Page 221 of Labor of Love

I’d made a big mistake today. Huge. Colossal.

Now, I don’t pretend to be perfect. I know I’m not, that goes without saying. But I’m also honest, so I admit to being ornery at times, unreasonable at others, and generally of the mindset that I’m almost always right. And that’s okay — nobody needs to agree with me when I’m convinced I know what’s best.

It comes with the territory of being the CFO of a major corporation and an alpha to boot.

I’m the oldest of three panther-shifter brothers. Triplets, mind you, born three minutes apart by C-section. My brothers, Victor and Hugo, were named after the author, while my name was probably drawn from a hat.

I’m Char Coryi. Char, as in charbroiled. My father claims it’s because I was born with a full head of pitch-black hair.

I think it’s because he lost a bet.

Anyway, even though we’re triplets, as the eldest of the three brothers, tradition demands that I be in charge of, well, everything. The family, both personally and professionally, finances, interfamilial arguments…the works. As CFO of Coryi Industries, I keep the profits rolling in, and my parents, the joint CEOs, from killing each other during tax season, as well as during most of the rest of the year. My brothers are both in sales, Senior Management, of course, and report, however grudgingly, to me. They always feel as if they’re in direct competition with each other (which I sometimes, I admit, encourage just for shits and giggles), which makes for some delightful holidays, I can tell you.

On those holidays, I carve the turkey, the roast, the ham, or whatever else it is the kitchen staff has managed to cook up. I give the toast, make sure everyone who’s drinking isn’t driving, keep everyone from shifting and killing everyone else when arguments over sports, politics, or business get too heated, and tuck into bed anyone who’s imbibed too much, which is practically everybody.

It’s not a worry. I have shoulders wide enough to bear the responsibility, at least until I mate and have a family of my own. Then I can pass the baton to my second-oldest brother, Victor.

Not that I’m actively looking for a mate, much to my brothers’ chagrin. As the eldest, I need to go first before they can mate. And that, of course, is just tough titties on them. I’m not ready. Having a family of my own is not one of my immediate objectives. Maybe next year. Or the one after that. At thirty-two, I’m still a relatively young man, although my mother adamantly disagrees and keeps insisting I mate and give her grandcubs posthaste. Indeed, she keeps setting me up with prospects, none of whom are my type. Meaning, they all have vaginas, for which I carry zero interest.

Until I find someone whoismy type, the business is my family, and when I make a decision, especially at work, I expect my orders to be followed to the letter. My former assistant, Mallory, understood that. She would heed instructions with military precision, her work timely, proofread, polished, and organized.

Everything at home might be constant warfare, but work was going along swimmingly until last Friday, when Mallory unexpectedly handed in her resignation and ran off with a Ginsu knife salesman to Tahiti.

I never saw it coming, and her loss hit me broadside like a truck, leaving me reeling. Without Mallory, I was floundering. My legions of salespeople, brothers included, were clamoring for information, for direction, for insight, for paychecks, and I was up to my armpits in paperwork.

So I did what any self-respecting CFO would do. I called an agency and had a temp sent over. After all, I didn’t have time to read résumés or conduct interviews. I needed an assistantnow.

Who they sent me was Wilson. Josh Wilson, to be precise, and when he walked in the door, I blinked, wondering which of my fool brothers had thought it a good idea to send me a stripper.

He was dressed in black leather from his chin to his toes and held a motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. His hair fell in a golden-brown wave halfway down his back. Bright green eyes sparkled under sleek, arched brows, and his full lips quirked in a sexy smile. “Hey Boss. I’m Josh. Where do I sit, besides on your lap?”

“I beg your pardon?” I stood up, stretching to my full, usually intimidating, six-foot-six-inch height.

He wasn’t fazed. In fact, his grin grew wider. After all, he was only a couple of inches shorter than I, and just as broad acrossthe shoulders. “I’m your new assistant. Where do I stash my stuff?”

“You’re from the agency?”

“Nope. I’m just a stranger who wandered in, slipped past security, and found my way into your office. Of course, I’m from the agency.”

“You’re pretty insubordinate for an assistant.”

“My mouth is always open for business. But I’m great…at my job, that is. You’ll see.”

The double entendres were killing me. I shook my head. “Absolutely not. I’ll have to get the agency to send someone else. This is not going to work out.”

“Sorry, Boss. There isn’t anyone else. All the other temps have been placed. You’re stuck with me, at least until you hire someone permanent.” He pulled off one fingerless glove and held his hand out for me to shake.

I stared at it as if it were a viper ready to strike. Slowly, I reached for it and shook it. His hand was warm, his grip surprisingly firm.

Then my panther growled low in my throat. I might have been underwhelmed by the agency’s choice of an assistant, but my panther smelled something it wanted.

My new assistant was a shifter, too, a leopard, and an omega, and from the smell of things, just entering into a heat cycle.

Oh, gods.

“Fine. That’s your desk outside on the right. And go to HR to fill out whatever paperwork they need. I assume you have a suit? A jacket? A fucking collared shirt? Something more suitable than leather for office wear?”

“It ain’t what’s on the outside that makes for good business, Boss,” he said with a wink.

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