Page 29 of Grumpy Boss of the Year

“Did you take a job as his assistant so that you could have sex with him?”

“What? Are you crazy? No, of course not.”

“Okay, I was just checking.”

“Would I take a job with a boss who’s been absolutely horrible to you just so that I could seduce him and handcuff him to his chair and leave him there for the world to see so that he can be embarrassed?”

“Oh, my gosh. Elisabetta, you wouldn’t!”

“Of course, I wouldn’t. I would never do something like that. I’m far too sweet and innocent.”

“Oh my gosh, you’re totally going to fuck him and then handcuff him to the desk. Why?”

“I would do no such thing. I mean, maybe I wouldn't, maybe I would. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“Elisabetta, you did not take this job just so you could have sex with that man.”

“Why do I feel like that is a question that could come back to haunt me in a court of law?”

“You’re goofy.”

“I know.”

“Anyway, I have a question for you.”

“What's the question?”

“How many words per minute does a reasonable person type?”

“What do you mean by reasonable?”

“I mean, someone like me.”

“Someone like you in your capacity as Elisabetta, daughter of a millionaire, or in your capacity as Elisabetta, assistant to Liam Gallagher, the CEO of a billion-dollar company.”I cock my head to the side to assess her body language and she looks mighty uncomfortable. I suppress a grin as I don’t want her to realize how amusing I find this conversation.

“Okay, maybe the latter.”

“Um, I'm guessing he’d expect you to have something like eighty to ninety words per minute if you were a true professional.”

“Eighty to ninety words per minute? Shit.”

“What, is that too much?”

“Girl, I told him I could do two hundred words per minute.”

“You what?” She bursts out laughing. “Elisabetta, are you freaking kidding me right now?”

“No, he said he wanted to give me a test, and he said he didn't think I could do a hundred, so I said, ‘Actually, I can do two hundred.’”

“Girl, I’m your best friend, and I love you, but there’s no way on God’s green earth that you can type two hundred words per minute.”

“You don’t know that. Trust me, I’m pretty confident, but maybe?—”

“But maybe nothing. Girl, I only do seventy words per minute, and that's an 80 percent accuracy.”

“Oh, shit,” I say.

“What now?”

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