His Temporary Assistant

“I can’t cancel. My grandmother needs me. She and Biff were together for two years.”

It took everything I possessed not to give a mock shudder. “I’m grievously sorry for her loss, but why does her misfortune have to become mine?”

April huffed out a breath. “Biff isn’t dead. Have you been listening at all?”

“Of course I have.” I adjusted my cuff links. “You’re cruising to Alaska?”

“Seriously?”

“Look, I have back-to-back meetings this afternoon.” Normally, at this point in a conversation I did not want to have, I would text my assistant to call me with a made-up appointment. That was hard to do when she was the one seated across from me.

One more reason I hated unplanned, unnecessary vacations.

“Not according to your Daytimer.”

“There were a few last minute additions.”

“Mmm-hmm. You know, I’m beginning to rethink my backup plan.”

Hope bloomed inside me like a daisy in spring. “You are?”

“I always thought you were a fair, equitable boss who didn’t play power games.”

“I do not. Ever.”

“You never so much as pinched my ass—rump,” she corrected, thereby putting the image of an ass-rump in my head—luckily, not hers.

I had never so much as glimpsed her backside. I wasn’t that sort of employer.

“Of course not.”

“You don’t take advantage of your position, and you see everyone as equals.”

I couldn’t help preening. Slightly. “I am careful to do exactly that.”

“So, naturally, I figured Ryan would be the perfect choice to assist you while I’m away. I would never introduce you to a friend if I didn’t believe you were fair-minded. Some look at having an assistant as an opportunity to lord their elevated status over them.”

Why did it sound as if she was lecturing me? “I have never done such and I never will.”

She rose. “Good. It’s settled. Ryan will start for you next Monday at nine. Possibly nine-fifteen. No more than nine-thirty. Mornings are iffy.” She crossed the office to the door. “Oh, and thanks! I’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

The door clicked shut on my curses.

I stalked over to the coffeemaker and discovered I was down to five pods—inhumane considering my current level of tension.

I popped one in the brewer and returned to my desk to stab the intercom button on the phone.

“Yes?”

“I’m almost out of coffee. Can you kindly place an order before your vacation?” The question held the same level of wrath as a death threat.

Preston Michael Shaw was not someone to tangle with without his caffeine.

“Already taken care of two days ago. Tracking says it should arrive by Monday afternoon. Your preferred flavor of Columbian coconut-caramel was backordered.”

“Of course.” I had no reason to feel ashamed I enjoyed coconut and caramel. Those were extremely manly flavors.

And Monday afternoon meant I would have to deal with April’s friend who was “iffy about mornings” without the benefit of my early morning pick-me-up unless I grabbed one on the way in. My own kitchen at home was stocked with an assortment of possibilities that I rarely took time to actually make there, other than my restorative Friday night meal. For the most part, I only used my place to shower and sleep.