The Billionaire's Assistant
He blinked three times. Each one sending me into a mild heart attack. Then the corners of his mouth twitched up into an unnatural smile.
“You’ve got the job.”
I couldn’t believe it. Could not believe it.
Ninety percent of me thrilled with the opportunity—to work for the Hunter Corporation was a dream come true. In all the ways that mattered, there truly was no bigger client. The other ten percent was absolutely terrified of what I’d just gotten myself into.
“Excellent.” I kept my cool for just a moment longer, holding in my celebration until I’d reached the lobby floor. “Who would you like me to coordinate with in corporate office?”
“Oh no, my dear.” He reached over the table and poured himself a glass of scotch. A precise measuring. Not a drop’s deviation from day to day. “I don’t want you for the company.”
My heart fell as I simultaneously wondered if my own family was on their way up just to watch me fail. The pen and paper slid slowly back into my bag.
“You don’t?”
“Not at all.” He lifted the glass to his lips and said the fateful words that would go on to change my life forever. “I want you for my son.”
Now here we were.
I hastened to smooth down my dress, pulling my hair back into a tight bun. I wished Nick would wake up, but he was still passed out cold—oblivious to the dark force that had just walked into his bedroom. Fortunately, a single word from his father was enough to remedy that.
“Nicholas.”
He jerked awake like he’d been having a nightmare, only to open his eyes and gaze upon the real thing. There was a hitch in his breathing, and half the color drained from his face as he hurried to make sure the blankets were still firmly around his waist.
“Dad—what are you doing here?”
That was another thing that had always surprised me. As much as Mitchell going by his first name. The informality of it. That Nick would address him as dad, instead of father. It was as if the family had sat down years ago, and read a book on what a family was supposed to look like. Talk like. Some things had stuck. The others had never really taken in the first place.
“It’s funny that you should ask.” He threw open another set of curtains, ignoring the way his wildly hungover son flinched as the light assaulted his eyes. “I was walking into work this morning and there was a man handing out copies of the New York Times. Imagine what I should see on the cover, but my very own son.”
Nick had told me once that his father was like a winter storm. It wouldn’t kill you, as long as you were prepared. At the moment, we couldn’t have been less prepared.
The paper flew down on the bed between them.
“What is this?”
PLAYBOY NICK HUNTER’S BATTLE FOR OCEANIC JUSTICE
The headline was splashed across the front page. Complete with a photo of Nick standing in the middle of the fountain, warding away police with what looked like a pair of salad tongs.
As far as headlines went, it could have been much worse. The picture on the other hand...
“Mr. Hunter,” I dropped my eyes to the floor, “I can explain—”
“The extent of your usefulness, Ms. Wilder, is in your ability to guarantee that this sort of thing does not happen. Since that is a task at which you have already failed spectacularly, you would do well to keep your mouth shut.”
Nick’s eyes flashed, and he started to get to his feet before remembering he was mostly naked. “You’re really going to blame Abby every time I go and jump into a fountain?”
Mitchell was chillingly calm.
“I want you to think about that sentence, remember that you’re twenty-four years old, and take a long hard look at your life.”
(Now and again, the man did have a bit of a point.)
“But no,” he continued, “I’m not blaming Abby.” He released his son for the briefest of moments, and turned that armor-piercing focus onto me. “Ms. Wilder, despite what you may have come to think of me, I’m not an unreasonable man. I understand that, as a mere mortal battling the astronomical ineptitude of my son, there is only so much you are able to do.”
His eyes narrowed, and I stopped breathing.