Beautiful Bastard Book 1 - Page 18

Because, apparently, I’m an idiot.

“And then,” I said, giggling and holding onto my sides, “she says, ‘f.u.c.k, I had to take a f**king order off a guy I blew after junior prom once.’ And then he says, ‘Yeah, I’ve waited on your brother too.’”

Another bout of laughter hit me, and I stumbled backward a bit until I collided with something hard and warm.

Spinning around, I was mortified to see that I had just ground my a.s.s onto my new boss’ thigh.

“Mr. Ryan!” I said, recognizing him from his photographs. “I’m so sorry!”

He did not look amused.

In an attempt to ease the tension, Sara stood and extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Sara Dillon, Henry’s a.s.sistant.”

My new boss simply glanced at her hand without returning the gesture and raised one of his perfect eyebrows. “Don’t you mean ‘Mr. Ryan’?”

Sara’s hand slowly fell as she watched him, obviously fl.u.s.tered. Something about his physical presence was so intimidating she was at a loss for words. When she recovered, she stuttered, “Well . . . we are fairly casual around here. We’re all on a first-name basis. This is your a.s.sistant, Chloe.”

He nodded to me. “Miss Mills. You will refer to me as Mr. Ryan. And I expect you in my office in five minutes so that we may discuss proper workplace decorum.” His voice was serious when he spoke, and he nodded curtly to Sara. “Miss Dillon.”

Sliding his gaze to mine for another moment, he turned on his heel toward his new office and I watched in horror as the first of his infamous door slams took place.

“What a b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” Sara mumbled between tight lips.

“A beautiful b.a.s.t.a.r.d,” I replied.

Hoping to smooth things over, I went down to the café to get him a cup of coffee. I’d even asked Henry how he took it—black. When I nervously made it back to his office door, my knock was followed by an abrupt “come in,” and I willed my hands to stop shaking. I curved my lips into a friendly smile, intent on making a better impression this time, and opened the door to him talking on the phone and writing furiously on the notepad in front of him. My breath caught when I heard his smooth, deep voice speaking in flawless French.

“Ce sera parfait. Non. Non, ce n’est pas nécessaire. Seulement quatre. Oui. Quatre. Merci, Ivan.”

He ended the call but never lifted his eyes from his papers to greet me. Once I was standing in front of his desk, he addressed me in the same stern tone as before. “In the future, Miss Mills, you will keep all non-workplace-related conversations outside of the office. We’re paying you to work, not gossip. Do I make myself clear?”

I stood speechless for a moment until he lifted his eyes to meet mine, raising an eyebrow. I shook myself out of my trance, all at once realizing the truth about Bennett Ryan: although he was even more breathtakingly gorgeous in person than in photos, he was not at all like I had imagined. And he was absolutely nothing like his parents and brother.

“Very clear, sir,” I said as I walked around his desk to set his coffee in front of him.

But just as I was about to reach his desk, my heel caught on the rug and I lunged forward. I heard a loud “s.h.i.t!” escape his lips—the coffee now nothing more than a scorching stain on his expensive suit.

“Oh my G.o.d, Mr. Ryan, I am so sorry!”

I rushed over to the sink in his bathroom to grab a towel and ran back, falling to my knees in front of him and attempting to wipe off the stain. In my haste, and in the midst of humiliation I didn’t think could get any worse, it suddenly occurred to me that I was furiously rubbing the towel against his crotch. I averted my eyes and hand, feeling a heated blush spread from my face down my neck as I caught a glimpse of the noticeable bulge in the front of his pants.

“You may go now, Miss Mills.”

I nodded, rushing out of the office, mortified that I’d made such a horrible first impression.

Thankfully, I proved myself pretty quickly after that. There were times when he even seemed impressed with me, although he was always short and on edge. I chalked it up to his being a giant a.s.shat, but I had always wondered if there was something specific about me that rubbed him the wrong way.

Besides that towel, of course.

When I arrived at work, I b.u.mped into Sara on my way to the elevator. We made plans to have lunch next week and said good-bye as she reached her floor. Arriving at the eighteenth floor, I noticed Mr. Ryan’s office door was closed as usual, so I couldn’t tell if he was here yet. I turned on the computer and tried to mentally prepare myself for the day. Lately, anxiety hit every time I sat in this chair.

I knew I would see him this morning; we went over the schedule for the coming week every Friday. But I never knew what kind of mood he would be in.

Although his temper had been even worse lately, his last words to me yesterday had been, “Get the garter belt too.” And I had. In fact, I was wearing it now. Why? I had no idea. What in the h.e.l.l had he meant by that? Did he think he was going to see it? No f**king way. Then why had I worn it? I swear to G.o.d, if he rips it . . . I stopped myself before I could finish.

Of course he wouldn’t rip it. I was never going to give him the chance.

Keep telling yourself that, Mills.

Answering some e-mails, editing the Papadakis contract for intellectual property issues, and making a few hotel inquiries took my mind off the situation for a bit, and about an hour later his office door opened. Looking up, I was met with a very businesslike Mr. Ryan. His dark, two-b.u.t.ton suit was impeccable, complemented perfectly by the pop of color in his red silk tie. He looked calm and completely at ease. No trace remained of the wild man who had f**ked me in the La Perla dressing room approximately eighteen hours and thirty-six minutes ago. Not that I was counting.