Page 25 of Desserts for Stressed People

Then, potential menus. Shane comes to my mind. I don’t know if a baker has enough knowledge to plan a menu, nor do I know if he’s a baker, but I wish he or someone else could help me because there’s sweat running down my scalp and damping my hair. This is so much stuff—so muchforeignstuff. How am I supposed to plan this event?

Guests, music, lights, a catwalk, furniture, and decorations. Nothing’s done, and I wish I knew who their old project manager was so I could strangle them with my bare hands. I’m deep into the invitations, which should have been sent about a month ago but haven’t been selected yet, when the door to my office opens.

“Mr. Hassholm is ready to meet you,” Marina says as she pops her head in.

With a steep breath, I stand. I straighten my dress and flatten my hair as she observes me with an amused expression, like none of what I’m doing will ever fix the mess I am.

Walking before me, she takes a turn right and one left until we’re down to the last office. The walls of it are entirely made of glass, which means my new, temporary boss doesn’t care about his privacy like Billy does. It also probably means Mr. Hassholm doesn’t play silly games on his phone nearly as much.

Marina opens the door, on which there’s a big golden tag that reads Mr. Hassholm, and I follow her as I glance at him—well, at his back. I can already tell he’s handsome, like Emma said. He’s wearing black pants and a white shirt, and he’s as tall as a tree. I’m no shortie either, but he must be half a foot taller than me.

“Yes. It’ll be done today,” he says. His voice is husky, deep, almost bone-chilling. It’s as cold as Marina’s. The fact that he hasn’t acknowledged we’ve entered the room also seems to confirm he’s just as big an asshole as everyone says.

He looks out of the window and continues to talk, resting his right hand on his hip. This might be a habit of his, because Marina simply stands and waits. Everyone’s so still that for a moment it feels like being at a wax museum.

“Okay. I’ll update you tonight. Sure, bye.” He ends the call and turns around, his eyes landing straight on mine.

And the floor crumbles beneath me.

Those cocoa-brown irises, those lips. His wavy, dark hair. His shoulders are as wide as I figured, his suit the right type of fancy. And although there’s no flour on his wrist, nor desserts around him, there’s no doubt.

Shane isn’t a baker. He’s Mr. Asshole.

Chapter7

Fundamental First Impressions

“Shane...”I whisper.

His eyebrows twitch for a second as Marina scoffs behind me. I can feel her gape burning through my skull, but I couldn’t stop staring at him if I tried.

He’s leaning against the window in front of me, so handsome it hurts, but I can’t even enjoy that, because he’s my boss for the next six weeks. He’s Mr. Asshole.

“I mean, I—” Shit. I have to recover—I just said his first name. “Mr. Asshole,” I continue, to my horror. Wiping my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand, I try again. “Mr....Hassholm, I—nice to meet you.”

Oh, God.

His face barely moves, like he’s completely unimpressed at my showcase of awkwardness and insults.

“Well done, Fourth Floor.” With a snort, Marina turns around and leaves the office.

My throat goes dry, and I can’t stop staring, though I know I should. I should look down because he can probably see my face is past being flushed. It’s tomato red, blood red.Earth open up and swallow me right nowred.

His brows pinch together. “Who are you?”

“I-I’m the new project manager for the Devòn—”

“Right. From the...web campaigns.”

I nod.

He doesn’t sound too pleased—in fact, it sounds like he had to settle for me. And there’s not a hint of the man I spent last night chatting with. Where’s his wit? By text, he called meawesome. Well, he called Nevaeh awesome. It doesn’t look like he feels the same about me at this very moment.

“Have you read through the material?”

I swallow. Not all of it, but I sense he won’t like that answer. “I’ve scrolled—”

“When can we start? How long do you need?”

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