I stumble out of my hotel room and toward the elevator, my eyes small slits as I try to wake myself up. It’s not that I’m tired per se, I just freaking hate mornings! Who the hell decided everyone would have to wake up at an ungodly hour to start work?

Why can’t we all wake up at say, noon, then stroll into our offices leisurely and do our allotted hours before coming home?

All I’m saying is that Dolly is wrong. I’m not working nine to five—it’s six thirty right now and the sun isn’t even fully up as I walk toward the main reception area. Al is standing there, his eyes focused and fresh-faced. Ugh, morning people are the worst.

“Good morning,” he chirps, just like the birds I’m sure are singing outside.

“Hey.” I stumble to a stop in front of him, my lips spread into a stern line. “I have two very important questions for you, Al.”

“Sure, go ahead.” He grins, his face full of hope that he can help.

I hold up a finger. “First: I need coffee, a huge jug of the stuff… where’s the best place?”

His lips spread into a wider grin as he holds his hand up and says, “Wait here, Miss Scott.”

I watch as he wanders off, well, wander is a relative term, he’s kind of jogging toward the bar that’s behind two ornate glass doors to the left.

He returns a couple of minutes later, a canteen of some kind in his hand.

“I didn’t know if you liked cream and sugar but I added them—”

“Oh, God, Al.” I practically tackle him when he gets within a few feet of me, ripping it out of his hand and unscrewing the lid, taking a huge gulp. “You’re my new favorite doorman.” I tilt my head to the side. “Although I thought you were a bellboy?”

He chuckles but I see a blush start to cover his sculpted cheekbones, his blue eyes skirting away from mine as he moves back to the post he was standing at a few minutes ago. He clears his throat, standing at his full height—which by my awesome estimation is about six feet. Give or take five inches. “I’m kind of both.” He shrugs. “There was a second thing, Miss Scott?”

Taking another couple of sips and moaning as the coffee hits my taste buds, I pull it away from my mouth. “Ah, yes. I need a taxi to take me to…” I trail off, already forgetting the name of the place where I’m meant to be working. Shitpouches.

Screwing the lid back on, I place it on the floor between my feet before pulling out the tablet and logging into it, searching for the address. I reel it off to Al and he nods, looking out of the glass doors where the sun is just starting to come out—barely.

“Mr. Taylor left just before you stepped off the elevator—”

“Wait, what?” He was here but didn’t even offer me a ride? How… rude! “He was here?”

“Uh-huh.” Al nods, his brows drawing down in confusion. “He owns the hotel so he lives on the top floor.”

“Of course he does,” I practically sneer as I remember Jeeves telling me he owned it yesterday. My gaze roves around the empty foyer before landing on the grandfather clock standing proud next to the reception desk. “Shit, I have fifteen minutes to get there.” I bend down, picking up my liquid gold before rushing out of the doors, Al on my tail.

What the actual! Cold… too cold. How the hell do people live in this artic weather? My nips could cut glass!

I watch as Al hails a cab, telling him the address before opening the back door for me. I practically jump into it, pulling my coat around me—my way too thin for New York coat.

“Should get you there in ten minutes, Miss,” the middle-aged man with graying hair at his temples tells me, clicking a few buttons on his dash before darting out into oncoming traffic.

My shoulder bangs into the door and my canteen rolls off my lap and onto the floor. The driver doesn’t look fazed in the slightest as I hold onto the handle on the door. Is that what these are here for? To hold onto so you don’t die?

He rushes through the streets, taking turns left, right, and center—literally—before pulling up alongside an office building. They all seem to look the same in cities, all this modern-day steel and glass gives me a giant headache and vertigo.

Why can’t people understand it’s not sexy to stand on the fiftieth floor gazing out of the window at the skyline. What if the glass pane all of a sudden breaks free as you’re leaning against it? Then all you are is a splat on the asphalt before street cleaners sweep you away and they replace the glass.

I shiver—both from the cold and my mind’s image as I step out of the cab, handing the driver some bills.

Taking a deep breath, I check the time on my cell, noting I have four minutes to get into the building and up to Mr. Taylor’s office. More than enough time.

My heels click on the sidewalk as I walk through the revolving door, coming face-to-face with a giant. His burly face has a squeak escaping my lips—he looks like he’s a real-life White Walker.

He flicks his cold-eyed gaze toward me before looking away. Thank God! He looks mean, like really really mean.

The foyer is full of people in suits, all ready for the day ahead. L.A. is nothing like this. We’d all be trailing along with our giant coffees, gossiping before we finally make it to our desks. Life is paced slowly there, along with friendly faces and designer coffees.

I shake the sunny city from my head, walking forward and trying to get through the barriers that are between me and the hallway of elevators. Staring at the little keypad for several minutes too long causes a line of people to form behind me. They all start murmuring that I’m “a new girl,” going around me and using another gate.

How the frack am I meant to get past this thing?

A vibrating from my pocket gains my attention, and pulling my new cell out, I see a number I don’t recognize. Pressing the green button, I gingerly bring it to my ear.

“Hel-lo?”

“Miss Scott,” a nasally voice comes over the line. “Mr. Taylor said to call you and let you know the code to the gate.”

“Oh, right, okay.”

My gaze roves around the area, searching for a clock—I’m sure to be late now. Great! Way to make a good first impression.

“It’s… five-two-seventy-six-two-oh-four.” She doesn’t give me a chance to say anything before she ends with, “And you’re late.”

“Had you called me earlier—” I pull the cell from my ear, seeing that she hung up on me. What a… a… birch! Yes, I meant birch. Autocorrect does things to your brain and you end up talking like it. Don’t tell me that you don’t do it either—I know you do. Uh-huh, you’re nodding your head now, huh?

Typing the numbers into the screen pad, I’m finally let past the great wall and into the main domain. I feel like I just achieved something major, and when I get into the elevator and it stops on the thirtieth floor, I step out feeling better about the day. So it’s cold and wet in New York, I may be late—six minutes to be precise—but I have coffee and a pair of brand-new heels that replaced the ones I broke.

Strutting up to the desk a woman with white-blond hair sits behind, I stop and wait for her to acknowledge me. When her light-blue eyes meet mine, a bored expression on her face, she asks, “Yes?” And I know immediately it’s Little Miss Nasally Voice from the phone call.

“I’m Miss Scott,” I announce, to which she points behind her.

“His office is the last one on the left—you can’t miss it on account of it being the biggest one.”

I nod, thanking her before I walk down the hallway and past the many other offices, all housing people working at their desks. Pulling off my coat, I hold it over my arm before coming to a stop outside of Mr. Taylor’s office. I know this not only because it’s the biggest like Nasally Voice said, but because it also has his name next to the door.

A sleek white desk sits outside, off to the side a little. I walk toward it, placing my canteen on it before placing my coat over the back of the chair and my purse on the seat. There’s no doubt this will be my workplace while I’m here. There’s definitely no way I’ll be able to slack off on account of him being able to see my computer through the glass windows separating his office from the hallway.

Steeling myself and straightening my back, I take a deep breath, spinning around before a booming voice calls, “You’re late, Miss Scott. Get in my office.” My eyes search for the voice and where it came from, spotting a speaker attached to the phone on the desk.

Smoothing my white blouse down, I trail my hands over my hips and down my gray pencil skirt before walking toward his door, knocking lightly and opening it up.

A hunched figure sits behind the sleek desk that’s much the same as the one outside, only this one is twice the size.

Clearing my throat, I start to say, “Good morning, Mr. Taylor. I’m sorry I was a few minutes late. I wasn’t given the code—”

“First rule,” his deep voice interrupts. I widen my eyes at the baritone of it, hating how the smoothness causes goose bumps to spread along my skin and a flutter to explode in my—downstairs region. “Don’t blame anything or anybody for being late. Own your mistakes.”

“But—”

“Second rule,” he grates out. “Don’t interrupt me.”

“Like you just did?” I whisper, not loud enough for him to hear me.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” I chirp, much like Al did earlier.

Why has he still not looked up at me?

“Third and final rule.” He pauses. “Close the door when you come into my office.”

“Oh! Of course.” I scramble behind me, shutting the door without taking my eyes off his bent head, making out his dark-blond hair, longer on the top and flopping forward but shorter on the sides.

His head flicks up at the sound of the door clicking shut and the breath leaves my body in a rush. His dark-blue-eyed gaze runs up my body, stopping at my eyes, assessing me in a calculating way. My cheeks heat at his attention.

A smattering of hair covers his jaw, his cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. And those lashes—it’s so unfair that men are blessed with the long, thick ones. Hot damn, he even has a chin dimple! What is it about dimples that immediately make a woman turn to mush?

I’m preoccupied with taking him in, noting his charcoal suit jacket on the back of his chair, his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows and showing arm veins. Oh, God, I’m a sucker for arm veins. They’re so… manly.

My gaze finally rolls up over his dark-blue tie before stopping on his lips that are… spread into a grim line.

Shit. How long have I been staring?

“If you’ve quite finished, Miss Scott, we have a schedule to go over.”

“I—” I clear my throat. “Of course, Mr. Taylor, let me grab my tablet to—”

He huffs impatiently before pushing a piece of paper across his desk and placing the pen he was writing with on top of it, silently telling me to use that.

Right. I can do this, I can totally sit opposite this juicy beef burger of a man and write down what he tells me without disappearing into Vi Dream Land, where all the men are as sexy and as cut as this one, fanning me as I sit on my chaise lounge—dammit, I’m going there again.

Shaking my arms out, he watches, his brow lifting. I ignore it, ready to get to work. Three weeks. Fifteen work days—possibly a few more if he’s a tyrant. I bet he’s a tyrant in the bedroom—Stop it!

“Right, yes.” I pull away from the door. “Let’s do thi—”

No. No, no, no. The sound of ripping material echoes around the room like the bass of a guitar in a crowded arena. I slam my eyes shut, praying—hoping like hell—that what happened isn’t…

Yep… yep it is. I feel the air flowing up my thigh, and when I look down, the seam to my skirt is ripped all the way up to my hip.

I slap my hand over it, concealing the white cotton granny panties I decided to wear today.

Great first impression, Vi. Just… great.

* * *

Standing up, I pull my coat off the back of my chair and push my arms through it, thankful it’s covering the disaster that is my skirt. I managed to pin it together with five safety pins, but all it’s done is make me look like a goth kid—you know the ones that walk around with their hair in their eyes that are rimmed with black kohl? I never understood kids like that, why paint one fingernail black? What does it mean? And don’t even get me started on those jeans that may as well be painted on them much like the nail polish. I wonder what they’d look like if they laughed? Or is that against their religion or something?

Tilting my head to the side, I stare at the safety pins—I think I could totally pull off the goth look if I put my mind to it. Not the jeans though—I don’t want to wrestle with my clothes.

I wince as my heels cut into the back of my feet. I’ve had to keep them on all day. It’s a crime to have to keep your feet enclosed in them, but I had no choice because Mr. CEO has the air conditioner on outside of his office. It’s winter! In New York for Pete’s sake!

Shaking my head, I’m about to pick the tablet up and finish off the last of organizing his schedule back at the hotel when he walks out of his office. I flick my gaze over to him but he’s not looking my way, instead he’s frowning down at his cell—a frown that I itch to smooth out with my fingers. Is his tan skin as soft as it looks?

Reaching out for the tablet, I finally pull my greedy eyes away from my hunk of a boss and push it into my bag.

“Miss Scott.” Goddamn, it should be illegal to have a voice like that.

“Yes, Mr. Taylor?”

I don’t look up as he steps closer, his cologne wrapping around me like a warm blanket on a winter night. The musk and earthy notes are like crack to an addict and I take an extra deep breath before glancing up at him.

His dark-blue eyes bore into me. “I have a last-minute meeting that I need you to take notes at.”

Goddammit all to hell! It’s 6 p.m., I’ve been here for eleven hours and all I can see right now is the bath in my suite, begging me to sit my ass in it and not move until I resemble a dried-up prune. Hold on a second... isn’t a prune already a dried fruit? Hmm, I’ll ask Google when I get back to the hotel.

“I—” I shuffle on my feet, wincing again as they pinch.

He’s looking back down at his cell as he says, “It’s across the city, let’s go,” before spinning around and heading toward the elevators.

Grabbing my bag, I hobble after him, gaining me some weird looks from the other people walking around on this floor—mainly men. The women look at me knowingly, offering me pitiful smiles. It’s like we’re in a club where we all know what the pain’s like but have to endure it for… wait, why am I enduring this pain?

The elevator doors open as soon as he stops in front of them, almost as if they knew he was coming—or maybe he has a super power? Now that would be cool. Oh my God, am I working for a superhero? Actually, he kind of looks more like a villain. Hmm… I wonder what his outfit is?

Stepping onto the elevator, the doors close behind me, leaving only me and Mr. Villain in the metal box that could plunge us to our deaths if it was so inclined. Shit, don’t think like that, Vi. Jesus H Christ, I’m driving myself insane with all my rambling thoughts.

Neither of us talk as it takes us down to the main floor and when the door whooshes open, we both step out. I feel something wet on the back of my heels and I stop, leaning my hand against the wall as I try to see what it is.

“Son of a batch of cookies!”

Why? Why oh why did I wear brand-new heels for my first day of work? They’ve shredded my feet and now all I want to do is hold them to my chest—my feet not the heels—and rock them back and forth telling them it’ll get better knowing I’m lying because these are the only pair I brought with me.

Someone should tell those gangsters running around the streets that they don’t need to be pulling fingernails off people's hands, instead they should make people wear a brand-new pair of heels as a form of torture.

I yank the offending things off my feet, closing my eyes and moaning as the cold floor seeps through my skin. Now that is heaven.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I squeak at the growling voice that sounds down my ear, and when I turn my head, Mr. Taylor is standing a couple of inches away from me, his chest nearly touching my arm.

“I’m removing the torture devices.” He frowns at me, an impatient look on his face. I hold them up between us before explaining, “They’ve cut my feet open and—”

“Fuck me, why the hell would Della do this?” I open my mouth, about to ask what he’s talking about when he continues, “No, I know why, she’s trying to get her own back.” He runs a hand down his face as he steps back, curling his fingers around my bicep and pulling me along with him. “Sleep with a girl your senior year and more than a decade later she’s still trying to get back at me.”

My eyes widen as I watch him talk, his tone deep and threatening. Who the hell shit in his Cocoa Puffs?

He pushes us through the turnstile door, heading for a black car idling at the edge of the sidewalk. He pulls open the door, waving his hand at me to get in. I do as he silently says, shuffling over on the seat before he gets in, slamming the door.

“Reels and Dew. I need to be there in ten minutes so step on it, Jenson.”

I lean to the right to see who he’s talking to, and when I see the driver I shout, “Hey, Jeeves!”

“Miss Scott.” He nods, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.

“Jeeves?” Mr. Taylor murmurs and when I turn toward him, I’m all up in his space. “Never mind.” He waves a hand, his thumbs flying over the screen of his cell as the silence rains around us again. I hate silence.

Clutching the side of my skirt, I stare out the window while Jeeves weaves in and out of traffic, pulling up to another sidewalk and another metal and glass building seven minutes later.

Mr. Taylor gets out without another word said, waiting until I’m out too, my heels in my hands. I blanch when we’re in yet another elevator and realize I’m going to have to put them back on.

“Cock suckers,” I murmur as I bend my knees, about to bring up my foot.

“Excuse me?”

I roll my eyes at Mr. Taylor’s stiff tone, fed up that today isn’t over yet. I haven’t even managed to watch a minute of anything because I’ve been so busy trying to work out the system he uses and what I’ll need to be prepared for. These three weeks are going to kill me.

I wave the heel up in the air between us, nearly hitting him in the face as I straighten up. “Do you know what it’s like to have to wear these?” He opens his mouth but I don’t let him talk. “Torture, pure torture. And now I have to put them back on while my foot is bleeding.” I grit my teeth as he watches me like I’m a crazy person. “I’m going to be leaving a trail of—what are you doing?”

I pull my foot out of his grasp, my back hitting the elevator wall as I stumble away from his crouched position. “I’m checking your foot, I didn’t realize you were bleeding.”

“Well you wouldn’t because you went all grrr and pulled me out of the office—”

“Grrr?” He raises his brow, a grin spreading over his face.

Jesus, he’s even more sexy with those lips spread wide. They’re so full and would look like perfection if they were between my legs—Shit, I went there again.

Shaking my head, I swallow when his hand wraps around my ankle again. “Yeah, you know, all caveman—you spunktrumpet!”

“Keep still,” he commands, his deep voice echoing around us as he assesses my foot. “Should be okay once it’s cleaned.” He lets my foot down slowly and I watch as he looks up at me from his position. His hand stays on my ankle, moving upward. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it.

He makes it all the way to the back of my knee and I’m practically panting like a sex addict in a whorehouse at the sensations rolling through me. My teeth sink into my bottom lip and he zones in on them, his eyes growing darker.

The door opens, a ping sounding, and it’s like a bucket of ice cold water being thrown over him. He pulls away, yanking his hand off me before standing up, clearing his throat and murmuring, “Leave the heels off, we won’t be long and then I’ll give you a ride back to the hotel.”

You can give me a ride anytime.