Office Grump An Enemies to Lovers Romance - Nicole Snow Page 0,10

Seems she has no earthly clue who I even am. That’s more than we can say for the last three EAs you hired,” I mutter.

“And practical skills? Does she even know how to type?” Ruby asks.

“Ruby, do you know what year it is? Dogs can type and check their own Instagrams. Since I sign the checks around here, I hardly think it matters what her work experience is without a proper review. Just get her in here and find out.” I reach for the pink folder on my desk, pick it up, and pass it over. “But if you must know, yes, she’s perfectly digital literate. Her design skills prove it, and apparently, she has a thing for cats.”

Ruby opens the folder and starts flicking through the cards, huffing back annoyed murmurs. “She worked for a pet store brand? I guess that explains all the cats.”

“Pet furniture,” I correct sharply, holding up a finger.

Ruby purses her lips like she’s just bitten into an expired lemon.

When Miss Congeniality mentioned pet furniture, I thought she was being sarcastic. I’d virtually laughed in her face.

Yes, I’m a jackass. Guilty as charged. No wonder she was pissed enough to become a cinnamon coffee sprinkler.

“You act like you’re not surprised?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

Ruby nods. “Hugo warned me you wanted to hire her and sent a picture he snapped on his phone. I scoured the entire internet until I found her.” She drops a couple of pages on my desk. “Here you go. Everything you’d ever want to know about a strange girl who’s given no good reason to work here. Stalk away.”

I shoot her a dirty look and eagerly sift through the printouts.

Her name is Sabrina Bristol. She has a BFA in Graphic Arts with a minor in English from the University of Chicago, and a string of entry level positions on her LinkedIn resume. Not the kind of background we usually consider for this role—especially since it appears she doesn’t work anywhere for long.

Rubbing my chin, I face my inquisitor, who flicks a red curl over her shoulder impatiently. “Ruby, I need a good assistant. We need good help because as long as that role remains vacant, my inboxes are cluttered, my schedule’s a mess, and poor Armstrong has to run himself ragged after my coffee and dry cleaning. If I had a right hand I could depend on—a helper who’d last—I wouldn’t have fought with some random woman over a park bench in the first place.”

I find myself smirking at the memory.

“If you weren’t such a bastard to work for, your assistants would last.” Ruby folds her arms in front of her chest. “What’s so funny?”

I can usually smile, beam a little Heron charm, and get most women off my back. Not with Ruby Hunting.

“She was feisty. A fighter. Miss Bristol held her ground rather gracefully until the bitter end. I can’t fathom how she can choke down that cinnamon crap. It smelled like perfume, but her attitude—”

“Her attitude, as you call it, sounds like trouble.” Ruby shakes her head. “Are you sure you want her as an assistant? Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this?”

My humor evaporates and my smile flattens.

“Careful. I don’t like your implication. You know I’m not my dad.”

“Oh, I’d never imply that, but you didn’t have time for a skills assessment, and she left an impression on you. I just hope you’re being honest with yourself.”

“She’s got a spine and that’s what I need. I don’t care if she doesn’t have the right background and a litany of glowing recommendations. None of those people with business degrees and letters from their last ten bosses ever lasted six months. Why don’t we try something different?”

“Because. Miss Bristol hasn’t kept a single job for six months, for one. She has no experience in a top-level EA position for a company of this size, much less dealing with horrible bosses. You’re downright draconian, especially to your assistants...”

She looks down at her hands and fidgets. This is the part where I fight back a smile, knowing what’s coming.

“Go on,” I urge, waving my fingertips.

“Do I have to spell it out for you, Mag? Again? After we have the same conversation every two to six months when another one bites the dust?” She rolls her eyes. “You’re demanding, condescending, and expect sixteen-hour workdays. If your emails aren’t prioritized perfectly, you freak out. You send unreasonable requests at all hours of the night, and even if you