Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
“Seriously?” she mutters, glaring at the heavens. “Does the universe hate me?”
I smirk, more alive than I’ve felt in ages. “Good morning, Coffee Girl.”
“Morning.” She pastes a fake smile on her face. “How’s your day going?”
I let my eyes drag over her from top to bottom, slow and deliberate. “Better now,” I rumble, not even pretending to play it cool. Hell, I want her flustered. I want her blushing and breathless, thinking about me all damn day.
Her cheeks go pink. Again. Fuck yes. That blush is my new obsession. I want to see her flush like that from my hands, my mouth, my cock buried so deep she won’t remember her own name. But I’ll force myself be patient.
“Good,” she squeaks and reaches down to brush a little bit of lint from her suit jacket.
I lean a little closer, catching that sexy scent of hers. Roses and something sharper. She’s breathing quickly, and I get a rush from knowing I’m the reason she’s flustered.
God, she’s so fucking cute. I want to back her up against the mirrored wall and see just how many ways I can make her blush. Instead, I just let my eyes drag over her again, nice and slow, until she fidgets and pretends to check her phone.
I try to play it cool, but my cock is already rock hard and pressing against my suit pants. Jesus. I haven’t ever had this kind of reaction to a woman.
The elevator slides to a stop, and the doors swish open way too fucking soon. We step out, and I notice Armand and Tony discreetly stepping around a pillar to follow me as I watch Alice hightail it across the lobby. As I watch her disappear, I’m already planning my next move. No matter what it takes, I’m going to win over my coffee girl.
CHAPTER THREE
ALICE
When I reach my floor, the office is already humming. The other admins swarm like caffeinated bees, ferrying documents and muttering about the new HR guidelines for "seamless workflow integration," whatever that means. I’m barely in my seat before my inbox explodes. A new message flashes red at the top of the queue. URGENT: YOU ARE ASSIGNED TO EXECUTIVE BUDGET MEETING – 9 AM. There’s a full paragraph of threats about “strict confidentiality” and “absolute accuracy,” but all I see is the part where I have to take notes. In a budget meeting. With the senior execs.
Fantastic. The universe really has it in for me.
I chug lukewarm coffee, praying for superpowers. My hands are already sweating all over the keyboard. Why me? Why now?
I groan. This is going to suck so bad.
I duck into the tiny break room, do a quick deodorant check, and try to finger-comb my hair into something that doesn’t look like a bird’s nest. Then I march to Conference Room B.
It’s already packed. I spot Jonathon Martin, my boss, deep in conversation with the head of Legal. There’s a scattering of VPs along the wall, all suited up and looking extra smug. I squeeze into my usual corner chair and line up my stuff: laptop, gel pens, spiral-bound notepad. What can I say? I like to be prepared for anything. I double-check that my blouse is buttoned, my skirt isn’t bunched up, and my coffee cup is securely positioned far, far from the edge of the table.
The room fills. The volume rises. I try to ignore the glances from the senior staff.
Right at nine o’clock, the glass doors beyond the head of the table sweep open. A hush falls. All eyes swing to the entrance, and I follow suit, dreading the arrival of someone way above my pay grade.
Instead, my heart stops. The man walking in isn’t a VP. He’s a goddamn category five hurricane in a suit. Dark, predatory eyes sweep the room and pin each person in place before moving on to the next. His hair is slicked back with just a hint of silver at the temples.
I try not to choke on my own spit. It’s him. The Penthouse Grump. My coffee victim. And unless my sleep deprivation has finally tipped into full-blown hallucination, he’s wearing an even more expensive suit today. I catch a glimpse of his Rolex as sweat rolls down my back.
He stalks to the head of the table, parking his lean frame in the chair with the kind of authority that makes everyone else fade into the background. The room goes even quieter. I realize with mounting horror that my coffee victim and the man I’ve been doing some serious lusting after is Gabriel Mercer, the Mercer Group CEO, my boss’s boss’s boss.
I want to sink into the floor, but instead, I clutch my pen so hard my knuckles ache.
He doesn’t look at me. Not even a flicker of recognition as he glances around the room, issuing a brisk, “Let’s get started.”