I pushed my door open, throwing him a glare soaked with repulsion. “The boss is the asshole who makes your show worth something, Father. You’re just the fucking purse.”
I ended up ignoring Judith for the rest of the day.
It wasn’t intentional, but satisfactory all the same. I didn’t even bother to show her to her desk. I wasn’t entirely sure what my father wanted her to do here, but I knew after the faceoff this morning I’d better keep her, or he’d find another way to sabotage my show.
She was probably a wannabe fashionista who thought working at Couture was an honor akin to receiving the Nobel Prize. I needed to get creative with giving her a task she could perform well that would still put some distance between us.
After lunching with James and his agent, I had to do a final rundown before the show. James was having a meltdown two floors below because the makeup artist didn’t have his shade of foundation and he was afraid he’d look like an Oompa Loompa, and an interviewee had been involved in a car accident on his way to the show.
Since Judith didn’t have a desk, a computer, or anyone to talk to, she sat on a chair by the door and wrote furiously in a thick notebook. I imagined her diary to be filled with her latest thoughts about Shawn Mendes and anal bleaching.
By the time I had a minute to spare, it was seven-thirty. Everyone had already left for the day. I grabbed a chair and plopped down next to her, folding my arms over my chest. She looked up from her notebook, uncrossing her legs and tucking her Chucked feet under her chair. She looked like a newswoman like I looked like a fucking clown. The mere acknowledgement of her existence here was spit in my precious time’s face.
“This wasn’t my idea,” I clarified, rubbing my face tiredly.
She broke into a smile—not fake, not calculated, and also not constructive to my twitching dick. “Good show.”
“I know.”
“But I thought your interview with Faceworld’s CEO could have gone differently.”
“Next time I’ll make sure he wears Hermes when he talks about the Russian hacker threats.”
“Or maybe next time make sure he’s not blowing smoke up your anchor’s ass, excuse my French.” If nothing else, her dig was kind of funny. “Seeing as your main competition ran a story tonight about how said CEO is now accused of being an avid user of Cotton Way, a darknet website where you can buy heroin and guns for competitive prices.” She handed me her phone.
It was the main item on their website now. Fuck.
“This place look like TMZ to you?” I motioned around the room with my finger.
“There’s nothing sleazy about this item, and you know it. I came here to make the news. To keep the masses informed, and to serve my country.”
She surprised me, her eyes shooting daggers at mine. Why did her words surprise me? Because she was gorgeous, and young, and fuckable to a fault. But didn’t that make me the misogynistic, judgmental bastard my father was?
“Your station.” I stood up and cleared my throat, sauntering to the middle of the room. I’d deliberately put her somewhere I couldn’t see clearly from my office. I knew my dick better than to trust it around Miss Chucks. “See this?”
She slid into the chair in front of the monitor. “Reuters.”
We have a genius on our hands.
“Your job is to stare at this screen all day and sort through the relevant news items on this site. Yellow items go to Steve, our junior reporter—well, slightly less junior than you. Orange items go to Jessica, our in-house reporter, and red items go straight to Kate, my associate producer.”
I scribbled their emails on a Post-It note and slapped it on her monitor.
“And what happens when I see a yellow with the potential to become a red?”
Your yellow hair would look nice on my thighs as you suck me off and I make your ass red with the spanking you clearly deserve.
“Fat chance.” I straightened up so I wouldn’t have to smell her vanilla and warm ginger scent. My dick didn’t need this kind of negativity in his life.
“It could, though.”
I turned around, facing her again. “And what are your credentials to make such assumptions?”
She stared at me flippantly. “BA from Columbia Journalism School.”
Fuck-hot.
Smiths enthusiast.
Well-educated.
And a lying thief.
I needed to stay away from her, send her ass packing and relocate her to our Chicago branch. For now, though, I was mainly interested in why a Columbia graduate had stolen my goddamn change and condoms.
“Before you ask, full scholarship. I have no money.”
She was a mind reader, too.
I stroked my chin. “Didn’t ask; don’t care. You’ll also be my assistant’s assistant.”
“Your assistant has an assistant?” She swiveled in her chair, eyes widening.