood in my veins went ice cold, but I quickly got up (being the professional that I was), the lacy bra clasped in my fist.I’d like to die now, but I don’t have time.

“Hello again,” Ace said, his baritone like warm honey, deep and thick.

Omg, had he seen me doing what I did?

“Oh! Hello! I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon,” I joked. Immediately, I stashed my bra behind my back and tucked a stray curl behind my ear. His gaze hovered over what I held in my hand, but he didn’t acknowledge or mention the strange stance he found me in. I could hear my pulse. I gulped. “Uhm… Fortunate, isn’t it? This time, no collision. Ha-ha. What are the odds?” I laughed awkwardly and tried to avoid making eye contact with him, my sweaty hand holding my bra. I wanted to sit down instead of just standing there, but then he would notice that I was hiding something in my hand, so I remained standing.

For a few seconds he stood tall and handsome, staring at me, assessing me. I could feel heat radiating off of him. “I had to grab something from my car.” He tilted his chin toward a large folder under his arm. “Have you made plans for lunch yet? I had a meeting at 12:30, but it got postponed.” His voice boomed, drawing me back to reality. “If you have no other plans, you can join me in my office, and we can have lunch together.”

I gulped. He was asking me to a private meeting, just like he’d done in my fantasy—in the masturbating fantasy.

No. Sorry. Can’t.

“I’d like that,” I said, still trying not to make eye contact to minimize my embarrassment over the “bra incident” and the sudden memory of climaxing to him earlier. “How do you take your coffee? I’ll bring you a cup,” I offered, completely out of context.

“Black. No sugar. But I’m good. I’ll let you know when I want coffee.”

My knees wobbled under my weight as I lost myself in his Arctic-blue gaze. “Oh, okay.”

“I’m on my way to the 7th floor to meet with our executive team. I would like all of my calls sent to voicemail.”

“Got it,” I said, wringing my hands together. “Easy.”

Before the doors closed again, I looked back at Ace, who had stepped inside the elevator. He nodded at me just before they did, but there wasn’t enough time to return the gesture. Shuffling my bra from one hand to the other, I stared at the thing and shook my head. There were no words to describe how relieved I was that he hadn’t insisted on showing him what I was holding.

Sitting back down, I took the opportunity to compose myself. My first mission was to discard my broken bra in my handbag. I had a moment of silence for my fallen comrade before grabbing my small round folding vintage mirror from one of the side pockets. After opening it, I examined myself, readjusted the bobby pins in my hair, and used my thumb to wipe away a line of smudged mascara under my eye.

Satisfied that my makeup looked almost as good as it had when I’d left the house, I looked down at my outfit.

My dress was immaculate, but I worried a sharp-eyed onlooker might be able to see my nipples through its satin-like material. Making sure that nobody was in the foyer (especiallyhim), I hopped up and down on my chair for good measure to gauge how much “chest movement”—to put it euphemistically—my dress would facilitate. I realized that the answer was “more than I’d like” and frowned. Did I have my scarf with me? No. Damn it. But it wasn’t like I would be hopping around on my chair. “You’re going to forget all about Ace Windsor. You’ll let him know you won’t be able to meet him for lunch, and you’ll avoid him entirely until you’ve grabbed a bra from the boutique one block downandthis silly feeling subsides,” I sternly whispered, wagging my index finger at myself in the mirror. “He’s your boss, and you’re not going to allow yourself to fantasize about him.”

Having given myself the antithesis of a pep talk, I breathed out. It wasn’t long before clients started calling and coming through the door.

Ring-ring.

“Hello, good morning, thank you for calling Windsor Architects. This is Stella speaking. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to and what can I do for you today?”

“Ecclestone Construction for Mr. Windsor,” a deep male voice stated.

“Mr. Windsor is unavailable. May I put you through to his voicemail?”

“Thank you.”

The name “Ecclestone Construction” sounded vaguely familiar, and not necessarily in a good way, but in my bustle, I couldn’t place it. The hours passed in a blur of strange faces and voices. When I wasn’t drowning in a perpetual ocean of walk-in customers waiting to meet one of our reps, I was busy tending to the barrage of phone calls that were streaming in through Windsor Architects’ telephone system.

I connected calls, sent them to voicemail when required, and even answered a number of questions without any help. I was feeling confident that I was, indeed, doing a great job. Actually, I was having fun!

* * *

By the time that I wiggled the computer mouse on the reception desk again, its screen read 12:35 p.m.

Oh, no.

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