Peace and quiet is a treasure, and apparently, I’m not worthy.
Because stumbling into the obnoxiously drunk girl and shepherding her home before she could become a wolf’s dinner was a screaming slap to the face. Miss One Glass even looked cute demolishing my evening and trampling on every last nerve—at first—but when she flippantly mentioned her new job?
When she announced she’d soon be a daily thorn in my ass?
Fuck. I didn’t lose my shit so much as catapulted it into lunar orbit.
I’ll just finish this email before I leave, make sure she’s peacefully asleep, and never lay eyes on her again.
She dozes now in slow, rhythmic breaths, smacking her full pink lips, every now and then releasing this tiny hiccup of a snore.
It might be cute if she wasn’t a loud, messy, butterscotch-blond kill shot to my sanity. But she’ll be fine soon, and so will I without having her up in my business.
Hell. I went to the museum for a distraction, and maybe some inspiration.
If I had to chaperone her away from booze and a pond scum little boy, what would having her in the office be like?
We’re not finding out.
Don’t get me wrong. I heroed her like any decent man would. I couldn’t leave her marooned with a potentially dangerous fuckboy, or have her stumbling in front of a moving bus.
Unfortunately, it’s still possible to be a Brandt and have a conscience.
But if you think I’m above nipping this problem right in its adorable little blond, green-eyed bud, and damn all the consequences?
I never pretended to be a saint.
Gritting my teeth, I shake my head, remembering how she insisted it was just one glass.
Yeah, sweetheart, if glass means bottle.
My thumb cramps from pounding at my phone. I move my hand away and shake it out. My left ring finger catches my eye.
Did she have to point out there’s no ring?
Do I walk around with an invisible dark halo that tells the world, ladies, run. This asshole is anti-marriage material.
Maria breaking off the engagement was supposed to be the worst part. I didn’t think I’d have total strangers rubbing salt in the wound, or—
No. I choke the thought off there.
This isn’t the time or place to fall down that rabbit hole again.
After all, that’s how I end up at museums on Friday nights alone, playing unwilling knight to drunk chicks being pawed at by losers I wish I could smash in the face. At least then I’d get a modicum of satisfaction for my trouble.
Miss One Glass whimpers a little and rolls over. With a sigh, I stand up and throw the loose sheet at the end of the bed over her, securing it snugly over her shoulders.
What the hell was Grandma thinking, anyway? I shake my head and read through my email to check for errors before hitting send.
To: Beatrice Nightingale Brandt
Cc: Nicholas Brandt
From: Ward Brandt
Subject: Houston, we have a problem.
Grandma and Nick,
I bumped into the new executive assistant at the art museum tonight. Quite literally.
She was drunker than a grunt, had some handsy goon hanging all over her, and didn’t hesitate to loudly advertise the fact that she works for us.
She went tumbling through the architecture room. Again, literally. Her hard head came close to busting my knee—that’s how we met.
I did the right thing. I ran off her harasser, made sure she got home, and tried to pretend I wasn’t mortified when she hit on me.
Frankly, I’m actually glad we met this way.
We can’t have her starting next week. It’s a direct threat to our image, and I’m fortunate we found out before she ever stepped foot in the downtown office.
I suggest moving forward with a backup candidate. This girl might be able to hold it together for a forty-five-minute interview, but she’d never be able to keep it together for the rigors of a sixteen-hour workday. And with the Winthrope contract coming up, we need all hands on deck without any grade-school distractions.
Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.
Thanks,
Ward Brandt
Senior Partner, Brandt Ideas Inc.
I glare down at Sleeping Beauty again. She’s out like a light, snoring with a dull purr.
I’ll stay a few more minutes just to make sure she’s truly okay, and didn’t mix that wine with a bad medication or something.
I check my investment portfolio between eyeing her.
Yeah, she’d be cute if she wasn’t a lush with the sense of a rodeo bull.
She’ll be fine.
She’s got the pep to talk herself into another job that’s a better fit.
The worst thing that’ll happen is the hangover she’ll no doubt have in the morning.
Sometimes we all need a bitter schooling from life. The sooner the better, because she’s too beautiful and brilliant to be acting this way.
Damn shame. She’d probably make a good assistant, too, if she was just a little more mature.
She’s friendly, warm, energetic as hell, and outgoing.