Page 12 of Worth Fighting For

I laugh. “All right, I get it! God, it’s scary how good you are at this. Okay, remember, you are not an office assistant, you are—”

“An associate, got it.”

As I nod again, Mushu adds, “What is it that an associate does again?”

I won’t scream, I won’t scream, I won’t—

Somehow, through gritted teeth, I manage to bite out, “Just look business-y.”

“Got it, Boss.” Mushu gives a smart salute and marches to the door. She opens it with flourish. “After you, ma’am.”

“Don’t overdo it,” I hiss under my breath. Keeping my gaze firmly on the floor, I brisk-walk to the conference room. The conference room isn’t at all far away from the bathroom, but the walk there feels eternal. I can practically feel the stares from my colleagues, eyes growing saucerlike and mouths scraping the floor. Nope, I’m not going to be able to live this one down. Thankfully, no one dares say anything to me, though I do catch the sound of Josh choking back a laugh. I should get him demoted from analyst to…uh, to something else even less cool than analyst.

As soon as I get inside the conference room, the first thing I do is lower the shades to give us some semblance of privacy.

“Let me do that,” Mushu says. “That’s not the job of a managing partner.”

Heat flushes across my face. Mushu is right. No managing partner would stoop to lowering the shades themselves. God, I’m so bad at this. How am I ever going to fool anyone into thinking I’m Baba?

Mushu pulls out the biggest chair, at the head of the table, and gestures at it. “Have a seat, Boss. I’ll take care of everything. In fact, I’m going to run out for a second and tell one of the interns to make us some lattes.”

I do so, lowering myself gingerly into Baba’s chair. It feels way too big for me somehow, and I imagine myself as a little kid clambering up my dad’s seat, feet dangling in midair.Stop that, I scold myself. I am not Mulan. I am Zhou. I am the founder and managing partner of Facai Capital, a midsize private equity firm. As the managing partner, I am very comfortable, uh…doing management stuff, like managing people and five-hundred-million-dollar deals. I close my eyes and take a deep inhale imagining my chest ballooning with oxygen as I do so and puffing up to fill the space. Despite myself, the method is working. I envision myself filling Baba’s shoes, running the company with natural aplomb, telling Josh where to shove it.

The door swings open, and without moving, still envisioning myself as Baba, I say in my most I-am-the-boss-around-here voice, “You have my coffee?”

Without missing a beat, a rich, velvety voice replies, “How do you take it?”

My eyes fly open. Everything stops. My heart stops, my breath stops, and I’m pretty sure that deep in my veins, my blood platelets have crashed to a standstill. Because the man standing in the doorway is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. His figure is tall and imposing, and his face is surely chiseled out of pure marble. His jet-black hair is pulled up into a bun, drawing attention to his incredibly defined cheekbones and jawline. Thick dark brows draw attention to his eyes, which are the darkest shade of chocolate. Eyes I can really lose myself in. Something I belatedly realize I’m doing.

The man clears his throat, and I snap back to reality with burning shame. Damn it, just two seconds in my new role as the boss and already I’m flubbing it. Get a freaking grip! And, though I know I’m being unreasonable, I’m annoyed at this man for catching me out. How dare he be so gorgeous? He must be the new intern Mushu was just talking about. God, we should’ve put Mushu in charge of hiring new interns a lot sooner.

Lifting my chin imperiously, I say, “I’d like a latte, no sugar. And make some for the others as well.”

His mouth quirks a little, then he says, “How many would you like, ma’am?”

Did he really just call me ma’am? Wow, I guess Mushu was right about the outfit and makeup, after all.

“Let’s have eight lattes—you know how to work the espresso machine, yes?” I catch myself. Baba has always told me that micromanaging is the sign of an incompetent leader. “You know what? Figure it out. I believe in you.” There. That’s something Baba always says to his employees.I believe in you.

“I’m glad you believe in me. I’ll see to those lattes.” As the door swings shut behind him, I lean back in my chair, satisfied. There. That wasn’t so bad. I’ve barely caught my breath when the door opens once more and Mushu walks in, accompanied by a bespectacled kid who looks like he’s barely out of high school. They’re both carrying trays full of steaming lattes and plates of pastries.

“Here we are,” Mushu trills. As she sets the trays down, she catches sight of my expression. “What?”

“Uh. Is this the new intern?”

“Yep. Introduce yourself to the boss, Gerald.”

“Hi, I’m Gerald.”

My gaze ping-pongs back and forth between Mushu and Gerald. Then I leap out of my chair and grab Mushu’s arm, pulling her aside. Ignoring Mushu’s protests, I hiss urgently, “Mushu, is Gerald the only new intern here?”

“No, we hired three of them. Do you not like Gerald? We can get rid of him.”

Gerald’s face falls.

“No,” I say hurriedly. “You’re doing a great job, Gerald. Carry on.”

He smiles and resumes distributing the lattes.

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