I blinked, reading over the last paragraph again. She had a hell of a lot of nerve telling me what I could and couldn’t do when she barely knew how to type, file, or keep a damn schedule.
Tossing the letter into the recycling bin, I made a mental note to confront HR first thing on Monday about my lack of assistant. I’d go straight to the head of the department—after all, there was no reason I should have had to train eight assistants in the past three months unless the candidates they were providing me were subpar.
Clearly, there was a systemic issue at play here that needed to be addressed.
With a muttered groan, I settled into the chair behind my desk. I pulled up the Meals-to-Go app on my phone and ordered in some dinner and then opened a browser for a list of dating sites.
I hated this. Hated every last detail of having to enter my personality type and what I was looking for in a soul mate. Because, you know what? I wasn’t looking for a soul mate. I wasn’t even looking for a girlfriend. I was looking for a quick, casual piece of ass. A good time in exchange for a guaranteed good time.
I briefly considered just heading to the nearest nightclub and hoping for the best. Fact was, it usually worked out in the end, but the last thing I wanted to do after a long week at work was spend four hours in a noisy club in exchange for an hour or two in the sheets. Especially if it meant having to extricate myself from a needy woman who had missed the memo. I shuddered at the thought.
I’m not an asshole. I don’t lie or make promises I can’t keep. But some women just can’t shake the feeling that every guy they sleep with might be “the one.”
PSA: I’m not “the one.” And I will never be “the one.”
Which was why I opted to click on a site notorious for no-strings hookups.
I downloaded the app and entered all the usual information before searching the database of women looking for casual sex, just like me.
With a bunch of them, I could tell it was a ploy at first glance. There was a needy hope in their gazes. Like, they’d say all the right things, but deep down they hoped that as soon as some poor sucker saw what was underneath their dress, they’d magically want something more from them than a good lay.
Those girls, of course, I avoided like the plague.
And the girls who said their idea of a romantic night was a candlelit dinner in Paris?
No thanks.
I didn’t need a night with a dreamer. I wanted a dirty, uncomplicated romp.
Which was when the sixth girl in my matches caught my eye and made my cock pulse.
She wasn’t my usual supermodel-lean type of girl. Her cheeks were full and smooth, rounding out a perfect, heart-shaped face, and her long mane of dark-red hair looked soft as silk—but it was something in her broad smile that made me click on the picture and read on.
In the description, there was another picture of her. In this one, she was dancing on a table, her wild hair flying behind her while she kicked out her feet and laughed at the camera. She wore a low-cut black dress that accentuated her luscious curves. I swallowed hard before glancing at her bio.
She liked Netflix and comfy couches. She was an animal person and a busy professional. All her sentences were quick and to the point—she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Which meant maybe, just maybe, she meant what she said. I double-checked she had indeed checked off that she was interested in casual sex, and then I bit the bullet and sent her a message.
Jackson21782: Hey, you interested in dinner and hooking up tomorrow?
Quick and to the point. If she wasn’t interested, I’d move on to the next girl. No harm, no foul.
Within a matter of seconds, though, my screen dinged, and I clicked over to see a response.
Fantasy Girl 29: Absolutely. Name the time and place.
Jackson 21782: Florentine Inn. 6 o’clock.
I paused, and figured, fuck it. Might as well make sure she knew the score right out the gate.
Jackson 21782: Don’t wear underwear.
I waited, mildly curious to see what her reply would be. A second later, my screen dinged again.
Fantasy Girl 29: I can’t make any promises.
I grinned at that and scrolled back to her image, feeling satisfied and already a little less tense just thinking of our date. One slow, hard fuck, and I’d be right as rain. Then, when I came in on Monday, I’d be able to deal with this whole HR problem without wanting to rip people’s heads off at every turn.
I closed the app’s messenger and penned the meeting into my date book, secretly wondering if she might dance on the table for me without her panties on tomorrow night if I asked nicely.
Damn, would that be one hell of a view…
*
During my work day on Friday, I pushed the date from my mind, focusing instead on the upcoming merger and the innumerable speeches I’d be forced to make at any given press junket or business conference. Of course, the fact that I had no assistant made that task all the more difficult. After a few fumbling tries with the new management software, I was quickly getting the hang of things. I’d set up a meeting with Sally from HR but had been forced to cancel when a new real estate listing had fallen through the cracks and required my attention. I was so busy, the rest of my day went by in a blur.
In fact, I barely even thought about Fantasy Girl 29.
The end of the day came just as quickly as the start, and before I knew it, five o’clock had finally come around. As usual, I was going to stay behind for a while to work—the restaurant for our meetup was just around the corner—but before I settled into the pile of listings I’d set aside to go through, I picked up the receiver and dialed Human Resources.
Sally, the head of the department, answered the phone in monotone. “Jackson.”
“Sally, how did you know it was me?”
“Who else would be calling me at five o’clock on a Friday?” she asked. “Everyone else is gone. Can we make this quick, Jackson? I have dinner plans with my husband.”
I resisted the urge to play the world’s tiniest violin for her, but she had a strong work ethic and typically got the job done, which tipped the scale in her favor in my book.
Except with this whole assistant thing. That was out of hand.
“When will the agency be sending over a new candidate for me to interview?” I asked, jumping right to the point.
“Oh no, you’re not interviewing them anymore. In fact, the agency stopped working with us when the last two candidates left here in tears. I hired this one myself.”
“What? Why?” I demanded.
“Something to do with unrealistic expectations, boss. You’re burning through their candidates faster than they can send them.”
“Ridiculous. I think maybe we ought to get a new system for vetting candidates so I can—”
“No, I don’t think so. In fact, our legal team has advised me that your behavior could be stepping into hostile work environment territory, and they’ve asked me to handle the details of your staff from here on out. Your new assistant starts on Monday. If she doesn’t work out, you can talk to our counsel and tell them you want to hire the next one yourself.”
“And when am I supposed to find time for that? You know we’re on the verge of a possible merger with Global Business Solutions.” I didn’t mean to snap, but the words definitely came out a little clipped.
“Which is exactly why legal wants to keep us out of lawsuit territory. At this rate, I think the only person who’ll work for you is a superhero. Nobody can keep your insane hours. I know this place is your baby, and you’re amazing at the business side of things, but my advice? Honestly, sir. You need to back off.”
I wanted to reprimand her, but frankly, half the reason I’d hired her was for the straight talk. Yes-people were part of the game, but maybe-not-sir-people were twice as valuable.
“Right, well, thanks for the help, Sally,” I said finally with a frustrated sigh.
“Yup. Have a good weekend.”