Graham
I’M NOT USED TO THIS. Hell, I’m really not even okay with this.
The stillness before the sun comes up is my time. I get more accomplished in that precious window than I do all day long. Why? No one else is up and around to bother me.
That is until my brother Ford came back to town.
Glancing across my desk, he’s leaned against the wall with a paper cup in his hand. His sandy, military-cut hair has started to grow over the last couple of weeks since he was released from the Marines with more medals than an Olympian. He knows his morning visits annoy me, but like our other siblings, a part of him finds frustrating me amusing. Assholes. Still, as he meanders his way towards my desk, I can’t really be mad. At my oldest brother Barrett? Possible. At my youngest brother Lincoln? Often. But Ford? It’s hard to do.
“Do you show up here just to throw off my day?” I try, and fail, to hide my grin.
“What can I say?” he laughs. “The military doesn’t approve of staying in bed. After all those years in the service, old habits are hard to break.” He takes a sip from his cup and sits in the black leather chair across from me. “I need to find a new routine. I’ve had one imposed on me for so many years, it’s a little odd not having someone threatening to have my ass before dawn.”
“I can assure you I’ll be tossing you out on your ass if you keep showing up here before the day starts. It throws me off schedule.” Glancing at my watch, I scowl. “And so does being late.”
Ford raises his brows. “Your new secretary starts today, doesn’t she?”
“She’s supposed to. Mallory Sims. Remember her?”
“Sort of. Did I go to high school with her?” He scratches his head. “Damn, that feels like a long time ago.”
“Because it was,” I laugh. “She’s a friend of Sienna’s.”
At the mention of one of our twin sisters, the youngest of us all, Ford looks worried. I get it. It also worries the fuck out of me to know I’ve stooped this low. And low it is. But I didn’t have a choice.
My former Executive Assistant, Linda, up and quit on me a few weeks ago. She was everything you could want—efficient, orderly, experienced. She worked for my father before I took over for him and knew this business inside and out. When she left, I realized she was irreplaceable.
I’ve gone through so many temps in her vacancy, hired people from ads placed in newspapers, and even tried promoting one woman from another department and none of them worked. Not one of them meshed with my style or filled the role as I needed them to.
One weekend night, after missing a family lunch because you couldn’t see the top of my desk for papers, contracts, and files, Sienna called. She’d run into a girl we used to know. In the midst of conversation, my sister realized she had experience as an administrative assistant, needed a job, and grabbed her resume for me.
It looked good. Her references checked out. She had experience as not just a secretary, but as an Executive Assistant. I also remembered her from before and was fairly certain she wasn’t a psychopath. So I forwent the standard interview and just hired her. What did I really stand to lose?
“Can I just ask what on Earth made you think that was a good idea?” Ford asks. “I mean, I love Sienna and Camilla, but their friends aren’t exactly . . . employable.”
“Desperation is the name of the game.”
My brother stands. Although he’s a couple of years younger than me, he’s a few inches taller. “It must be.”
“Tell me about it,” I groan. “But there is a method to the madness.”
“Let’s hope. If not, I’m calling Dad and letting him know you’ve lost your mind and we need to vote you off the board.”
“I vaguely remember Mallory. She must’ve been a freshman or sophomore my senior year. I had Latin Club with her,” I say, picking up a pen.
“You and Latin Club. I just . . . I can’t.”
“Fuck you,” I say, throwing the pen at his head. Because Ford has reflexes similar to Lincoln’s, it misses and clinks against the wall. “You better be glad one of us takes things seriously. Can you imagine our family being reliant on Barrett? Or, worse, Lincoln? We’d be investing in baseball and Skittles.”
Ford picks up the projectile. “Speaking of Lincoln, how weird is it to see him so pussy-whipped?”
“It’s one of the oddest things I’ve ever seen happen with my own eyes. He went from total man whore to monogamy at the flip of a switch.”
“Danielle must have some good pussy,” Ford chuckles.
“That or a magic wand.”
“Yeah, but I
get it. I think he made the right decision. Seeing some of the shit I’ve seen overseas really puts things in perspective for you. Often the things we think are important aren’t.” Ford’s gaze hits the floor. “But,” he recovers, pasting on a smile, “Lincoln doesn’t have to worry about money. We have you.”
“If only I had an assistant.”
“What time was she supposed to be here?”
Glancing at the clock, my irritation grows. “Six minutes ago. She’s supposed to start at eight.”
“That’s what you get for choosing employees out of Sienna’s circle.”
My hand flies through my hair as every worst-case scenario plays out before my eyes.
Looking at Ford, I know his main concern: Landry Security. I can’t blame him. This is his dream, much like managing Landry Holdings is mine, and he can’t get to work until I do mine. I get it, that’s why it drives me insane that Mallory isn’t here and I’m not working at full capacity.
Sighing, I shrug. “Her resume was infallible. The references she listed all checked out—sang her praises to be exact. They all said she has unlimited potential and would be an asset, even knowing it’s Landry Holdings we’re talking about. I can’t believe she’s late. Who does that? On their first day, no less?”
My brother tosses the pen on my desk. “If you need help with Landry Security, let me know.” I can tell he’s antsy and is trying to play it cool and that frustrates me. He shouldn’t be worrying about this. He should have faith in me, and my lack of a fucking assistant is shaking that.
“I’ll be fine,” I reassure him. “I have a plan. Even though things here have been a little more unsettled than I’d like with Linda’s departure, I have been moving forward. Landry Security is happening.”
Ford’s hand rests on the doorknob and he looks at me. His brow is furrowed, reminiscent of our mother’s when she’s trying to decide how to broach a subject with us.
There’s no way he knows how much this has affected me. Losing sleep. Popping antacids like a motherfucker. All because I. Don’t. Fail.
“I’ll help you however,” he reiterates carefully.