Page 16 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

Me:Kiss emoji.

He better get back to me.I flopped down onto my bed. Hugging one of my pillows, I started wondering whether Ace was reading my résumé right this second, perhaps even staring at the picture of me I’d selected.

My phone didn’t vibrate again, and I shuffled out of the room, heading straight to my cozy home office. My laptop’s fan was humming loudly. “Don’t die on me there, little buddy,” I whisper-begged as I plopped myself down onto the chair behind my desk. “It’s not warm enough today for you to be making that racket, and I can’t replace you if you succumb to heat stroke.”

Before I could help myself, I had opened Google and typed “Ace Windsor” into the search bar.

Within seconds, Google regurgitated hundreds of pages related to “Ace Windsor.” The search result at the top of the list was a link to Windsor Architects’ website. After scanning through the first page, I clicked on a link at the top that read, “Meet our Team.”

Ace’s picture was the first thing that appeared as the new webpage started to load.

No. Impossible. That wasnothim.

Squinting, I adjusted my glasses.

The guy in the photo didn’t look good. He looked hotter than hot. Burning. Those eyes.Stunning.Piercing.Mesmerizing.

Under the photo, it read, “Founder and CEO, Ace Windsor.”

For a few seconds, I tried to calm my thundering heart. He was sporting a cheeky smile across a pair of rather handsome lips. His dirty-blond hair partially obscured one of his icy-blue eyes and stuck up rebelliously in the middle. It was like his eyes held all the stars in the universe and one look into them enchanted you for the rest of your life. And that jawline, girl, it was lick-worthy perfection. Ace was wearing a dark-blue tie, and a pastel-blue dress shirt that was particularly tight over his broad chest and muscular biceps. It was almost so tight that it was transparent in places, revealing an array of tattoos.

He was a ten without the buts. Maybe even more. No, definitely more. A thousand.

The “jerk” had aged well. He hadn’t turned sour at all, that much was certain. Damn.

After scanning the “Recruiting” section and making sure that, yep, the CEO’s assistant position was still open, and feeling intimidated as could be by the tasks and experience “preferably” required for that position, I calmed myself with the knowledge that I still had a chance because I held one “unique skill” that would set me apart from all the other applicants. The Damon card.

I navigated my way back to Google’s search results and clicked on the second link from the top. It took me to an article about the “Infamous Billionaire Ace Windsor.”

The bold headline read:

Rumors Run Wild as Windsor Engagement is Called Off

According to the article, Ace had been engaged to a woman named Allison Gardener. It contained a picture of them embracing each other on an ivory-white beach. Truth? She was spectacular. Long platinum-blonde hair meeting size zero. She could best have been described as spectacular perfection.So that’s still his type. Not that I cared. The article didn’t say why their engagement had been broken off. All possible scenarios that could cause a woman like her to leave a man like him rushed through my head, but honestly, only one plausible likelihood came to mind. Hewasa self-absorbed douchebag.

Obviously, he was still running around breaking women’s hearts.

She had likely fallen into his trap. I needed to stay away from him—as far as I could, heart-wise.

The final website Google guided me to read:

An Ace up his Sleeve: Ace Windsor Wins Triple Gold

The article was nothing less than a worship of Ace and his performance on his college’s swim team. They’d come first in several regional competitions. I wasn’t too interested in his lap times, and I wasn’t interested in the picture that accompanied them. Not at all. Specifically, the one with him standing bare-chested just in his swimming trunks. I clicked to enlarge it. Then zoomed in on his tattooed pecs and six pack. Then zoomed out a little bit again. Ace was posing with the rest of his team, his arms wrapped around his teammates’ necks in a friendly victory hug. A hundred and ninety-four pounds’ pure strength. His rippling washboard abs started from the “V” peeking out of his Speedo and ended under his bulging muscles. He could have upstaged a Greek god. I tried to force myself to look away, but I couldn’t. Instead, I nonchalantly took another gulp of my water bottle and sat forward in my chair (while glancing back at the “V” disappearing into the speedos), feeling my cotton underwear dampen. “Stop it, Stella!” I practically scolded my own body. “OMG. You’re not in high school anymore. You can’t let him get you this excited.”

Luckily, Ididtake my own advice. I didnotfind myself staring longingly at the photograph of Ace, and I didnotimagine what it would be like to peek inside his trunks at you know what. Most of all, I didnotwonder for even one second what it would be like to be touched by him, by his gorgeous, strong, manly hands. And to feel his undoubtedly big, long, thick you know what—you know where.

Just when my fantasies threatened to steal me away from the real world forever, my phone started ringing again.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw a number I didn’t recognize flash across my screen.

It was him.

Him.

I answered my phone, a little light-headed and frazzled by all the “excitement,” and loudly said, “Stella here! Hi there!” Maybe I sounded ateensybit too overeager. A smidge?

“Am I speaking to Miss Copeland?” a stern female voice asked from the other end of the line.

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