Page 41 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

I was late meeting Ace for lunch. Yes, the same lunch I had decidednotto go to earlier. Also, Glenda’s replacement wasn’t here yet! I didn’t have a bra. Did the boutique have a delivery service? Unlikely.Don’t panic.I just needed to call Ace and inform him I’d be late.

In the middle of my panic, my cell chimed with a message from Damon.

Damon:How about lunch today?

Me:Sorry, can’t. Already have plans.

Damon:Okay. Call you later this week. Let’s meet up soon.

17

STELLA

Iwas still busy catastrophizing when the front desk’s phone rang. Quickly, I scooped it up from its switch hook and pressed it against my ear. “Windsor Architects, this is Stella speaking. How can I help you?” As I said it, I realized the number flashing across the telephone’s small gray LED screen was Ace’s extension. I broke out in a cold sweat and my knees grew weak.What a noob!

“It’s Ace.” His voice rumbled through the speaker like an avalanche down a mountain pass. “How are you doing down there? Are you still joining me for lunch?” His tone made it clear he didn’t like to be kept waiting.

“I’m so, so sorry.” I sat bolt upright, and with my free hand tried to tame an unruly curl that was swooping into my view. “I didn’t realize it was so late already. I’ve been so busy that I lost track of time. I promise, I’m normally very punctual. My mom always used to say, ‘Fifteen minutes early is on time, on time is late,’ and I’ve always kind of agreed with her that—”

“Stella. You can apologize to me in person,” he rumbled, an almost growl-like quality to his voice. It was an animalistic sound that queued the return of the strange tingling sensations I was starting to become all too familiar with.

“All right,” I said breathily.

“You’ve got five minutes to get here.”

Oh, no.

He didn’t say what would happen if I didn’t arrive on time, but I was sure I didn’t want to find out. Despite my affinity for Ace, as a boss I found him rather intimidating—and perhaps even a little scary.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m just waiting for the replacement to get here.” It was right then that a gray-haired woman in an elegant blue dress suit came rushing through the door. She gave me an apologetic smile that made me realize she was the woman sent by the agency. “Oh, here she is. As soon as she is settled, I’ll be right up,” I assured him.

“Good.” With that, he ended the call.

The elderly staffing agency’s replacement receptionist made her way over to me. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic. I’m Willette Washington. Systematic Staff Solutions Inc. sent me.”

“Hey, I’m Stella Copeland.” I leaped out of the red office chair. “Thanks so much for coming. Let me show you how the telephone system works and—”

“Honey, I’ve been working reception since you were in diapers. Trust me, you don’t need to show me anything.”

“Excellent.”

“Honey, I was just kidding. I’m notthatold. Although my grandkids would differ.” Willette smiled mischievously, slipped past me (with an awkward but hilarious hip and belly touch), and sat down in the red office chair. “I was sent to man the reception desk over here last week, so I know how everything works.”

“Oh, you’re funny,” I said, smiling. “Well, I’m Mr. Windsor’s new assistant.” Before I excused myself, I informed her that Mr. Windsor’s receptionist was out, and his calls were to be sent to his voicemail. “Let me know if you need help with anything else. I’ve gotta run to meet him.”

She nodded. “We’ll work it out somehow. Don’t let him wait. He hates to wait, so I’ve heard.”

I grabbed hold of my handbag and dashed across the foyer toward the elevator. My breasts seemed to bounce with every step I took.Damn bra!

Five minutes, he’d said.Well, he can wait, I thought in a moment of silent rebellion, praying that the elevator wouldn’t take an age and a half to arrive.

The elevator doors opened as soon as I pressed the button. Yes! I hit the button for the 8th floor. An instrumental version of Guns and Roses’ “November Rain” was playing. Examining my reflection in my little hand mirror, I reapplied my lip gloss and wiped at a clump of mascara on one of my lower lashes. The doors slid open again just as the part played where Axl Rose would normally sing about how love was always coming—and always going.

I slipped through the doors and turned left, and this time, I didn’t pause to read the silver name plaques on the doors that lined the hallway, nor did I stop to admire the artwork on display. All I did was fly down the hallway, at what could only be described as “warp speed.”

If anything, at least I would be in great shape after all this.

One of the office doors that lined the hallway swung open, and an elderly man with a fun mustache stuck his head through it. “No running in the hallways,” he shouted at me, triggering an array of middle and high school flashbacks.

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