Page 30 of Selfie
“I’m on a trial period for thirty days. If I’m incapable of doing this job, my contract can be terminated.”
“And after the trial period?”
“You’re stuck with me.”
She looks up when I let out a whispered chuckle. “Was it really wise of you to tell me that?”
There’s not a hint of amusement on her face. “First off, I assumed you were already familiar with the employment contractyourcompany offered me, so I didn’t realize I was spilling secrets. Second off, I’m trusting that while you haven’t exactly been pleasant, you’re not actually plotting against me. I haven’t done anything wrong…right?”
“Right,” I confirm half-heartedly.
Sorry, Spencer.I have about a million unsolvable problems—Claire’s abusive father coming back into the picture, my father’s impending marriage to a floozy, an overwhelming construction project with an impossible timeline. But in regard to all these unwanted feelings she’s beginning to stir up? Suddenly, my whole assistant situation seems very solvable.
Less than thirty days to make her job impossible to complete?
Yeah… Too fucking easy. I can definitely do that.
10
Spencer
That can’t be right.
I’m staring in disbelief at the digital numbers on the gas pump. My company car is a brand-new, sleek, black Lincoln Navigator. When I picked up the vehicle from the dealership, I was expecting a basic sedan. I believe my exact response was, “Squeeee,” when they pulled the SUV around for me. The office manager rolled his eyes and mumbled something about trust-fund babies, but I was too elated to set his ignorance straight.
While the Lincoln is gorgeous, luxurious, and way more than a new executive assistant should be driving, it also gets about three miles per gallon and has a tank that could power a cargo ship. I’m going to go bankrupt on fuel costs alone.
“Freaking ridiculous.” I tap my credit card twice to no avail before just forcefully shoving it into the chip reader.
“You’re talking about gas prices, right?”
Peering over my shoulder, I try to find where the voice came from. There’s no one behind me. I give up on the intrusion until a very handsome, black man steps into view from the other side of the pump. “Hi,” he says, holding up his palm. He’s filling upa dually vehicle that looks straight out ofYellowstone. Although his truck is more “monster” than “pickup,” if you ask me.
He’s beautiful. And I mean, knees-weak, butterflies-fluttering, thigh-tinglingbeautiful.“I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining.” I nod at his truck. “Do you need a second mortgage to fill that thing up?”
His laugh is so melodic. Is Las Vegas just full of gorgeous, eligible men? Not that I’m looking… Except I do look. There’s a distinct tan line on his ring finger. No ring. But it’s evident he’s worn one for a long time. My stomach is suddenly uneasy.
“Just about,” he answers. “It’s a tax write-off, at least. Because of gas costs, I get to keep most of what I make.”
“That’s cool. What do you need a truck like that for?”
“Towing. I do horse and cattle transports.”
“Oh. Nice.”
I glance at my pump, deflated when it’s already at forty dollars yet the tank is barely halfway full.
“I’m Caleb.”
My smile is reticent. “Nice to meet you, Caleb.”
He chuckles. “And you are?”
I steal one more glance at his lovely chocolate-brown eyes before calling him out. “I’m the woman who noticed you have a tan line on your ring finger. Any chance there’s a wedding ring you stashed in your pocket?”
He widens his eyes, clearly surprised at my audacity. “Wow…that’s…okay, fair observation. I’m divorced. About six months ago now.”
“That’s pretty recent.”
