Chapter 28

By some miracle, I survived the first couple of months with my sanity mostly intact. Zane hadn't been kidding about damage-control. During those first few weeks in particular, it felt like I was jumping from one crisis to another as Zane ripped up contracts, renegotiated previous deals, and took a wrecking-ball to countless longstanding relationships.

Afterward, there was almost always a fallout, with Zane being the primary target of whatever media storm ensued.

This was where I came in.

I smoothed ruffled feathers and spun things the best I could – which, honestly wasn't all that great.

It's not that I was plagued by incompetence, or even my own inexperience. Mostly, it was that Zane didn't seem to care one bit what anyone thought of him.

It was like the guy had a reputation death-wish or something.

As for me? I felt like a firefighter, armed with only a squirt-gun, as my billionaire boss lit too many fires for me to put out. Already, my name had appeared in countless media outlets throughout the country, not to mention several overseas.

And why was my name appearing?

The reason was simple. Zane absolutely refused to be interviewed, even by friendly outlets with a history of favorable news coverage. So that left only me, his spokesperson, to deflect whatever controversy blew up on any given day.

Probably, this strategy was for the best, considering that Zane had that annoying habit of telling people to fuck off.

Still, it was a strange arrangement. Bennington Hotels had its own public relations staff, and it was absolutely huge, with a team of writers, spokespeople, media buyers, graphic designers, and who-knows-what -else.

But, as Zane had warned me during my so-called job interview, I worked for him and only him.

I didn't get it. From what I gathered, he owned most of the corporation all by himself, so why wouldn’t he just use the regular staff? Oh sure, technically, they were focused on the larger hotel operation, but surely, they would've done a much more comprehensive job than just one person, meaning me – a recent college graduate with little experience, not to mention issues of my own.

My primary issue? I couldn't stop thinking about him – my boss, my tormenter, and yes, my least-favorite sparring partner, meaning the verbal kind. As far as anything physical, I was determined to keep my distance.

That part was easy, considering that Zane appeared to be screwing his way through the phonebook, assuming that the phonebook was filled with the names of supermodels, actresses, and other stunners who made me feel like some sort of generic lump in comparison.

One Tuesday around noon, I was mulling all of this over while nibbling on crackers at my desk, which, as it turned out, was located in a spectacular office right next to Zane's.

Even now, I could hardly believe the office was mine.

I had a huge window, my own coffee maker, and a front-row seat to all of the comings and goings of the billionaire next-door.

As much as I loved the office – which I totally did – I knew exactly why I'd been assigned this one, and not the dark and dingy cube I'd been expecting. It was because here, Zane could summon me with a series of knocks – no, not on my office door, but on the wall that divided our two offices.

Just like Zane, it was unconventional – and rude as hell.

I was still dwelling on this when a knock, this time on my partially closed office door, made me look up. Carla, the receptionist, poked her head through the opening and asked, "Can I come in?"

"Sure," I said, waving her inside. Even though I'd been working here for weeks, I'd found it surprisingly difficult to make any friends, even with Carla, who was friendlier than most.

It's not that anyone was rude, exactly. It was just that for some unknown reason, everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells whenever I tried to talk to them. Granted, this wasn't often, considering how busy Zane had been keeping me. And yet, it was a little strange.

I'd never had problems making friends before.

Carla stepped into my office and shut the door behind her. With a worried frown, she hurried to my desk and said in a hushed voice, "There's a visitor."

Her worried expression told me all I needed to know. "Let me guess," I said. "The vlogger's back?"

Just yesterday, Carla had been the one to inform me that a celebrity vlogger was camped out in the executive lobby and was refusing to leave without interviewing you-know-who.

As usual, Zane had been entirely uncooperative, even though the vlogger was a rabid fan-girl who was promising tons of favorable coverage in return for just five minutes of his time.

In the end, even after hours of waiting, she received exactly zero minutes, and she hadn't been happy. If she was back for more, that would definitely explain Carla's nervous demeanor.

But already, Carla was shaking her head. "No. It's not her." She bit her lip. "It's someone else." Looking more worried than ever, she whispered, "It's a guy. For you."

I felt my eyebrows furrow. "For me?"

She nodded. "In the executive lobby."

She looked almost afraid.

Hoping to calm her nerves, I tried to make a joke of it. "It's not an ax-murderer, is it?"

"I, uh, don't think so."

Well, that was reassuring.

I gave her a perplexed look. "But you don't know who it is?"

She shook her head. "He wouldn’t say. He said it's a surprise."

Now, I was almost afraid, too. "A work surprise?"

Again, Carla shook her head. "The other kind."

"What kind is that?" I asked.

She leaned close and whispered so low, it was a wonder that I heard her at all. "The personal kind."

Okay, now I was really confused. I'd been far too busy to date, and other than a few visits with Charlotte and a mother's day weekend at my parents, I'd been doing nearly nothing outside of work.

Obviously, there was something I was missing. I looked to Carla and asked, "And why are you whispering?"

Her gaze shifted toward Zane's office, just beyond our shared wall. She mouthed, "You know."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, but I don't..." And then it hit me. "Ohhhhh…You mean because I'm at work?" I waved away her concern. It was true that Zane was a hard-ass, but he was surprisingly decent when it came to visitors showing up during lunchtime.

Just last Friday, I'd had Charlotte up for lunch in my office. And Zane – in a rare moment of civility – even had the decency to say hello and refrain from cursing for five whole minutes.

But now, in front of me, Carla was looking more uncomfortable with every passing moment.

Looking to ease her concerns, I gave her a reassuring smile. "It's okay. It's lunchtime, right?"

Again, her gaze shifted to the wall. She chewed on her lower lip for ten whole seconds before whispering, "Well, then you'd better hurry while he's on that telecon."

I didn't know which telecom she meant, but it was easy to guess who she was talking about. "You mean Zane?"

She froze. "Uh, right. Mister Bennington."

Around here, everyone called him Mister Bennington – well, everyone except for me. But there was a good reason for that.

It stemmed from an argument during my second day on the job. After yet another tense meeting, where I'd tried – and failed – to help keep things civilized, I'd flat-out demanded to know if there was something else I was supposed to be doing.

Zane's response had caught me totally off guard. "Yeah. You can pretend I'm not an asshole. And while you're at it, call me Zane."

The first part of his request was hard, because in truth, Zane was an asshole. As for the second part, that was easy, because I'd always thought of him as Zane – not Mister Anything – probably because I'd first met him outside the office.

In front of me, Carla was still looking tense and uneasy.

"Don't worry," I assured her as I got to my feet, "it's not a big deal, honest."

Unfortunately, that turned out to be a big, fat lie.