You need this job… You need this job… You NEED this job.

Milly reminded herself of this fact several times while waiting outside her Scottish boss’s solid oak office door for their daily 4:00 A.M. stand up. Yes, 4:00 A.M. Not 3:58 A.M.—which was the time now. Not 4:01 A.M. But exactly 4:00 A.M. in the freaking morning. Neither a minute before, nor a minute after met Iain Scotswolf’s infamous “standards.”

Speaking of which…

She squinted at the clear plexiglass wall opposite her desk. It was still dark out so Milly could just make out enough of her reflection to run a quick scan of her appearance.

Lucky mustard yellow cardigan correctly buttoned? Check.

Wrinkle-free, gray pencil skirt? Check.

Glasses on straight? Milly pushed her black, thick-framed glasses up her nose…check.

Makeup? Eh, not bad, especially considering how hard it was to match her unique shade of “too much time spent indoors” beige, which had only become more pronounced here in Scotland, home of the people with milk-colored, freckled skin. She’d made do as best she could with the MAC products her roommate, Tara, had brought back from her last trip to London. So, sure…check.

Hair? Well, they say opposites attract. But thanks to the opposite types of kinky hair genes she’d inherited from her Jewish-by-way-of-New Zealand father and her Ghanaian-American mother, her coils had been straight up battling for curl superiority all her life. It was a worse situation than that of her parents who’d come together, only to split up before she’d been born. Because at least they’d been able to break up.

Unlike the never-ending curl war on top of Milly’s head which had resulted in a veritable nest of frizzy spirals that could only be governed by a triple regime of headband, ponytail holder, and super aggressive product. And even then, there was no guarantee a few of the curls wouldn’t mutiny by the end of the business day. But for now, they were all contained and accounted for.

So, check. Her hair was what it was. Just like this job. Which she needed even if it meant having to remind herself about this every weekday, and sometimes way more often than she liked on weekends, too. And even it if meant standing like a dog outside Iain Scotswolf’s door at the butt-crack of dawn so she could walk in the second the clock struck four in the morning.

Speaking of which…

Milly glanced at the huge brushed steel clock on the other side of her glass-encased workspace, which doubled as the reception area for Iain’s office. It took up nearly the entire wall behind her desk. Looming over her as if it, like her boss, considered itself her lord and master—

Oh no…

The short hand now sat completely on the four, but the long hand no longer rested on either of the slots before the 12. In fact, it was now just a little past the top of the hour, with the thin second hand rushing past the 11 to make it official. Her heart thunked.

She was only a few seconds away from 4:01 A.M.

Crap! Crap! Crap! She rushed to open the door, only to jump when a voice boomed, “Stop your dithering and get in here, Millicent!”

Milly did exactly that. Scrambling into her boss’s adjoining office suite as quickly as she could. But before she could even open her mouth to apologize, the man standing behind a very tall, black desk with six widescreen monitors mounted on top of it, yelled out, “Tardy!”

Milly’s cheeks heated at the reprimand. She knew…knew down to the very last drop of her rapidly dwindling reservoir of pride that Iain wasn’t the dreamboat Scottish billionaire the local media made him out to be. Yeah, he might be a brilliant coder who’d cleared a billion in product alone with the first version of his visionary AlgoFortune finance software—all before reaching the age of 25. A total catch in most women’s eyes. But to Milly, he was nothing more than her foul-tempered, rude, and extremely demanding boss.

At least that was how she typically felt about him. However, per usual, it was hard not to stare when she walked into his office because he looked like a modern day Scottish male fantasy come to life.

From what she’d observed while working in Edinburgh’s main technology district for nearly three years, no Scottish guy with a nine-to-five office job wore kilts to work on a regular basis. But Iain Scotswolf did. With a vest and blazer during the colder months, and a simple button up shirt during the warmer months. And thanks to exceptional good looks and what appeared to be a generous helping of muscles beneath his unusual business attire, he pulled it off.

And then there was his accent.

Even before coming to Scotland as an intern, Milly had loved the Scottish accent. The brogue-ier, the better. And Iain’s accent was especially delicious. Deep and rich, with a gruff undertone. That voice of his had sent shivers up her spine when they first shook hands across his standing desk during her interview.

“Hello there, Millicent. I’m Iain Scotswolf,” he’d said with a huge smile, like she’d already made his day just by walking into the room. Her heart, her mind—heck, her entire body—had warmed beneath the sun of that smile. And for a full ten seconds, she’d thought she might have scored a dream job interview with an even dreamier boss.

But then his smile suddenly disappeared. Replaced by the cold, expressionless mask she’d come to know well over the next three years. He’d told her they’d be conducting the interview while standing. That was how she discovered the first of Iain’s long, long list of standards. There were no chairs to be found anywhere in his office space because “sitting”—yes, sitting—wasn’t up to his standards.

And the interview had only gone downhill from there. He’d spent an entire hour lecturing about the long list of things he wouldn’t put up with. And then—much to her surprise—he’d hired her on the spot without bothering to ask her a single question.

“Tardiness, Millicent. By now I’d expect you to know that’s not up to my standards,” Iain said, still clacking away at his computer.

“Sorry,” she replied with a sincerely apologetic look.

Not that he noticed. From the look of extreme concentration on his chiseled face, he was still knee-deep in the new algorithm he was drafting for next year’s AlgoFortune 4.0 product launch.

And he didn’t so much as acknowledge her apology, just barked, “Report!” rolling the second “r” hard.

“Okay, let’s see…” Milly pulled out her tablet and nudged her glasses back up her nose. “Yesterday I received the first draft of the new pitch package and checked it over for errors. So that’s ready for you to look over. Oh, and the business development team is requesting you get it back to them by Thursday—”

“Tell them they’ll bloody get it when they get it! If their reports were up to standard and not riddled with so many mistakes that my assistant is forced to do the first pass just so I can read the twaddle they come up with, then maybe—mebbe—they could start inquiring about deadlines. Feckin’ wallopers, the lot of them—tell them that exactly.”

“Okay…” She opened the email browser on her tablet and composed a polite note to the head of biz dev, letting him know Iain would look over the package at his earliest convenience. She pressed “send” and then continued, “Your brother called. He and your father want to have lunch with you this Thursday.”

“Not possible. I’m swamped.”

Milly winced. She liked Iain’s father, Lachlan Scotswolf—even if his Highland accent was so thick, at times it was nearly unintelligible to his son’s American assistant. But Iain’s brother, Magnus, was the one who’d tagged her with a now unshakeable office nickname, “Milly Mouse,” the very first time he’d dropped by to visit Iain after she’d been hired. And now the entire staff of AlgoFortune, save Iain, called her this. So seriously, no love lost there.

Still, she was obligated to say, “He told me to tell you it was a command if you said no.”

Iain’s fingers paused on his keyboard, his clean-shaven jaw locking for a few irritated seconds before he grudgingly replied, “Fine, put them on the calendar. Tell them they’ve got forty-five minutes with me. Not a minute more. I will not have my time wasted, and there’s a ton needs doing before the long weekend.”

Funny how Iain always caved to his brother’s demands no matter how much he had going on. Maybe it was because Magnus was his older brother? Having no siblings herself, Milly could only guess. But without fail, whenever Magnus “commanded” Iain—the busiest and least accommodating man Milly had ever met—Iain always acquiesced.

In any case, she made a note to send Magnus an email with Iain’s available times on Thursday, before moving on to the next item: “The speaker for tonight’s 30 Under 30 event had to drop out due to a family emergency. The organizers are wondering if you can take his place.”

“Last I checked, I’m 31 now.”

“Yes, but you won the award three years ago, so it would still be—”

“Got my Highland retreat tonight, too.”

Once a month, Iain took a full night and day off to go on a “Highland retreat.” Which from what she could tell, was nothing more than him returning to the village where he grew up to go camping. Most people would probably just call it a “mental health day,” but you know…visionary genius and all. He always drove there directly after work and from the time he left until three o’clock the next day, he didn’t answer his phone or emails.

“Yes, I realize that, but they’re desperate. So I told them I’d ask you—”

“You asked. Now you can tell them I canna do it. Next!”

She glanced at her list and groaned inwardly. Milly hated going over Iain’s dating items. “Um…Caro Salzig’s assistant texted a few times since your date last weekend. Ms. Salzig is wondering if you’d like to go with her to the premiere of her new movie next Thursday.”

“Is that the one about the high-stakes heist in Monte Carlo?”

“No. It’s about the guy who goes home to Dublin for his father’s funeral. She plays the sister of the girlfriend he left behind—”

“Hard pass. But the Irish gal who plays the girlfriend…”

“Hmmm…” she racked her memory to come up with a name, “You mean Lisette Collier?”

“Aye, her. Put her on the calendar for this weekend.”

Hard pass. Put her on the calendar. All of these phrases were Iain’s way of telling her to blow off the actress voted last year’s Sexiest Woman in Britain for the one on this month’s cover of British Vogue.

By now, Milly had become used to doing just about all the work when it came to Iain’s love life. She initiated contact, secured the best tables at top restaurants, sent “looking forward to seeing you” bouquets a few days in advance, followed by a box of handcrafted artisanal chocolates on the morning of the date. By the time she was through, all Iain had to do was show up at the carefully selected restaurant with his obnoxiously good looks and get laid in a nearby hotel afterwards.

“Anything else?” he demanded.

“No, that’s all,” she answered, feeling even smaller than usual today. Just a speck in the great Iain Scotswolf’s universe.

“Alright, then leave. And tomorrow don’t be late, or I’ll have to dock your pay.”

Stability…superior benefits…ability to pay the rent and eat regular meals…

Milly silently listed the string of reasons why she absolutely needed to keep this job as she turned to walk out of the office.

But before she could make it to the door, the clicking of Iain’s fingers over the keys suddenly stopped, and he issued a sharp “Millicent.”

She turned back around and inwardly started when she saw that not only had Iain stopped typing, but he’d turned to face her, his piercing gray gaze trained on her like a laser beam. Like he could see her over the algorithm code he’d been obsessing about for months.

Milly, Iain’s definitely-not-a cover-model assistant, wasn’t used to him looking at her in this way. Or in any way, really.

“Yes?” she asked when he didn’t immediately say anything.

“You’re not wearing the fragrance.”

Crap. Another one of his stupid “standards.”

Turns out her insensitive boss had a surprisingly sensitive nose. So much so that something about her natural body odor disturbed him. Before she’d left his office after their one-sided interview, he’d told her to buy an obscure German perfume called KeinWulf. It was a brand she’d never heard of, but according to Iain, it worked to neutralize the scent of other staff members so he was confident it would work for her. In any case, she was expected to wear it every work day per Iain.

Most awkward conversation ever. But she’d done as he’d asked, reminding herself that she needed the private health insurance and above average pay his company offered. And the fragrance wasn’t that bad. Kind of smoky and dark. Even her roommate Tara liked to use it when they went out because she said it made her smell “like a straight up spy.”

Only this morning, Milly woke to find the thin roller bottle of KeinWulf empty. She’d known she was running low, but she was sure she’d get another week or so out of it before she needed to buy another bottle online. So much for that. After a few seconds of uncertainty, Milly finished dressing and headed out the door, hoping Iain wouldn’t notice. But he had. Of course.

She winced. “I’m so sorry. I had a lot going on last week and didn’t notice I was almost out. I’ll put in a rush order, and hopefully it will get here by Friday—”

“You’ve a doctor’s appointment, today,” he said, veering abruptly onto an entirely new topic.

It was a statement, not a question. “Yes, I’m sorry, but I didn’t have a chance to put it on the calendar. How did you kno—?”

“You always wear that yellow jumper when you have a doctor’s appointment,” he answered tersely.

Milly blinked. Not because he’d cut her off—that happened nearly all the time with Iain. But because he’d noticed anything at all about her habits.

“Yes, well...the doctor’s office is usually a little chilly so I like to wear layers to keep comfortable.” Milly hated lying, but she wasn’t about to try and explain about her lucky cardigan. “I had my annual last week and today is my follow-up.”

“It was just a routine physical?” he asked, his tone unusually harsh even for him.

Well, no it wasn’t exactly a routine physical like she’d implied, but she typically tried to avoid discussions about why she had to do the needle dance at the oncologist’s office every six months. After spending most of her college years in hospitals back home in the States, she relished not being known as that “poor sick girl” here in Scotland.

Even her current role as Milly Mouse, the invisible and meek executive assistant of the genius CTO and founder of AlgoFortune, was a much better alternative to the life she’d been leading before.

“If you want, I’ll work from home until the perfume arrives,” she said, returning to the original subject.

Iain glared at her as if she’d offended his sensibilities as well as his nose. “No, that’s not what I—”

He was cut off by a quick rap on the door. The graphical user interface team had arrived for their stand up with Iain. It was 4:15 A.M.—on the dot.

Milly opened the heavy oak door to Ian’s office and let them in, still feeling the weight of his eyes on her. She rushed past the four men who, unlike their kilted CTO, were dressed in the standard uniform of software engineers around the world: t-shirts and jeans.

In any case, there was so much to do when Milly got back to her desk, she found it easy to lose herself in all of it for the next few hours. Too easy, she realized when her phone lit up with the Edinburgh Cancer Care Centre’s number flashing across the Caller ID screen. Right above the current time of 12:15 P.M.

Crap! She’d missed her noon follow-up appointment.

Milly picked up the phone and immediately began apologizing before the person on the other end could say a thing. “I am so sorry I forgot my appointment,” she said. “Can we reschedule for tomorrow? Or even better, next week after the bank holiday? I’m really slammed at work right now, and that—”

“Ah…hello, Millicent,” a male voice with a gentle Scottish burr cut in. “This is Dr. Keller. It’s no problem at all about the missed appointment. I understand how busy things can sometimes get. The good news is I can still squeeze you in this afternoon. And…well, I really must insist you come in today, if possible.”

Milly stopped breathing. She knew what was going on almost immediately. Doctors never made personal calls to patients, and they never insisted a patient come in immediately…unless the news was bad.