The Billionaire's Assistant

Salad was a knee-jerk reaction. The one safe, cheap thing on the menu I always ordered while sitting at a table by myself. Safely out of ear shot from the real date, but close enough to jump in should anything go wrong. (With my roster of clients, things often went wrong.)

But salad was hardly a date food, just by itself. Already, I could feel the heat begin to rise up in the base of my neck, as two sets of eyes bore into me.

“Actually...the salmon sounds great.”

I handed up my menu to Marco, carefully avoiding the man’s gaze. It didn’t matter. I could practically feel the smirk.

“Right away.”

Then he was off. Leaving me several steps back from where I’d started.

“So, Abigail,” the hand was back on mine, paired with an affectionate smile, “you never told me what it is you do.”

As if on cue, one of the phones buzzed in my purse. I set the clutch on the ground without looking, keeping a smile fixed on my face.

Just get it over with, Abby. It’s a standard question. Get it over with and move on to the FISH—you idiot—not the SALAD.

“I work in public relations, actually.”

He leaned back in surprise.

“You’re a publicist. Really?”

I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, and laughed as nervously as him.

“Why? Do I not look like one?”

“No, it’s not that, just...well actually, yeah.” He laced his fingers through mine with a wide grin. “You don’t really look like one.”

I got that a lot.

Mostly because I looked like I belonged on the other side of the bridge. The wealthier side. The easier side. The side that threw the parties, not the side that worked them.

I had once gotten all the way to the second floor of a Russian palace—after receiving a 911 text from a client—before being escorted outside by security. The rest of the team had found me later, gloating in the snow.

But I appreciated this guy’s honesty either way. Another endearing trait. If it weren’t for the fact that I already had a fake brother to maintain, I might actually start to like this Cameron.

“I work with a myriad of disguises,” I joked again, trying to divert the attention as much away from my job as possible. “But what about you? What is it that you—”

But Cameron was on a roll.

“My father hired a public relations team for our company once,” he continu

ed, utterly oblivious to my attempts. “Not one of them looked anything like you.”

Great. This guy was probably a trust fund baby, just like all the rest. I should have picked up on it. The restaurant. The wine. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to leave here with a job offer.

“I guess that explains the phone. They were always impossibly busy.”

Again—the damn thing buzzed in my bag. I kicked it under the table.

His face twisted up into a little smile.

“Do you need to take that?”

“No,” I said quickly, reaching for my glass of wine, “not at all. I’m off tonight.”

...we’ll see.