Page 5 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“No worries!” I try a reassuring smile. “I got your back.”

Sasha’s frown is intensified by her severe Cruella brows. Again she surveys my outfit; again she doesn’t seem to like what she finds.

We then begin our long trek down the sleek hallway of harshness.

Now, in addition to the presentation, I’m stressing about my outfit. At the bakery I never had to dress businessy. I’m so nervous now that I remove my necklace and slip it in my pocket. Less decoration.

Then a wave of annoyance flashes over me, becausewhat? I just spent the last three weeks working my heart out on their online presence. If this company was run at all competently, I’d be feeling pride and excitement, with just a little nervousness. And Sasha would feel it, too. We’d both be eager to hear feedback and use it to create the best site possible.

Instead the mood isinto the belly of the beast.

We pass a pair of concerned-looking chemists, coming from one of the labs. There are labs on every floor here. That’s what you get when a chemist runs a company.

We reach Mr. Drummond’s office. Sasha knocks.

A distressed-looking woman lets us into a large reception area lined with file cabinets. “He’s expecting you,” she whispers, leading us toward a pair of black doors. Even her gray hair seems anxious, the way it wires urgently out of her head.

I smile. “Thanks,” I say.

A glance passes between the two of them.

What?

I’m starting to get paranoid. And kind of angry. People here work so hard for him, and how does this guy reward them? By keeping them completely on edge.

The receptionist knocks softly—twice—then pulls one door open.

I follow Sasha into a chaotic office space that’s decorated with charts of chemical elements and whiteboards with madly scribbled circles and lines and letters, like the alphabet exploded somewhere nearby.

File cabinets and shelving units full of boxes and binders and bottles line the walls, and taking center stage is a massive worktable supporting piles of manuals and notebooks and a lone coffee cup next to a lone laptop.

In a gloomy far corner there’s a broad wooden desk, dark except for one warm circle of light cast by one lonely lamp. Two severe chairs wait in front of it, sentinels at the ready.

But where is amazing Mr. Drummond? Why would his receptionist act like he’s here when the office is empty?

A door off to the side is plastered with colorful safety signs, including one that says “Lab Coat and Eye Protection Required.” A lab, then. Did he go in there?

I wander past the worktable. “Looks like Mr. Amazing is being amazing elsewhere,” I mutter.

“What’s that?” Sasha says.

“Looks like he’s elsewhere,” I say more loudly.

I move closer to the desk. Close enough that I suddenly make out a pair of icy gray eyes staring sternly at me from behind black-framed glasses. Dazzling eyes. Gorgeous eyes.

Mr. Drummond.

Fear whooshes through me. Did he hear what I said? Please, no!

Mr. Drummond stands and pulls off his glasses, still staring at me.

Gulp.

His white lab coat hangs open, revealing a fine gray suit underneath. He stalks toward me with the grace of a large predator.

But that’s not what’s so remarkable about him.

With or without glasses, he’s the most dramatically, effusively, wildly handsome man I’ve ever seen. His hotness has its own force. It has its own gravity. It has its own zip code, miles past the neighborhood ofstop staringand deep in thereligious-experience-of-beautyzone.

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