Page 29 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“It can’t be a different one. He said her or nobody.”

I nod. “I tried everything. They’re just like, ‘No, Operator Seven is not available for another call.’” I don’t know where I pull Operator Seven from. It sounds official, though. “Not at 9:20, not at 10:20, not this morning, not this afternoon…”Not in a house, not with a mouse.

“Did you offer them extra money?”

“Of course,” I say. “I don’t think there’s anything that’ll sway these people. No dollar figure. Nothing. Looks like I got the last slot open for their very best wake-up-call girl.”

She frowns. “I don’t understand. Operator Seven won’t take one more spot? How hard can it be to place one more call?”

I shrug. “Again, I could ask about a different operator…”

“No, Mr. Drummond was very specific.”

I try to appear sheepish, but hopefully not in a way that looks like I think it’s funny. Which I do.

Sasha gazes into the distance. “When Mr. Drummond finds something that works, he commits to it fully and completely.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t either,” Sasha snaps, turning back to me. “He is going to be very disappointed.” This like it’s all my fault.

I furrow my brow, mirroring her expression, hoping against hope that she won’t want to take a crack at the wake-up-call people herself. Because that would be a total disaster.

How did I get into this ridiculous situation?

“Well, if they won’t, they won’t.” Sasha waves me off.

Nine

Theo

Sasha calls with the news—mywake-up-call girl, Operator Seven, is all booked up.

“I don’t see how that can be,” I say. “It’s a simple phone call.”

“My point exactly,” she says. “It’s one simple phone call. How is that not doable? I even offered to pay extra, but they simply weren’t interested. They didn’t even want to talk money. There’s no more room in her schedule anywhere. It seems that I landed you the last available time slot from their very best and most in-demand wake-up-call girl.”

I stab my pencil into my desk, again and again, hard enough to make a tiny divot. “It doesn’t make sense. A wake-up-call business sells punctuality, not time.”

Or maybe she really does spend ten or twenty minutes talking to every client. It is possible? Something dark twists inside of me.

“Do you want me to try for a different operator?”

“No!” I straighten and pause, get ahold of myself. “Never mind,” I say through gritted teeth, circling the lead in the divot now, feeling utterly aggravated. I’m the CEO of a billion-dollar company. I should have the service I want.

I’m amazing, and you’re lucky to have me.Is it possible she wasn’t bullshitting me?

“Should I seek out a different service?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Somebody here could place the call for you…”

“No,” I say. “Leave it.”

And why do I even care? She’s rude.

But it’s more than the rudeness. There was something fiery and genuine about her. Compelling. Sure of herself, yet vulnerable. And she didn’t feel like a pro, rattling off lines. She felt…spontaneous. As though she was speaking from the heart. And that husky, sexy voice. “It’s fine. I’ll survive,” I say.

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