Page 6 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

Double gulp.

His dark hair is short and thick, with the texture that you know would be curls if he let it grow out, but like everything at Vossameer, it is rigidly controlled.

His brows are sooty. His lips, currently formed into a frown, are dangerously lush, a little banged-up to create a bad-boy pillowy effect that I very much like.

I swallow and straighten up, reminding myself that this is the control freak responsible for the stern and joyless workplace that is Vossameer. The cruel architect of the microwave popcorn ban.

His extreme hotness is just another assholey aspect of him. Another way he controls people. Melts their minds. Makes their pulses race.

“We have the social media and site makeover presentation for you, Mr. Drummond,” Sasha stammers. “For your perusal.”

He continues to regard me unhappily. Did he hear my Mr. Amazing comment? “Do we have an appointment of some sort?” he asks Sasha, even though he’s looking at me.

“Yes,” Sasha says.

He shoves ink-stained hands into his pockets. “And you are…”

“This is Elizabeth Cooper. New assistant.”

“Pleased to meet you.” I half-lift my hand, unsure if shaking hands is a thing he does with mere mortals.

He grunts at me, then turns to Sasha. “Let’s have it, then. We’ll set up over there.” He motions at the worktable.

I quickly retract my hand, curling it around the printout folder.O-kay!

When I had a new person join my beloved bakery, it would be like we were greeting a long-lost sibling, not somebody’s pet spider that you never wanted to see in the first place.

We go to where Mr. Drummond is clearing a space. He looks up when he’s done, and for one hot heartbeat, I have this strange sense he’s aware of my secret opinions about him, as if there’s some strange conduit between us.

Or who knows, maybe he’s telepathic in addition to being the world’s most amazing chemist and most horrible CEO.

He takes the laptop from Sasha and centers it where he wants it. His hands are quite large, with long fingers, strong yet elegant. I find that I can’t look away from him. He really does have some kind of magnetic gravity thing going on.

Sasha takes her place in front of it and clicks to open the PowerPoint. The title comes up. Vossameer. Relatable. Human. Engaged.

Then a page with the generic new tag: “Helping to save lives.” Sasha thought of it. It’s quite the step up from their old tag, “medical antihemorrhagics.”

Mr. Drummond frowns, as though he’s having trouble making sense of it. Finally he utters one word, dripping with disgust: “No.”

Sasha looks at me. Like she’s stunned that such an offensive thing made its way to the presentation. “You’ll need to get rid of that, Lizzie.”

“No problem,” I bite out, feeling my face heat.

He clicks deeper in. He’s reading everything—all the great results. And he doesn’t seem happy.

Sweat trickles down my spine.

It’s as if I’m in marketing opposite-world. Good is bad. Down is up. It would make a funny story if it wasn’t so important for me to keep this job, to get the bonus.

I cannot lose the bonus.

But things aren’t looking good.

I’m suddenly awash in the frantic, helpless feeling I had the night I discovered the life I’d built was imploding. The night I found my bank accounts cleaned out, and then I discovered the bakery eviction notices that my ex, Mason, had hidden from me, followed by the credit card debt from cards I didn’t know about.

Mason had worked his way into my trust, little by little, and he’d stolen everything. I know I share some of the blame. I was so in love with him. Blinded by love.

It was too late by the time I called the police. Mason had disappeared, probably to a tropical island, they thought. He’d always dreamed of living in the Caribbean; that’s probably one of the only true things he ever told me.

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