Page 8 of His Good Girl
I start to sweat.
My heartbeat speeds up.
My breathing becomes labored.
No, no, no. Calm down, Reens. This isn’t the time for a panic attack.
Looking around frantically, panting and about to lose my shit, I’m relieved when the doors slide open at our first stop, and one person gets off. Everyone does the reshuffle, trying not to make it obvious that they’re moving away from the closeness of the body next to them; I breathe out.
Only nine more floors to go.
As luck would have it, everyone else in the elevator is going beyond the tenth floor, so when the doors ding open for me, I’m forced to shove my way forward.
“Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. This is me. Sorry. Sorry.”
Stumbling out into the sophisticated reception on the tenth floor, I allow myself a small respite by leaning up against the wall so my heartbeat can return to normal levels. I swap my other shoe and push off from the wall, feeling the beady eye on the gorgeous, raven-haired Receptionist on me.
“Can I help you?” she asks coldly.
I amble forward, trying to get my act together. “I’m here for Logan Carter.”
She gives me a scathing once-over, starting with my wet bun and ending at my waist, the rest of me not visible below the counter. That one look tries, yet fails, to dismantle my confidence worse than the trip in the elevator.
I didn’t grow up poor—quite the opposite. But I moved out on my own after differing opinions with my parents about my lifestyle choices, and they cut me off. Not in a nasty, disowned way, but an ‘If you move out from under our roof, you can hand back those credit cards, young lady’ way. Which was fair enough.
I was happy to oblige.
Sadly, that means my wardrobe is less than immaculate and definitely not designer like the snob giving me an arrogant sneer.
“Mr. Carter doesn’t see the pro bono cases personally. I’ll direct you to Allison. Sit.”
It takes me a second, but I’m not the pushover I appear to be. “I’m not a fucking dog,” I spit, startling the shit out of this bitch. “I’m Mr. Carter’s new assistant, so if you would be so kind as to direct me to the man himself, that would besooohelpful.”
Her astonished and slightly fearful expression gives me great joy.
As I said, I grew up rich. I knew how tomean girlwith the best of the elite at my upper crust boarding school.
Not to say that all rich people are mean, but there are definitely a few. I used to be one of them. Until I became a have-not, and my attitude changed on a dime.
Still, if this bitch wants to throw down, I’ve got it in me.
Sometimes.
With someone I know can take it, anyway.
As expected, she brushes it off, her rancid attitude deepening with each passing second. “Corner office on the left,” she hisses, then ignores me, going back to her whatever the fuck, who cares business.
Not bothering to thank her, I lift my chin higher and stride with more purpose now through the bullpen, edging to the left where I see the corner office. I pause.
Logan Carter is forty. He is fifteen years older than me, but man, if the pictures are anything to go by, he is gorgeous. With dark hair and blue eyes like sapphires, I’m betting he falls into thehasa giant dick category. I’d be disappointed if he didn’t. Not that I intend to make a play for him, he’s too old for a start and my boss for another. And it’s not like he would notice me even if I did.
But still—a girl can wonder.
Moving closer, I see him sitting in his office and pull a face. If he’s already here, and it’s only eight fifteen, does that mean he expects me to be here even earlier every single day? Am I setting a precedent for him toexpectme to be here at this time every morning if I go over there now and introduce myself?
Figuring it better to be safe than sorry, for Monday morning onwards, I steer myself to the ladies' room to try and tidy up my appearance, as according to the Receptionist bitch, I look like something the cat dragged in.
Chapter6
