Page 12 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“I know!” I’d whispered.

Another payment is coming due soon—fourteen thousand. An insane sum for twenty-seven-year-old women struggling to pay Manhattan-sized rent.

I’m in other money trouble thanks to Mason, but banks and credit card companies don’t go around wearing pinky rings and showing you guns.

That’s why Vossameer’s sign-on bonus looked so good: a big wad of cash in thirty days—twelve thousand, plus what I earn in my paycheck—deposited into my account. The thirty days hits on Friday, and the rest of the money—fourteen thousand—is due on Sunday.

Perfect.

I pictured myself getting off work Friday and rushing down to my bank, pulling it all out in cash, and paying Lenny bright and early Sunday morning.

Will this enforcer guy really shoot me if I don’t come through with it? I kind of can’t believe it, but it’s not the sort of theory I want to test.

Once Lenny’s paid off, I’ll quit Vossameer. Then at the end of the month, I move back to Fargo.

I want to cry when I think about that part of my plan, but there’s no way around it, though I do miss my parents. I’m an only child, and the three of us were such a fierce unit.

Once things are at their worst, you get to start repairing, isn’t that what they say? I started from nothing before. I can start from nothing again.

I work on new images for Facebook posts for Vossameer. Mostly I’ll be using the logo in different sizes and shots of the box that Vossameer’s gel products come in.

I eat my scentless roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwich at my desk and think about how it’s just seven sleeps until I’m free.

The trouble starts after lunch. That’s when I’m summoned to Sasha’s cubicle. I smooth my dress, which has not improved with the passing hours, and head across the endless rows of cubicles toward Sasha’s cubicle.

I round a corner and my belly flips upside down.

He’s there.

Mr. Drummond.

I only see the back of his dark hair over the cubicle tops, and sure, there are other guys here that are Mr. Drummond’s height with dark hair, but the air around Mr. Drummond seems charged somehow. As if he operates at a higher frequency than mere mortals.

I get this flash of annoyance, but at the same time, excitement.

A couple of guys from design are there, too, and Bertie the design intern. Sasha is standing, leaning fetchingly on the cubicle wall. But it’s Mr. Drummond I see. He’s wearing a regular suit. No lab coat.

I stroll up to stand on the other side of Bertie, farthest from Mr. Drummond. Then I take a breath and imagine gummy bears. I plaster on a vague smile. I stare at his nose.

He looks right at me. His look is direct. Honest. Blunt, even. His gaze sears. It sets my heart pounding. Still I stare at his nose.

You can’t see me,I think.Stop looking, because you can’t see me.

Except my evil, evil brain likes having his attention on me. Because he’s beautiful. And glorious. Up close I can see there’s a small scar on his bottom lip, and that’s what creates the pillowy-and-hot-in-a-dangerous-way effect that his lips have. Like he got in a really horrible fistfight with a guy who landed a vicious punch perfectly placed for male beauty.

Uh.

I turn to Sasha.

Still I can feel his eyes on me. His gaze has weight, pressing on my skin, melting something in me. I catch his scent, the same as before. Melon and pepper.

I want to glare at him, but I’m the opposite of that today. I’m obsequious and dim-witted.

“Okay,” Sasha says. “Everyone’s finally present and accounted for.”

I stare down at Sasha’s barren desk instead of Mr. Drummond, even as he begins to speak. “I’ve been reading up on things,” he says. “I wanted to do an Instagram strategy. What do you think about it?”

I intensify my daffy gaze. Because,Instagram?

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