Page 22 of Mr. July

I felt a slight headache coming on. Although I knew I did the right thing by firing my last three PA’s. But now I’m stuck withher… she gives as good as she gets. Doesn’t kiss my ass or arrange my pens and highlighters by color. I kind of miss my color-coded highlighter arrangement.

Sighing, I pressed the intercom button for Bunny. She was in her mid-sixties. A widower with all her kids grown. A few even had grandkids. So far, she was the best, but also the worst PA.

“Mr. Carmichael?”

“Honey Bun,” I drawled. “I need some new highlighters. Stat.”

“You’re having a highlighting emergency?”

“SOS. Bun. Bun.”

My lips curved. I love teasing the shit out of her. Because she never took it.

“I’m busy.”

“Busy, working for me.”

I raised my eyes, meeting hers through the glass walls of my office.

“I can see your eyeroll from here, honey bun.”

She scowled, tore her eyes away from her computer and stood. “I’ll check the supply closet.”

My neck ached, so I got up to stretch. I noticed I was out of binder clips, so I decided to follow Bun down the hall.

She was on the tippy toes of her practical beige flats, trying in vain to reach the box of highlighters on a shelf just out of her grasp.

I sauntered forward, reaching over her, trapping her small body between me and the shelves. “I’ll get them.”

She turned, flustered. Her cheeks, bright red. “You scared me. You rascal.”

I arch a brow. “Did I?”

She swatted my arm. “Stop flirting with me.”

“Please. I’m just helping the elderly.” I tweaked her nose.

She shook her head. “Someday, some woman is going to come along…knock you for six and take you down a peg.”

“Not likely.”

She pushed me out of the way. “Stop flashing those eyes at me,” she grumbled under her breath walking out.

“Hey bun?! I’d like an iced Sweet Tea from the café with a grilled steak salad.”

“I’m your PA not your delivery girl. Besides, what man eats a salad for lunch?”

“The kind who has a six-pack.”

“And is on a calendar…”

“What?” I spun around, narrowing my eyes. Ten feet behind me was Brett Diersky. My work nemesis. He’s older than me but I got the jump on him career-wise, and he can’t stand it.

“You heard me…Mr. July.”

He opened up a calendar, flipping the pages before turning it around. By now, heads popped up from cubicles and more people than normal lingered by the instant coffee machine.

Silence followed. I think half the office was shocked I actually did it. Me, the squeaky clean—no flirting with anyone under thirty—up and coming golden boy posing in skintight shorts for the world to see.

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