One
Adrian
Incompetent.
Why are they all so incompetent?
My best friend Dante would argue my assistants are more than capable, but no one will ever be able to understand my complicated expectations, much less ever even reach them.
I beg to differ.
It’s not that difficult to please me. And by please me, I mean do your damn job correctly, efficiently, and with a smile.
This magazine has to be successful. The company was a non-direct gift from someone whom I cared deeply for. If I allow this magazine to fail, I fail Mr. Kincaid. And, because he pulled me from the dregs of my nightmarish life, dusted me off, and guided me into this one that feels more like a dream I don’t deserve than my reality, I make it my mission to succeed for him.
Dante also argues that his father would have been proud even if I ran my opportunities into the ground. His father wasn’t a cold, calculating businessman. No, he was joyful and funny. Business savvy and made good decisions.
I want to be just like him because he’s more of a father than mine ever was.
A chill sweeps down my spine, causing me to sit straighter and my shoulder muscles to tighten.
I’m not the cold, calculating businessman, am I?
I can be warm.
Hot even.
Okay, so I can never be hot.
In the physical sense, sure. I know I’m a good-looking man and plenty of women let that be known to me. But, as far as emotions go, it’s a struggle to find that soft, tender heat most people experience. Dante, for instance, is a warm heart, even if his ex-fiancé did him dirty and left him cold toward relationships. He still dates around and people are drawn to him.
But me?
I can’t even get them into my bed after the first date.
I’ve pondered why this is on many occasions, late at night when the loneliness creeps around me from the shadows, taunting and hissing at me.
Why doesn’t anyone want me?
Beyond the physical sense, I mean.
I’m incredibly successful. I took this magazine from popular to explosive. My clothes are expensive and tailored. I’m diligent about the foods I put into my body and work out extensively. I’m well read and knowledgeable on current events. Money continues to accumulate in my bank account, and yet I rarely spend it.
I’m a catch, dammit.
An email pings in my inbox, distracting me. It’s something my assistant should have handled. And just like that, I’m pissed off again. By the time I’ve finished putting out the fire and abused my keyboard by banging on it, I glance at the clock, realizing two hours have passed.
That means my new assistant is a no-show because had Miss Moore arrived, Connie from HR would have pulled me into her office to meet the new hire. A ball of tension forms at the base of my skull. Absently I rub at it, hating that I’ll have to go yet more days without assistance.
I’m bothered that yet another assistant quit on me.
It was probably meant to be, though, because Tasha cared more about how much she could get away with. Her skirts got shorter and shorter. Cleavage got more and more exposed. The flirting with me was out of control. Sure, she was a beautiful woman, but I wasn’t interested, not in the slightest. I was interested in her doing her damn job and not trying to hook the boss. Apparently, when she realized it wasn’t happening, she decided to leave without a two weeks’ notice.
With a heavy sigh, I rise from my desk chair, careful to push it back against the desk in a neat way. I straighten the file on my desk and place the pen beside it, parallel and straight, before closing the lid of my laptop. Once I’ve deemed my office is prepared for my brief departure, I stride across my expansive office that once belonged to my mentor. It still has a hint of a cigar smell that brings back fond memories of when I first started as a young man. Nearly two decades have passed since I began this career and sometimes it feels like only yesterday.
Opening my office door, I notice the friendly chatter silences, which pleases me. I like that the good employees here know when to pipe down and get back to work. All of them in their cubicles refrain from making eye contact as they tap away on their computers.
Except one.
Big brown eyes, twinkling with delight, peer back at me. Shaggy brown hair. Crooked plaid bowtie. Goofy smile. Young…so young.
Who is this man sitting at Tasha’s old desk?
My brows furrow as I take in the man. He seems to be fresh out of high school. High, granite cut cheekbones. Long, dark lashes. Full, pouty pink lips. Sharp jawline that draws the eye to follow it from his ear all the way to his chin.