Coldhearted Boss

I think ahead and bring two hot coffees out to where Ethan’s finishing up a meeting with some of the subcontractors. They’re standing in front of the demolished meeting hall. All the lumber has been hauled off and the dirt that’s left is uneven and rocky. Still, now that the building is gone, there’s a straight shot all the way from here to the lake, and the view is breathtaking. Much better than staring at a truck dashboard at 3:30 in the morning.

The meeting breaks up a few minutes after I arrive and I rush forward, seizing the opportunity. I look like the aide to a president on a sitcom. Ethan starts walking and I have no choice but to match his pace if I want to keep up.

“Do you like coffee?” I ask genially.

“Who doesn’t like coffee?”

“Some people.”

Our conversation dies a quick death. I have no choice but to revive it.

“Well, would you like some?” I hold both coffees out to him, which—due to the fact that I’m having to take five steps for every one of his—makes it so there’s spillage over the sides and onto my hand.

He reaches over and takes a cup, and afterward I realize he’s left me the one without cream and sugar. There’s no way he did that intentionally. There’s no way he likes sugar in his coffee. He’s got no-frills straight-black-coffee-drinker written all over his perfectly honed features. He must not have been paying attention.

A small nod is the only thanks I get, but I eat it up and continuing walking.

“Should we discuss what happened last week—”

He cuts me off. “I don’t have time.”

“Right. Okay.” I match his no-nonsense tone. “Let’s focus on work. I couldn’t agree more. In fact, I’d like to learn more about the construction side of things.”

I’m not even sucking up right now. It’s the truth. Yesterday, Robert barely skimmed the surface. I want to be useful, want to know what’s going on. I’d like to see a blueprint and have some inkling of what it is I’m looking at. Is that a bathroom or an elevator? No idea.

“Not on this project.”

His rejection stings, but I move along. It’s called picking your battles, and it’s how I’m going to win this war.

“Okay, no problem. Why don’t you just give me a list of tasks you’d like me to complete today and I’ll get to work.”

“First, I want you out of my hair.”

I stop walking. He continues, then realizes I’m not beside him.

He turns back to find me.

“How’s this?” I ask, half shouting.

His eyes squeeze closed and he tilts his head to the sky, praying for patience.

Laugh, dammit!

He regains his composure and shakes his head. “I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t have enough work for a personal assistant.”

Crap. I thought he was just saying that in the heat of the moment as a way to get me to quit. I have a mini panic attack. He can’t fire me. He needs me. No, I need him. I need this job!

“But you’re the boss,” I point out, dumbly. “You’re a busy guy. Busy guys need assistants.”

He arches a brow.

“I did your laundry.” I’m desperately trying to prove my usefulness.

“Yes, and look how well that turned out.”

Point taken.

“What did you think of your cabin last night?” I goad. “Spotless, right?”

“Our cabin.”

“What?”

He looks away. Sips his coffee. “It was fine. I liked how you arranged my toothbrush and toothpaste.”

Of course he did because he’s a neurotic control freak. It’s probably the reason he makes a good manager on building projects like this.

“Okay, well, that just goes to show that maybe there are things I could do to help you around here, but you don’t have time to micromanage me. So, here’s the solution: I’ll come up with ways to be useful, and I’ll try hard not to pester you while I do it.”

“You’re pestering me right now.”

I nearly smile, because I swear he’s teasing me—I mean, no one is this rude—but his beautifully arrogant mask doesn’t crack even a bit.

This guy.

I swear.

“Noted. No more pestering.” I start walking backward and he stands there, watching me. Then I throw up a salute, turn, and head in the direction of the mess hall so I can start brainstorming ways to be useful.Chapter 15EthanAn hour after we part ways, Taylor walks into the trailer while I’m on a conference call with my partners and, without saying a word, she picks up the coffee cup on my desk and replaces it with a new one, its contents still steaming. Then she reaches for the trashcan under my desk and carries it outside. A few minutes later, she replaces it, empty.

I sit there, watching her as Grant drones on about one thing or another. He likes the sound of his own voice, which is why these calls always take thirty minutes longer than they should.