Filthy Headlines by Cassie Mint

Two

Grant

“Sir?”

The voice drifting out of the speakerphone on my desk is tentative. Not a good sign. I sigh and sit forward, bracing my elbows on the polished wood of my desk.

“Tell me, Danny.”

“There was another power outage. We lost… a significant amount of data.”

Perfect. A headache throbs behind my left eye, and I stifle a groan as I rub my temples. It’s not Danny’s fault, even though he’s my project manager. It’s no one’s fault—except perhaps for mine. In this company, I’m the top of food chain. The final stop. It all comes back to me.

Debilitating power outages aren’t something we predicted. They’ve certainly never been an issue before. But we’ll sure as hell have measures in place now.

“You need help putting in a plan?” Say no, I urge in my head. I’m a big picture man—all these fiddly little problems, the putting out small fires, is the worst part of these launches. Businesses can be so goddamn needy.

Besides, what am I paying these people for? In a few months’ time, I’ll have moved onto my next big idea, and they’ll have to deal with this crap without me.

“No, I’ve—I’ve got it.” I’d feel a lot better if Danny said that like he meant it. He’s young for the position I put him in, only a few years out of college, but he’s sharp. Hungry.

Now we just need to hone his killer instinct.

“In terms of funding—”

“Use whatever you need.” It’s not like we’re hurting for money. And more to the point, none of my people would dare misuse funds. I have zero tolerance for that shit.

“Okay. Thank you, sir. I’ll update you with our progress later today.”

“Can’t wait,” I mutter, once the call has safely ended.

It’s always like this. When I start a project, there’s the rush of a new idea. Everything is shiny and exciting, brimming with potential, and each day thrums with adrenaline.

Then there’s the launch. And sure, that means dealing with those morons in the press, but I get a nice fat payday to make up for it.

But then… there’s this. The interminable stretch after launch, when my new idea has lost its shine, but it’s not well established enough yet for me to leave it on autopilot. I still have to be here, at my desk or at the end of a phone, ready to babysit at a moment’s notice.

Answering stupid questions.

Shepherding this project to the point where it can stand on its own.

And forcing polite smiles—or at least, not cursing everyone out when I can’t.

Nightmare boss. That’s what my last assistant called me in an online review two days ago. A sadistic son of a bitch. The press had a field day with that tidbit.

My suit stretches against my shoulders as I push to my feet. All around me, my office is a blur of polished glass and rich bronze. Aged wooden bookcases and leather hardback tomes. It’s a mix of modern and classic, technology and antiquity, and even the most insipid reporter could spin a personality piece out of five minutes in here.

They never will, of course. This whole building is off-limits to the press, along with the rest of my life. When I caught some asshole picking through my garbage last week, hoping for a scoop for his paper, I called 911 with a smirk on my face.

They won’t get anything out of me. Ever.

The press has caused me enough heartache.

Morning sunshine spills through the shining glass walls, lighting up the plush cream rug on the floorboards. I shrug my suit jacket off with a sigh, draping it over the back of my chair before rolling my shirtsleeves to my elbows.

Might as well get comfortable. I’ve been here for hours already, and the day has just begun. There will be more panicked phone calls, more desperately boring meetings. More mundanity before I can get out of here and blow off some steam.

I’m pacing back and forth along the glass walls, the city skyline at my shoulder, when a harsh buzz sounds on my desk. I pause, confused for a moment, before I remember: it’s the direct line to the desk outside. No other sound is quite so grating, such an attack on the fragile peace in here.

No one has pushed that button for five days.

My new assistant must be here.

* * *

My standards for assistants are simple. I want them to answer my phones. Deal with stupid emails. Stand between me and the constant wave of nonsense coming my way, making sure that only top priority issues get through.

If they can pick up a coffee order and refrain from chatting—even better. And in return, I’ll pay them better than any other boss in the city.

My deal breakers? They’re simple too.

No small talk.

No personal calls on company time.

And absolutely no digging into my private life.

If this new assistant can follow instructions, use common sense, and mind their own business… we’ll get along just fine, newspaper articles about the nightmare boss be damned.

My footsteps drum on the floor as I push out into the corridor. My office is on the top floor of the Keller Enterprises skyscraper, and there’s only one other desk up here. It’s generously sized, standing further down the corridor opposite the elevator bank, and for the last five days, the cushioned desk chair has been empty.

It’s not empty now.

My strides falter. I recover quickly, tugging at my shirt collar.

Unlike plenty of businessmen in the city, I do not have a track record of deliberately hiring beautiful assistants. Not only do their appearances have nothing to do with their job performance, it always seemed a foolish distraction. Why the hell would I choose to split my own focus? Amateurs.

My last assistant was in her sixties. A fine woman, I’m sure—besides her regrettable personality—but old enough to be my mother. And before her, my assistant was a man.

Thisassistant… could be a challenge. I slow my steps, prowling closer to her desk. She hasn’t heard me coming yet, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the corridor’s rug, and she’s bent over behind the desk, rummaging in a bag on the floor. Her golden hair is braided up over her head in some kind of fiddly crown, and it shines where it catches the light.

“Where the hell did I… crap.”

She curses to herself quietly, shaking her bag with a rattle.

“Lost something?” I stifle a smile as she jolts upright, her mouth stretched in a perfect ‘o’. She’s painted her lips in a muted red, and her dark fitted dress hugs an hourglass figure.

Someone hired a fifties pin up model as my assistant.

Fuck.

“Mr Keller!” She drops her bag to the floor, wincing at the loud thump. But she forges ahead, pushing to her feet and offering a dainty hand. “I’m Sasha Jones. Your, um. Your new assistant.”

Her palm is cool and dry. I shake it carefully. “Yes, I assumed as much.”

“I’m so glad to be here, sir—”

I talk over her, dropping her hand and stepping back. “Let’s skip all that, shall we? You’re pleased to be here. You’re happy for the opportunity. I’m sure you’ll do well—etcetera, etcetera.”

“…Right.”

Is that a spark of irritation in her eyes? They’re surprisingly difficult to read, despite being so big and brown.

No matter. She can hate me as much as she likes—as long as she does her job.

“My last assistant left in something of a hurry.”

Her red mouth twitches. “I heard.”

So she read those articles. Wonderful. I grit my teeth and round her desk, leaning past her to click at her computer. I bring up everything she’ll need, logging her in and checking it all works.

“As a result, there won’t be a handover. Everyone has their hands full with the launch, and I’m far too busy to train you, so you’ll have to learn as you go.” I glance over and find her closer than I expected. Close enough to hear the soft draw of breath through her nose. “Understood?”

She nods once, curt.

Leaning over the desk like this, I catch the faint scent of her perfume. It’s subtle. Warm. Like honey—or vanilla. Sunshine made scent.

I straighten quickly, clearing my throat.

“You’ll field my calls. Deal with my emails. Manage my calendar and take notes at meetings. Plus carry out any other ad hoc tasks I deem necessary.”

Her eyebrow lifts a fraction, but she says nothing. My eyes snag on her pulse, thrumming at the base of her throat.

“Any questions?” The words come out in a rasp. Fuck, this was a terrible hire. I need to get rid of her.

“Yes, actually.”

She watches me closely before she speaks, and I get the oddest sensation. Like I’m being stripped to the bone—pulled apart and examined under a microscope.

What a weird assistant.

“What are your priorities, Mr Keller? If I’m going to assist you well, it would help to know your goals. In the business—and beyond.”

“My business goals are as you would expect. Profit and progress. Beyond?” The headache flares back to life in my skull. I pinch the bridge of my nose, annoyed. “Beyond the business, my priority is privacy. Never ask about my personal life again, Miss…”

“Sasha,” she clips out.

We fall silent, both strained.

I linger for a long moment, and what the hell am I waiting for? Another wry smile from those dark red lips?

Something tells me another smile isn’t coming. And it’s just as well, because I don’t want one. My own teeth are clenched as I round her desk, eating up the corridor with long strides, plunging back toward the peace of my office.

To work here, all Sasha needs to do is mind her own business.

And that question—that’s strike one.