“There’s nothing to make up for,” I insist.
“Bull. I know your short-term memory isn’t fried. I made you help me lug a sweaty, half-naked drunk guy to his room,” he growls, running a hand across his face.
“And I believe you promised a fat quarterly bonus for that, right? Not a dental disaster, which my niece will thank you for when I hand it off to her.”
“You’ll get your bonus,” he promises. “End of the quarter reviews are next week. I made that promise when I thought I was making a reasonable request from another gentleman, and I’m a man of my word.”
Oh my God.
Hearing Nick talk like an adult—with freaking manners—tells me this isn’t all fake.
He’s not just saving face.
He...he actually feels bad about his bruising mistake, and everything he put me through.
There goes my heart. Then I pinpoint what’s wrong with the latest, very specific apology, and sigh.
“Again with the sexism.” I shake my head in mock offense. “That’s not just me saying it, but HR. I read the handbook my first day.”
“What?” he clips, his eyes going wide.
“Why would it be reasonable to have your short, scrawny male driver lug a drunk guy to his room, but not your petite female driver? Expectations should be equal in all positions, per company policy. If a woman can pull sixteen-hour days assembling ad campaigns in Marketing, then I should’ve been able to help with that request as your driver, no matter what you thought I was.”
His brows pull together, casting this annoyingly handsome expression over him when he’s confused.
“I’m listening. Then why, pray tell, did you—”
“My point is, it wasn’t reasonable, Mr. Brandt. No matter who your driver is.”
Nick flumps back in his seat. “You weren’t this easy to talk to when you were a guy.”
God, that’s what’s at the top of his mind? It’s my turn to laugh.
“Because you never let me talk!”
Thankfully, I’m pulling up to his building and he throws open the door. “See you tomorrow?”
“As always,” I say with a wry smile.
I sigh as he slams the door.
Even though I tell myself not to, I can’t stop looking at his perfect posterior as he heads through the revolving doors.
Jesus. I don’t want to know what’s wrong with me.
Sure, the man has a lot to admire physically. And yes, he can be funny.
But that’s it.
A grown salamander would have more social poise than Nick freaking Brandt.
He’s like a moody salesman, putting on this easygoing mask to hide whatever’s eating him when people aren’t looking, always trying too hard to get on everyone’s good side.
Why can’t he just accept that not everyone will like him?
Didn’t anyone ever tell him to just be himself and put on the brakes?
...I wish I knew, and that’s the worst part.
This cocky suit’s heading home for another evening that’ll probably be full of whatever debauchery he does when he’s not working—and he doesn’t realize he’s already moved into my head, rent free.
* * *
After work, I visit my sister.
Millie bounces up to me with big blond curls flopping around her head.
“Auntie Reese!” she squeals, holding her arms up.
“Hey, bumblebee. Ready for a surprise?” She flashes me a grin to die for as I pick her up and hand her the spool of pink fluffy candy.
“Hey, that’s a lot of sugar,” Abby says suspiciously. “Since when do you eat cotton candy?”
I’m only holding on to my smile for Millie’s sake.
“Gift I didn’t need from the boss. Remember what I told you? He’s determined to make up for mistaking me for a dude and all the stupid sh—”
Abby’s eyes flick to Millie in my arms.
“All the stupid stuff he said when he thought I was a guy,” I correct. “First he bought me flowers, and when I didn’t freak out over those, he brought me a ticket to the dentist.”
“So now you’re pawning it off on us?” Abby snorts, tugging playfully at Millie’s locks. “You know I’m gonna have to ration this stuff for the next month, right?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. At least somebody gets to enjoy it,” I tell her.
“I hope your boss will pay for her cavities,” Abby says with a laugh.
“He’d probably do it in a heartbeat if I asked. Unfortunately.”
“Dang, sis. So you have a billionaire hottie wrapped around your finger—and you’re complaining? What? I can think of worse things.” Abby tosses her head, dumbfounded by my feelings.
I roll my eyes. She doesn’t understand.
“Well, if he doesn’t wear you down, tell him your poor lonely sister needs the comfort of a hot billionaire employer. I’m ready and willing to be comforted any time after seven thirty every night,” she says cheerfully.
That wins her a smile. Unlike me, Abby follows all the trash-talking gossip blogs, Twitter bullies, and might be a walking encyclopedia of who’s who on Insta and TikTok.
Worse, Nick is her favorite Brandt, scandals and all.