Page 24 of The Bachelor Auction

12

“The guy’s crazy,”I mutter under my breath as I peek inside through the crack in the door, staring at Tyler’s assistant as she carries a pile of what looks like hundreds of loose sheets of paper.

“More notes?” I ask Scarlet and hurry to help her before she scatters half the pile across the floor and I’ll be forced to find some order to Tyler’s mess.

I’ve been in Vegas for over a week, during which I’ve quickly come to realize that Tyler doesn’t work like normal people.

Let me correct that.

He is unlike anyone I’ve ever met.

In fact, I can’t help but wonder how the hell he got so rich by being the most complex person I’ve ever met? He’s scattered, impossible to impress, and parsimonious with praise. He always mocks me at the wrong times, and sends out mixed signals that make my head spin. And then there’s the fact that nothing’s ever straightforward with him.

Basically, I don’t know what he wants from me.

In fact, I keep wondering whether he’s actually satisfied with my work. Or whether I’m here because he likes to test my patience and forbearance.

In the last couple of days, I’ve already compiled a focus group and analyzed the findings, which I presented to him. He didn’t like the feedback that his website’s name isn’t attracting the target audience he’s aiming to reach.

Every idea I suggested, he rejected. And every time I challenged his choice, he wanted me to discard everything else and focus on it.

I don’t think I’ve ever worked this hard before.

In spite of the findings, I came up with several marketing and advertising plans, which—no surprise there—didn’t appeal to him. It’s my fifth attempt at working out something he’ll agree with, and I’m running out of steam.

And patience.

It’s not that I don’t have plenty of ideas to help him make it work. He just doesn’t like any of them. He’s changed his mind so many times, I don’t know what he wants. And slowly, I get the feeling he doesn’t know what he really wants, either.

“He wants you to go through his notes and revisions,” Scarlet says with a look of pity on her face. I think she sympathizes with me because we’re in the same boat.

“No problem. Just drop them over there.” I point to a free spot on my desk.

It’s nine p.m. on a Friday night, and we’re the only two still stuck at the office. We barely had a few minutes to eat—Tyler likes to call that precious time a “lunch break”—but I’m still hyper from the tons of coffee, which is easily accessible and provided at all hours of the day.

But caffeine is a lousy substitute for sleep or some actual downtime to give my brain a chance to recharge.

“I’ll take those home. Time to call it a day—or night.” Standing from my chair, I realize the room’s spinning a little. I need to eat. There’s no way my brain will function if I don’t get at least some sugar to cancel out all the caffeine coursing through my veins. Maybe a decent meal and a few hours of sleep, and then I’ll be good to go again.

“Actually, he wants to see you in his office. Like five minutes ago,” Scarlet says and the pity in her expression intensifies.

“He’s still here?”

She nods her head.

“And whatever he wants is so important it can’t wait until tomorrow?” Which is a Saturday. Apparently, working for Tyler Becks means weekends off are just as scarce as free evenings.

I know the answer before I’ve even asked the question.

Scarlet nods again.

I fight the urge to smirk because that would be unprofessional, and as much as I think of Scarlet as my confidante and ally, she’s loyal to my boss. Everyone working for him seems to be.

“I’ll just grab my stuff,” I mutter.

“I’m leaving. See you tomorrow,” Scarlet says and heads out.

Lucky her.

---