Naughty, Dirty, Cocky, Page 2

  “Fine,” I said at last, begrudgingly sending them all my standard, “Something just came up. I’ll have to reschedule,” message and walked over to my windows.

  “I’m not going to use our partner agency to find your new assistant. I’m going to handle this personally. Any requirements on your end?”

  “Hiring someone who is capable of reading a book is a good start. I’d also prefer someone ten to fifteen years older than me, married or already engaged, submissive enough to complete tasks without sarcasm, Ivy League education, and someone who knows how to tell the goddamn time.”

  “Yeah, okay. Let’s put up the job description in those exact words and see how much of a field day the press has with that one.”

  “I’m willing to bend on the Ivy League part if it’s a college with a good reputation. I’m not bending on anything else.”

  “We’ll see.” He was definitely rolling his eyes, and I could tell he was about to give me his much repeated lecture about hiring laws and blind interviews, so I beat him to it.

  “Just get me the best person for the job. I’ll wait however long it takes since this “fire today, hire tomorrow” approach isn’t working. And actually, just get me someone who impresses you, because if that’s the case, I know this person will impress me.”

  “Now, you’re finally thinking smart,” he said. “Give me six weeks. I’ll screen the hell out of everyone and make sure the next executive assistant you have is someone who’ll last over a year.

  “Thank you, Brad.” I hung up, wanting to feel optimistic, but with my track record, I knew the odds of me employing the same executive assistant for a year were highly unlikely. Just like I knew the chances of me going twelve months without fucking someone were too unbelievable to completely fathom.

  I’ll try it though....

  THE EMAILS

  Mya

  Subject: Manhattan Publisher Seeks Executive Assistant

  So ... I’m pretty sure this job listing is for that “sexy” CEO we sometimes see on all the tabloids!

  You should definitely apply for this. You’d be perfect.

  Check out the attachment below.

  Your bestie,

  Amy

  —-—Forwarded Message——-

  High level executive at Leighton Publishing seeks a highly competent and professional executive assistant. Requirements and salary package attached via pdf below. Send resume(s) and contact information to [email protected].

  —Bachelor’s degree from an accredited college institution (master’s preferred)

  —A minimum of five (5) years of experience working for high level corporate executive

  —Passion for literature

  —Ability to work under high stress and for at least 50-60 hours a week

  —Ability to draft error-free press releases and PR copy at a moment’s notice

  [email protected]

  Subject: Re: Manhattan Publisher Seeks Executive Assistant

  It can’t be. There’s no way a guy like that would post a job like this on Craigslist, is there? And with that huge salary range?!! O.M.G!

  Wait. I thought he was the “naughty” CEO? Isn’t that what they call him?

  Your bestie,

  Mya

  PS—I definitely applied. :-)

  Subject: Re: Re: Manhattan Publisher Seeks Executive Assistant

  “Naughty.” “Sexy.” Same thing. And who knows? Maybe he’s desperate?

  According to Page Six and his former EA, he can’t keep an assistant for more than two months at a time. She claims he was “really demanding” and asked her to do “hard labor.”

  Then again, I’m sure the real reason no women last around him is because they’re all distracted by how big his cock is.

  (If you get hired, please find out how big it is. Do it for me, at least.)

  Your bestie,

  Amy

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Manhattan Publisher Seeks Executive Assistant

  The Brad guy from the ad just called me and told me to be at Leighton Publishing next Friday for an interview. AN. INTERVIEW!

  Wish me luck!

  Your bestie,

  Mya

  Subject: Did you get the job?

  Haven’t heard anything from you in two weeks! The two of us aren’t that busy these days and you stay right across the hall! What gives?

  Did you meet Michael Leighton during the interview?

  Your bestie (Do we really have to continue signing off like this on every email, like we’re still teenagers?)

  Amy

  Subject: Re: Did you get the job?

  Sorry, I’ve been swamped with some massive reading and pre-research. (Don’t ask.) But yes! I got hired On. The. Spot! The Brad guy (Leighton’s advisor) even doubled the initial salary offer in the middle of our negotiations.

  I didn’t technically get to “see” Mr. Leighton until this morning when I went to officially sign the paperwork and I lie to you not, the man is the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life. Hands down.

  He made me wet after he shook my hand and said the words, “Welcome to my company, Mya.” That’s honestly all it took....

  Sexy as ever or not, I’m determined to last way longer than all of his other assistants. He can’t be that bad, right?

  Your bestie (Yes. It’s tradition to sign off like this :) ),

  Mya

  ONE YEAR LATER...

  THE ASSISTANT

  Mya

  Manhattan, New York

  I stumbled into the glittering lobby of Leighton Publishing, balancing a small box of files in one hand and a binder of reports in the other. I was over an hour early, but I knew that wouldn’t be enough for my boss.

  Taking the elevator straight to the top floor, I rolled my eyes as the golden numbers lit up above the doors. Michael Leighton insisted on having the entire top floor to himself, and only allowed me and the lowly secretaries access when we had a morning meeting like today. Or when he was too lazy to travel down one flight of stairs, when he would call and say, “Come up to my office.”

  The second the doors sprung open, I headed toward the massive conference room that was right across from his office. I unlocked the doors and hit the lights, pulling down the projector screen as I made my way around the room.

  I set out notepads and pens at each chair, and then I dialed the breakfast caterer.

  “Fifth Avenue Catering,” a woman answered on the first ring. “How may I help you this morning?”

  “Hello, this is Mya London with Leighton Publishing,” I said. “I was wondering what time your delivery person was going to—”

  “They’re on the elevator right now, Miss London.” She interrupted, a slight smile in her voice. “We know how your boss feels about time. No worries.”

  “Thank you.” I ended the call and dialed the literary agent who was due to arrive for a separate meeting later today, letting her know that we would only have time for a twenty-minute pitch. Then I emailed each and every staff person a reminder to arrive to the boardroom at least ten minutes early.

  As soon as I hit send on the message, an email from Mr. Leighton popped onto my screen.

  Subject: What I Need Today.

  Coffee from Dean & DeLuca. Mary Kubica’s new book. Ad report. Hotel confirmations for next Saturday night, two. Q3 revenue reports. Travel itinerary for January. Files for meeting at 3 o’clock on my desk by noon.

  Michael Leighton,

  CEO, Leighton Publishing

  There was never any point in responding to his first email of the day. One hundred percent rhetorical and two hundred percent rude, he always sent them at exactly seven o’clock and they were always comprised of staccato-like sentences. There was never a “Hello,” “Good morning,” or a mere, “Hope all is well today.” The asshole never even said, “Please.”

  And even when I completed everything on his ridiculous lists in record time, instead of saying, “Thank you,” he had the au
dacity to say, “You’re welcome.”

  “No, no, no.” I picked up a plate of banana muffins the second the catering assistant set them down. “My boss is extremely allergic to these. Can you replace them with blueberry ones?” I quickly looked over the other things she was starting to set out, making sure nothing else was suspect.

  “You sure you want me to replace them?” She smiled. “He’ll die a lot a faster if I don’t.”

  “I’m sure.” I said. “I’m not trying to kill him ... yet.”

  She laughed and took away the offending pastries, and before I could call Dean & DeLuca to order his overpriced coffee, he sent me another email.

  Subject: Time.

  You were two minutes late to work yesterday, and one minute late to the noon meeting.

  Don’t let it happen again today.

  Michael Leighton,

  CEO, Leighton Publishing

  I started to respond with “Eff you and your obsession with time, you egotistical asshole,” but I wasn’t going to let him get to me today. I sent him a curt “Okay,” ordered his coffee, and scrolled through my inbox, looking for correspondence from any of the countless jobs I’d recently applied to, but all I saw was spam.

  Ugh....

  Dialing my personal town-car driver, the best benefit that came with being his executive assistant, I begged him to retrieve the coffee for me. And then I told him to buy whatever else “looked pretty” in that café and add it to the purchase account.

  “Are you sure about that, Miss London?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.” I hung up. I was only supposed to use the “CEO credit card” for Mr. Leighton’s coffee and meals, but since he’d been increasingly mean to me over the past few months, I’d been using it on whatever came to mind. He could more than afford it.

  The sudden sound of the elevator stopping on the floor made me look over the room one more time, made me realize that another day with him was just beginning.

  “Good morning,” I said as several staff members began to fill the room and take their designated seats. “Good to see you all today.”

  They all offered me their usual warm “Hellos” and slight looks of sympathy in return.

  “Thank you all for being early,” I said. “As you all know, this month is going to be extremely busy in regards to our front-list, and today you’ll be asked which books you’d like to push from your departments and how much of the budget you’d like to spend on promoting each title.”

  Mr. Leighton suddenly entered the room as I spoke, turning the head of every woman at the table. He was dressed in an impeccable three-piece navy blue suit and matching tie, and the diamonds in his newest designer watch gleamed against the room’s soft light.

  His beautiful eyes met mine as I continued my short introduction, and for a split second, I was reminded of how utterly gorgeous and captivating he was.

  His face was flawlessly sculpted with piercing almond colored eyes that pinned me to the spot any time we were alone. His lips looked as if they were handcrafted for kissing, his jet black hair was always cut low enough for a woman to run her fingers through it, and the way his suits fit over his muscles, consistently invaded my dreams more times than I cared to admit.

  When I was finished talking, he stared at me—giving me a familiar look he gave me from time to time. One I had yet to figure out. It was a cross between the way he looked in my fantasies when he was burying his head between my thighs, and when he was asking me to stay late after work. A look that said he might not be as horrible a boss as I often made him out to be.

  “You can take your seat now, Miss London,” he said. “Unless you’d like us to spend the rest of this two-hour meeting staring at you.”

  Fantasy over....

  I sat down in my chair. I only halfway listened as he went around the room and condescendingly questioned the staff members, one by one, requesting client novel updates, publication schedules and budgeting concerns. And as he directed his venom at the staff member next to me, I stared at his mouth of perfection. Then I discreetly pulled out my phone under the table and sent Amy an email.

  Subject: I Wonder If He Eats Pussy...

  I’m currently staring at his mouth as he’s (surprise, surprise) being an utter jerk and telling the staff all the things he wants them to redo and the thought just crossed my mind. Like, his lips are beyond incredible and if he could keep them shut, he’d be A LOT sexier, but I wonder if he ever puts them to use behind closed doors....

  Your bestie,

  Mya

  PS—If he tells me I was “one minute” or a mere “two minutes” late one more time....

  Her response was immediate.

  Subject: Re: I Wonder If He Eats Pussy...

  Probably not. If he’s anything like you say, he’s probably more of a taker in the bedroom. I mean, I’m sure he’s a good taker, but I can’t see a hot-shot guy like him using his tongue for anything other than sarcasm.

  Your bestie,

  Amy

  PS—Why haven’t you poisoned his breakfast yet?

  “Miss London?” Mr. Leighton’s deep voice made me look up from my phone.

  “Yes?”

  “The morning meeting is over now. Feel free to leave my boardroom with everyone else.”

  I bit my tongue and stood up, forcing a smile as I headed toward the door.

  “Oh and Miss London?” He walked over to me before I stepped into the hallway.

  “Yes?”

  “You were about to leave without your files for our Friday meeting. I’m pretty sure you’ll need them if you plan on doing your assigned work between now and then.” He handed me my massive binder. “You’re welcome.”

  THE ASSISTANT

  Mya

  Manhattan, New York

  Friday was supposed to be the best day of the week, that one day that stood between the final hours of the work week and freedom, but Mr. Leighton had managed to make it my worst day for over a year.

  He insisted on meeting in the executive boardroom at three o’clock until seven o’clock. And then he always sat at the head of the table, which would be normal if he was holding a meeting, but we were the only two people in the room and there were always several seats between us.

  Today he was wearing my favorite suit—a three piece black one with a navy blue tie for accent. His cufflinks, monogrammed “ML” were gleaming underneath the room’s bright light, and I swear, the way he was looking at me made me think he wanted to fuck me.

  “Do you plan on staring at me for this entire meeting or would you finally like to start?” He raised his eyebrow.

  Bastard ... “I’d like to start.”

  “Good.” He opened his folder. “What did you think of the latest Grisham?”

  “Absorbing.” I flipped through my notes. “Reminiscent of what made me fall in love with his writing during his A Time to Kill era.”

  “I felt the same.” He wrote down a few words. “Do you think it’s front list worthy for the next quarter?”

  “It’s John Grisham, so that shouldn’t even be a question,” I said. “Although, in a perfect world, I’d say no. But only because his next book is far more commercial and I think we could do a lot more for that one.”

  His lips briefly curved up into a smile, but he didn’t let it remain. “Which romance novel would you like to recommend?”

  “One second ...” I flipped through another page of my notes. “Castrating Her Boss.”

  “Excuse me?” His eyes met mine. “What book did you just say?”

  “Casting Her Boss.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me before writing down my suggestion. “Anything in particular that stood out? Favorite parts?”

  “Probably when the asshole boss redeems himself and stops treating the heroine like shit ...” I muttered under my breath, but then I cleared my throat. “The realism was great. The heroine was a movie director and I learned a lot about Hollywood while reading.”

  “What about your Young
Adult selection?” He continued to go through all twelve genres I’d been assigned to read—asking follow-up questions here or there, but as usual, he never let our conversation go off topic or get remotely personal.

  When we finished the book recommendations, we transitioned into the month’s e-book revenue and promotional adjustments, and by the time he decided that I was “free to go,” it was nine o’clock.

  Nine. O. Clock.

  “Mr. Leighton?” I said as I slipped into my coat.

  He didn’t answer. He was still writing, looking down at his paper.

  “Mr. Leighton?” I repeated with a little more bite in my voice, enough that it made him finally look up at me.

  “Yes?”

  I hesitated, hating the fact that something as simple as his eyes meeting mine was enough to make my panties wet.

  “This is the fifteenth Friday in a row that you’ve kept me past six.

  “No, this is the fifteenth Friday in a row that the work has kept you past six. If you completed more of it throughout the week, then maybe you’d be able to leave earlier.”

  “Regardless,” I said, keeping my voice firm. “I’m going to need to leave at six o’clock on Fridays like everyone else here so I can enjoy a full weekend. If I’m not out of here by six, I’m going to deduct time from my Monday arrival and start time.”

  He set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “Come again?”

  “Like today.” I picked up my purse and slung it over my shoulder. “Today I’m leaving at nine o’clock which is three hours past acceptable, per section 83B in the company handbook. So, on Monday, I’ll be arriving three hours past my normal time at around eleven o’clock. I will also—”

  “You’re going to arrive here at eight o’clock.” He cut me off, his voice deeper than usual. “And you’re going to stay in these Friday meetings until we get the work done because that’s what you get paid very generously to do.”

  “No, I’m not.” I wasn’t backing down. “I’ll see you at eleven o’clock on Monday, Mr. Leighton.”

  “Be sure to bring a pen to sign off on your write-up papers because first of all,” he said, looking me up and down. “You’re not like everyone else here ...You’re salaried, not hourly. And per your contract and section 89B in the company handbook, Friday meetings can go as late as eleven o’clock, depending on the season. So technically, I’ve been doing you a favor since the day you started here.” He paused. “You’re welcome.”