Filthy Headlines by Cassie Mint

Three

Sasha

Three days later, I step out of the elevator at 8am to a rhythmic pounding floating down the corridor. It’s violent, mixed through with pained grunts.

Is Grant Keller… in a fight?

That would make one hell of a story. I drop my bag on my desk and hurry towards his office, my heels sinking into the rug.

“Mr Keller, are you alright?”

His door swings open beneath my palm, and the question dies in my throat.

I’ve been in here a few times already. Staring around with wide eyes, trying to soak it all in and commit it to memory. And each time, I noticed something new. An artistic sculpture; a high tech gadget. An abstract painting on the wall.

But somehow, I never registered the huge treadmill tucked away in one corner, partly hidden by a screen. It’s matte black with sleek lines and sharp corners—the sports car of running equipment.

And sprinting on top of it, elbows pumping and jaw clenched, is Grant Keller.

No: Grant Keller… in a suit.

“Um.”

I step further into the office. It’s still dark on the street outside, the rows of city windows glowing yellow.

“…Sir?”

His scowl burns into me in the mirror on the far wall. He doesn’t even slow down. “What do you want?”

Hmm. What do I want?

I want to know why he’s sprinting like wild dogs are chasing him, instead of doing a normal person’s workout. I want to know what time he gets here in the mornings. I want to know why he’s running in a freaking suit. And I kind of want to place my hand between his shoulder blades and feel those muscles flex in his back.

Most of all, though, I want to drag him off that treadmill and push a glass of cold water into his hand. My new ‘boss’ is wild-eyed, with a light sheen of sweat on his handsome features. His muscles bulge under his suit, so powerful as he runs, but I don’t miss the way his hands shake.

What do I want?

I guess right now, I want an answer to my question.

I try again. “Are you alright, sir?”

His scowl deepens. “Is that a personal question, Miss…”

“Jones,” I grind out. “Sasha Jones.” What an asshole. I’ve spent the best part of three days in this man’s pocket, and he still doesn’t know my name?

He must sense my concern dropping away, replaced with cold anger, because he prods a button on the treadmill. The machine slows but doesn’t stop, and his sprint turns into a loping walk.

Good. Fine. At least he won’t fall on his ass.

“I expect you to knock before you come in here.”

“Yes, Mr Keller.”

“And there will be no more questions about my well being.”

“Noted,” I growl.

His mouth twitches in the mirror, like he can sense exactly how much I dislike him. With a deep breath, I smooth my face clear.

Now that he’s slowed down, I can look at him without worrying he’s about to fall and break his neck. Mr Keller is dressed in a navy suit and pale blue shirt, the collar starched against his throat. He’s clean shaven, his body bright with vitality, but his eyes are shadowed.

Interesting.

I shift my weight between my feet, ignoring the flush creeping over my skin. Seeing him being so physical… it does something to me. Makes my stomach flip and my heart race. My traitorous brain can’t resist picturing certain things—things like Grant Keller jumping off that treadmill, prowling over here, and crushing me back against the door.

The heat of him.

The smell of his fresh sweat.

Oh god, am I panting?

Pale gray eyes narrow as they watch me closely in the mirror.

“Are you alright, Sasha?”

I lift my chin. Marshal my thoughts. “That sounds like a personal question, Mr Keller.”

“I pay you to answer questions.”

“No, you pay me to answer phones.”

Grant rolls his neck, watching me as he strides along the treadmill. Nerves skitter up my spine.

I can’t get fired. If I lose my job here, I’ll lose my real job, too. The one I actually care about.

So I arrange my face into a smile. “Perhaps if you put your question in an email, I’ll get to it.”

My tone is light, teasing, but he only grunts in reply. Then I scramble out of there like I’m the one being chased by wild dogs.

His office door closes with a snap behind me. I curse Grant Keller under my breath all the way back to my desk, my legs wobbly under my pencil skirt.

It’s more than an hour until my cheeks cool.

* * *

“Sasha, I need you.”

God, I hate the way my belly tightens when he says that. Grant marches toward me down the corridor, dressed in a fresh dark blue suit and crisp white shirt. His black hair is damp where it curls around his ears—so there’s a shower in his office.

Crap.

That’s not a mental image I need right now.

I straighten in my desk chair, hitting a key to make my monitor go dark. I’m not an idiot—I’m not writing up my undercover notes here. But I don’t want Grant Keller to know I’ve been staring at his most recent email for the last ten minutes.

From: Keller, Grant

To: Jones, Sasha

Subject: Personal query

Since you refuse to answer such questions in person, Miss Jones…

Are you well?

GK

The hypocrisy. When I first read that email, I glared at the screen so hard my eyes nearly crossed. It took several minutes for my breathing to stop sounding like a raging bull’s, and when I finally calmed down enough to reply…

No. I couldn’t do it. I sent him my Out of Office notice instead.

That tiny spark of rebellion doesn’t even seem to have registered. Grant sweeps past my desk, a briefcase held in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He swigs from the bottle as he jabs the elevator button with his other elbow, then watches me from under lowered brows.

I squirm in my seat. The leather creaks.

Grant swallows his water and screws the bottle cap down. “Are you waiting for an embossed invitation? We have a meeting in the city. Let’s go.”

My limbs are clumsy as I scramble to my feet, shoving my notebook and phone into my bag and knocking a cup of pens over with a clatter. Grant’s sigh grates against my ears, and I’m flushed bright red when I finally join him in front of the elevator.

Ping.The doors sweep open.

Grant gestures for me to walk ahead.

“There was no meeting on the calendar.” Even to my own ears, I sound strained.

“This is off the books. A different project.”

I perk up, anger fading.

Interesting.

The Keller Enterprises building is one of the tallest skyscrapers in the city, and dozens of roofs and glass windows zip past outside the narrow glass window. I peer out at the street far below, the cars crawling in perfect lines like ants, and sweat prickles across my top lip.

Grant says nothing as I back up, stumbling until my shoulder blades meet the elevator wall.

Then: “Afraid of heights?”

I take a measured breath. Hold it for three seconds, then let it out slowly. “No personal questions, sir.”

He hums, and a smirk flashes across his features. “I find counting backward from ten helpful.”

With one eye screwed shut, I rap on the elevator wall behind me. Hard enough to sting my knuckles. That dizzying view… “Gosh, I didn’t know you could count.”

He stares at me for a long moment, the ground still dropping out beneath us, and the words I just said out loud trickle through my brain. Cold dread follows, icy sweat prickling down my spine, and oh god, I’m going to be fired—

Grant tips his head back and laughs.

And if I thought his speaking voice was nice…

His laugh is decadent. Rich and golden; the sort of laugh you could bottle and sell for thousands. If Grant Keller’s laugh was a cologne, I’d dab it on my wrists. I’d spray it on my pillow, bury my face in it, and scream.

“It’s the window, I think.” He moves to block my view of the street. Not difficult, with shoulders like those. “Heights never used to bother me either before this elevator.”

“Why don’t you change it?” It’s not like he doesn’t have the money. Grant Keller could plate over that window with solid gold.

“Seems wasteful.” He shrugs. “It’s only a short ride.”

As if to demonstrate his point, the elevator dings. The ground settles beneath us, and the doors sweep open to the marble lobby. We step out, Grant nodding at the Keller Enterprises employees hurrying back and forth in pristine suits.

Safely behind him, I smooth my palms down my skirt, checking my sage green blouse for creases. I’m dressed appropriately for an office—a normal office, that is. But Grant’s expensive suits and fancy employees make my palms itch. I feel scruffy, even in my best clothes.

“We’ll take a car.” He addresses me over his shoulder as I hurry to keep up. “You’ll sit in on the meeting and make notes. Silently. There will be absolutely no questions. Understand, Sasha?”

My smile is more of a grimace. “Perfectly, sir.”

* * *

I wonder how many people get to see Grant Keller like this. Unstudied and off guard—at least, as much as I’ve ever seen him—sipping from a takeout coffee cup as he reads through a folder of notes for this meeting. Our car drifts slowly through traffic, the windows tinted and the air con cool. And despite myself, I’m sinking against the plush leather seats, my bones melting into the cushions. More relaxed than I’ve been in days.

“So who are we meeting?”

“Be quiet, Sasha.”

My snort echoes through the car. Grant’s mouth quirks up at one corner, but he doesn’t look away from his notes. And, emboldened by that tiny smile, I only hesitate for half a second before shuffling closer.

His handwriting is messy: the rushed scrawl of someone whose thoughts run faster than they can write. There are pages and pages of notes, crammed together in his folder, and clipped in one corner is a photo. A head shot of a red-haired businessman, with a name printed underneath in black marker.

“Wow. You really are bad at names.”

Grant flips the folder closed with a scowl. That tiny smile is a distant memory as he glares at me, gaze cold and unforgiving as it roves over my cheap clothes, my fishtail braid, my scuffed leather bag.

“What part of ‘quiet’ don’t you understand?”

I sit back, crowding against the car door to get away from him. “Sorry, sir.”

He stares at me for another long moment, then shakes his head. He turns forward, pinching the bridge of his nose.

And I’ve learned some things over the last few days. For starters, I know a Grant Keller headache when I see one.

“Here.” My bag rattles ominously as I tug it open. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve cleaned it out since I bought it two years ago. There could be anything in here. Broken umbrellas; tins of breath mints. Hairbrushes and fliers. Wooden chests of lost pirate gold.

So I’m weirdly proud when I successfully fish a box of painkillers from the depths of my bag. I push it into Grant’s hand, avoiding his eyes, and I don’t breathe again until I hear the crinkle of plastic. He pops two pills into his palm, then throws them back and swallows them dry.

“Okay, sir.” I take back the packet. “No need to show off.”

“Sasha.” He says my name like a sigh.

I gnaw on my bottom lip for the rest of the drive, fighting the urge to shuffle close again and read over the billionaire’s shoulder. The tension is gone, yes, but I don’t want to push my luck. And honestly, I’m not sure I trust myself to sit close to him.

Not when his thighs fill his suit pants so well, sculpted from hard muscle. Not when a crazy part of me wants to reach over, bat that folder out of his hands, and perch on his knee in its place.

I’m not here to nurture a crush. I’m not even here to be his assistant. I’m here to unearth this man’s secrets—no matter that his deep voice raises goosebumps on my arms.

I fan my cheeks, grateful for the air con.

It’s going to be a long day.