Vicious

And still, I knew Help well enough to recognize that she wasn’t being pretentious. She really was an artist. The best painter I knew.

“Vicious?” she asked.

I slammed down my laptop screen, leveling my eyes at her. “Get me my breakfast. Unless you want to get back to bussing tables in a French maid uniform?” My voice dripped ice. It calmed my nerves a little.

She squinted at me, not budging.

I’d forgotten how hard to tame she was.

And I’d definitely forgotten how much it turned me on.

“You won’t fire me. You need something from me. Heck if I know what, but if you’re so desperate you gave me a job, I have a feeling I can bend you a little too.” She wiggled her brows and let out a throaty chuckle. “Come on. It’ll be fun to meet the people you work with.”

I hated that she had leverage over me and that she knew it. Help, of course, was right. We needed each other. She needed my money, and I needed her cooperation. Weighing the situation, I decided to pick my battles.

“Let’s make one thing clear so that there won’t be any future confusion. I’d hate to kick your ass on your second day, but I also won’t hesitate to do so. You’re my employee. Hence, I make the rules. The moment you signed that contract, you became mine. You will serve me. You will obey me. You. Will. Help. Me. Understood?”

Our gazes locked, and I allowed myself to get sucked into those blue eyes for exactly two seconds. They were Smurf-blue today. Probably not the best analogy, but shit if it wasn’t the truth. Help’s eye color constantly changed, according to her mood.

She arched an eyebrow. “You promise what you want me to do isn’t illegal?”

“It’s not illegal,” I said. Of course it was illegal.

“Nothing of a sexual nature?” she proceeded.

I threw her a condescending glance, as if mocking the very idea.

She was going to have sex with me. But of her own free will.

She blinked, clearing her throat. Shaking her head. So, Help needs some help with breaking the spell.

“Fine. You got yourself a deal. Let’s go. But I’m fucking warning you, I hate French toast.”

Spending time with my staff reminded me why humans were my least favorite creatures.

We all sat at a round white table, and I glared at my cold toast and egg-white omelet with little appetite. Help laughed a hearty laugh, the type I had never heard before she moved to California, as she showed the geriatric receptionist something on her iPad. They cooed and exchanged grins, and I wanted to know what they were talking about, but didn’t ask. Then the receptionist said she was retiring at the end of January, and Help jumped at the opportunity to organize her farewell party, as if she was going to be around that long.

Whatever. I wasn’t going to burst her bubble just yet.

People made small talk with each other but barely acknowledged me. My employees at this New York branch were timid and wary of me whenever I was here in-person, which wasn’t very often. They were used to Dean, who might have been a sleaze ball but was also a pretty decent boss. I was cold, more detached, and when I got angry, I’d yell at the person who fucked up so loud the glass walls in the office would rattle.

They treated me like I was a ticking bomb and asked the dumbest, most boring questions.

“So how do you like New York? Is it very different from California?”

No shit, Sherlock.

“Have you done any of the holiday stuff? Ice skating in Central Park? Rockefeller at Christmas?”

Fuck yeah. I also took selfies of myself holding the Statue of Liberty in the palm of my hand and hung it over my fridge with an I