Page 26 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

“We shall see,” I said, turning back around. “I’ve still got other applicants to interview before I make my decision.”

“How many have you already interviewed?” she asked.

“Many.”

“How many? More than twenty?”

“Fifteen.”

“Then I guess I must be lucky number sixteen.” She smiled.

“It was nice to see you again, Stella.” I approached, offering her my hand. “We’ll let you know the outcome of your application either way. You may return to the foyer.”

“It was nice seeing you too, Ace.” She took my hand, and I shook it. “I know you’re a busy man. I’ll wait for your call. I just know you’ll end up choosing me.”

“You do?”

“I do. Today’s my lucky day, remember?” She beamed, letting go of my hand and flipping her curly brown hair over her shoulder. I watched as she turned and left the room, her hips swaying seductively with every step she took.

Just like they had on that summer day when she’d blown me that kiss.

10

ACE

The end of the day came faster than it usually did. The late afternoon sun dangled lazily above the horizon as I packed my briefcase, shoving an assortment of documents and my laptop into it.

Mrs. Mills, the office manager and my receptionist, who now more or less acted as my fill-in assistant for the time being, came storming down the hallway as I closed my office door behind me. Her long skirt fluttered behind her like a banner as she rushed in my direction. She was a straightforward, lively, and incredibly vivid widow in her 60s, who had immediately jumped in to offer her help when she’d heard of the discrepancy. Even though she lacked the necessary architectural background, in her ad hoc stand-in, Mrs. Mills had proved to be invaluable in assisting me anywhere she could, including the paperwork needed for the acquisition.

“Mr. Windsor! Mr. Windsor,” she exclaimed, a smile spreading across her face, deepening the heavy lines at the edges of her mouth and around her gray eyes. “Congratulations on landing the Children’s hospital project with the new OBGYN clinic. We received written confirmation. Also, Mr. Garfield just agreed to a meeting. Seems like it’s your lucky da-ay!”

“Thanks, Mrs. Mills.”

“Oh, speaking of lucky day—how did your interview with that Copeland girl go? Was she as promising as you thought she’d be?”

Mrs. Mills had no problem matching my step as I strode toward the elevator that would take me to the underground parking lot where I’d left my Sián. “It went well,” I said. “She seems competent enough.”

“So, you’re going to hire her?” Mrs. Mills’ eyes were the size of saucers.

“We’ll see.” I pressed the silver button to summon the elevator and waited. Its doors slid open, but Mrs. Mills was still hovering at my side, waiting for my decision. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I told her. “Good night, Mrs. Mills.”

“You should tell that girl you’re hiring her before she finds other employment,” Mrs. Mills shouted after me as I stepped inside the elevator. The doors slid closed again, but I could still hear her. “Good assistants are hard to fiii-ind!”

* * *

My Sián’s leather seat felt smooth and familiar as I slid into the Lamborghini, and its steering wheel’s curve fit into the palm of my hand like we were made for each other. The drive home was uneventful. In fact, I couldn’t remember much about it—“highway hypnosis” was that the official term?—flying past the other cars without any recollection of doing so.

Making my way back through traffic, I continued to run a cost-profit analysis in my head. There weren’t many memories of Damon’s sister I could recall, but one stood out: I vividly remembered her having an almost unhealthy fascination with books. Back then, it seemed to me as if she had a book obsession. It was only later that I learned that she clung to those books because they had been her late mother’s.

Despite having urgent projects to think through, I moved on from reminiscing about Stella Copeland’s reading habits and recalled an event where she’d rescued an injured pigeon from the side of the road. I hadn’t personally witnessed it, but Damon had recounted the tale to us. Apparently, the Copeland family had been en route to Disney in Florida when young Stella witnessed the truck in front of them speeding over a bird that had found itself sitting in the middle of the road. According to Damon, she forced their parents to pull over and dashed across the busy highway to retrieve it.

Instead of riding rides and eating Disney delicacies, she spent their Disney vacation cooped up in the hotel room, where she’d smuggled the pigeon, nursing it back to health. At least nobody could blame her for not having kindness, humility, or empathy, and a big heart for birds.The latter in particular was not a qualification for the job as my personal assistant, but the fact she had gotten both her parents and big brother to bend to her will was different. It seemed like Stella Copeland had been assertive even as a young girl.

My apartment on the Upper East Side had designated underground parking, much like Windsor Architects offered. Once I parked my car in the spot that bore a sign: “Penthouse Apt,” it was a short walk from there to the elevator that would take me straight up to my floor, after I punched in the security code.

“There you are,” Tilly squealed as soon as I opened the front door and strolled through. My sister had been living with me since my nephew’s birth three weeks ago. Teddy, as he had affectionately been named by her, resembled a chubbier version of my father, but had Tilly and my mother’s soft blue eyes.

Both of my parents had moved to France to retire a few months after Tilly and I had gone off to college. My mother said that there was more to do there for two retirees than there was in the States, but I didn’t think that was quite true. If anything, my mother moved to France for the wine. She had always been a self-proclaimed “wine mom”—the kind of woman who had a selection of red, white, and rosé for guests to choose from at every birthday party and special occasion, just so she wouldn’t have to drink alone. My mother wasn’t an alcoholic—“hedonist” was probably a more accurate description. After all, France had the longest history of winemaking. The most expensive bottle of wine ever sold at auction was a seventy-three-year-old bottle of French Burgundy, fetching a whopping $558,000.

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