Page 24 of For the Plot
"—but youaregoing to show up, do your job, and survive the fact that your boss looks like an emotionally tortured sex dream who's allergic to smiling."
"Okay, now you're just making it worse. And for the record, flashing him wasdefinitelynot on the list."
"Skye."
I press the phone tighter to my ear.
"You can handle this. He's just a man."
"He'sReece Blackwood."
"Still just a man. A flawed, possibly repressed, devastatingly attractive man, yes. But still just a man. And you?" Her voice softens. "You are Skye Rhodes. You have survived heartbreak, career implosions, and that time you tried to wax your own back door during a blackout and I had to come over and help you finish the job while you held your cheeks open for me."
I wince. "We said we'd never speak of that again."
"My point is—you can do this. And if you need to scream into a pillow later, I will bring you the pillow."
I smile, heart still thudding. "Thanks, babe."
"Anytime. Now get out of that bathroom and go be a sexy, competent goddess."
“You’re right, I’ve got this. I’m Skye Rhodes,” I say with a little more confidence now.
“Besides, that man is absolutely rock hard in his office right now after seeing your tits straining against your sheer bra. That’s how all good smutty romances start.”
I hang up before I cry.
I stand, staring at myself in the mirror again, then square my shoulders and fix the hair that's gone rogue at my temples. I reapply a thin layer of lip gloss, smooth my blouse, and then take in a long, slow deep breath, holding it a few seconds before I let it out.
"You are Skye Rhodes. Intelligent, driven, and incredibly competent." Then I narrow my gaze and point a finger at my own reflection. “So get it the fuck together and act like it.” I take another breath, turn to unlock the door, and walk out like I didn't just have a total mental breakdown on my first day.
When I return to my desk, Reece is still in his office, back turned again, on another call. I can hear the low cadence of his voice and it still does something to my stomach I'm not proud of. But I sit down, pull up the Thursday schedule, and get to work. Because for the next sixteen weeks, I'm going to be the best damn assistant this building has ever seen.
I refocus my attention back on the project I’m currently going over, reminding myself that while this isn’t my dream job, it’s an opportunity for me to get my shit together. I slide the glossy presentation deck into the folder, careful not to smudge the edges. My job right now is basically glorified paper shuffling, but for a second I pause.
The design on the cover is… beautiful. Rich, dark navy with a streak of metallic gold that somehow makes the numbers underneath feel sexy. I flip the page, skimming through the pitch. Clean layouts. Clever taglines. A story threaded through every chart and graph.
Back when I was interning in in college, I spent a semester with a high end PR firm before deciding I needed something more fast paced and cut-throat. But I remember this part…I lived for this part—late nights brainstorming with a whiteboard,sketching ideas on the backs of napkins, watching a concept take shape. Making something that made peoplefeelsomething.
I trace one of the headers with my fingertip like touching it will transfer some of that spark back into me. Instead, I’m the one printing the decks and fetching the coffee for the man who’s probably going to walk into this conference room and make the world bend to his will.
I wouldn’t mind being bent to his will.
My stomach flips as I picture him the way he was this morning—broad shoulders framed by that bespoke suit, a hint of stubble at his jaw, his voice low and smooth as he gave me instructions I barely absorbed because I was too busy cataloging how unfair it is that I can’t indulge in a fun little fantasy with my boss.
“Focus, Skye,” I mutter to myself, tucking the last folder into place.
This is just a job. A stepping stone. A paycheck. But as I glance at the sleek, perfect campaign in my hands, something restless stirs in my chest.
I want this back—the creative rush, the chance to make things that last longer than the steam from Reece Blackwood’s coffee.
Pushing the thought aside, I remind myself that while I am here, glorified paper pusher or not, I have to keep my head on straight because in sixteen short weeks, this gig is over. So in the mean time, I need to stay focused. Even if I have to fake it through every single day of trying not to imagine what Reece Blackwood would look like with his mouth between my thighs.
Chapter 6
Reece
She walks in every morning like she owns the place and has for the last week since I hired her. Calm. Straight-backed. Confident in that bright, offhanded way that makes people believe she’s not nervous even when I can see she is.
