Filthy Headlines by Cassie Mint

Four

Grant

On my new assistant’s first day, I sent an email to HR. Subject: Regrettable hire. It was bad enough that I’m attracted to her, never mind that I must be a decade older. That she’s so beautiful, looking at her soft golden hair and her ruby lips feels like a heart attack.

No, her real crime was far worse: she asks so many goddamn questions.

The HR manager replied within an hour with a list of suitable alternatives. Other candidates that she’d interviewed, along with a selection of the resumes we keep on file. And I intended to read through them for a replacement—I did.

But as the hours and days passed, somehow I never got around to it. And now, two weeks after Sasha began work here, the plan to fire her is a distant memory.

She’s… useful. An excellent worker. Quick to anticipate my needs, and creative in her solutions to business problems.

Sasha is almost alarmingly tuned in, her eyes sharp as she looks around the office. That bug-under-the-microscope feeling when she looks at me has never really gone, not when she turns those big brown eyes on me and stares straight into my soul.

Which she does several times a day. Like right now, sipping from the take out coffee I just placed on top of her desk.

“Mm.” Her pink tongue darts out, licking foam off her top lip. I grit my teeth, blood surging south. “You do realize I’m supposed to bring you the coffee, Mr Keller?”

I manage a casual shrug. “Call me Grant. And I was in the cafe anyway.”

Lie. I figured out it’s her favorite place yesterday, when a half-stamped loyalty card spilled out of her terrible bag onto my rug. And this morning, when I was alone in the office in the predawn darkness, I found myself googling directions. It’s only two blocks away.

“I’m just saying. I’m the sunny, helpful assistant who brings you coffee and answers your phone. You’re the bad tempered billionaire who forgets my name and goes running in his suits.”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Fuck, I can’t believe she saw that.

“Would we describe you as sunny? I’d say ‘shrewish’ is more accurate. And that was a one-off.”

Sasha quirks a perfect eyebrow. “If you say so. Sir.”

The one downside to my blanket ban on personal questions is that I rarely get a chance to explain myself. Sasha will walk in on me in some kind of uncompromising position—stripped to the waist in my office, or running in that fucking suit, or throwing darts at the board on my wall with a vicious snarl—and she’ll press her lips together and say nothing.

She probably thinks I’m insane.

If the press spoke to her, I’d be screwed.

“We’re staying late tonight. There are four big meetings next week to prepare for.” I pause for any sign of resistance. Sasha taps her pearly pink nails on the desk and gives me a sugary smile.

“How exciting.”

“Indeed.”

“Off the books again?” Her question is light. Almost bored.

Something prickles down my spine. Against my better judgment, I ignore it. “Two of them, yes.”

Sasha nods slowly, sipping from her coffee. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, bringing her that, but when she hums again in appreciation, I know I’ll do it again. Probably multiple times a day if it means she’ll make that sound.

“I can’t believe you know my order.”

I frown. “Why not?”

She levels me a look. “Because most days, you don’t even know my name.”

That heat prickles over my neck again, and I clear my throat. I need to get out of here. I’ve got—got work to do, damn it. A launch to oversee. Budgets and deadlines and stress.

“Sasha Jones.” I clip the words out. Like I’m mad.

She leans back in her chair, and the first real smile I’ve coaxed from her all morning curls her red lips.

“Very good, Mr Keller.”

“Grant.”

“Who?”

I’m storming down the corridor, my office door slamming shut behind me and blocking out her soft laughter. It still echoes in my head, swirling round and round in my brain, and I scrub a hand over my face as I sit behind my desk.

She’s a distraction. I really should fire her.

But when another suggested replacement lands in my inbox from HR two hours later, I delete it without looking. Whoever they are, Sasha is better.

* * *

When I insisted we work late together, I didn’t account for how intimate it would feel. We’re always up here alone, the only two people on this floor, interrupted only by the occasional visitor and the chirp of phones. And we both work long hours, coming in before most others in the building and staying until the streets are dark outside.

But this is different. My shirt is unbuttoned at the collar; my sleeves rolled. And twenty minutes ago, Sasha kicked off her heels with a groan. She’s barefoot on my rug.

Barefoot.

Her toes are painted the same pearly pink as her fingers. That knowledge will haunt me, I know it.

“Don’t start.” She holds up a palm when she catches me staring. “You try walking in heels all day. It’s torture.”

“It’s fine.” My throat is tight. “I’m not going to complain. I’d like you to be comfortable.”

Understatement of the fucking century.

We migrate naturally to the floor, the agreement between us unspoken. And now, with my eyes snagging on her bare legs, crossed at the ankle, I’m questioning how smart of a man I really think I am.

The city lights glow through the glass office walls, the pinpricks of stars winking high overhead. The rumble of traffic is faint so far below, and it’s like we’re the only two people in the world. Marooned in a pocket out of time.

Sasha flicks through one of the folders I prepared. She doesn’t comment on the photograph pinned to the front paper, but her eyes linger on it.

“You know, I thought the billionaire lifestyle would be more glamorous. Less work, more play. Fewer meetings and more super yachts.”

I huff a laugh. “Old habits die hard.” I watch her for a moment longer before turning to my own notes. And my voice is casual when I tell her, “I hope you didn’t have to cancel any plans tonight.”

“Is that right?”

“Of course.” There’s a long silence. Fuck, she’s going to make me ask it. “Did you? Have to cancel plans?”

Sasha flips a page, then pins me with those big eyes. Her plush mouth is twisted in a wry smile. “What exactly are you asking me, Mr Keller?”

Did you have plans with friends? God, did you have adate?

Did you choose me, Sasha Jones?

“A personal question. Never mind.”

Because it wouldn’t be choosing me, even if she did cancel plans. I’m her boss—I told her she’d be working late and she agreed without complaint. She’s a good worker. Not someone I should ever think of like this.

Sasha sighs and pushes to her feet, her bare toes sinking into the rug. She stands for a second, stretching her arms high overhead, and the taut line of her body is burned into my retinas.

She’s wearing a wine red pinafore dress, a cream silk t-shirt underneath, and her hair is tied back in an elaborate bun. The sight makes my fingers twitch and my pulse race—I want to plunge my hands into that golden updo and shake it loose.

But Sasha strolls away across my office, peering openly at my shelves and the artwork on my walls. I watch her go, my notes forgotten in my hand.

“You’re very nosy for an assistant.”

“So I am.”

“Did it bother your last boss?”

She hums absently. “Simon? No. I expect he liked that about me.”

Jealousy roars through my chest, blinding and irrational. It’s not enough that I hate the thought of her dating—now I’m sick with envy over her last boss too? I jerk my head to the side, glaring down at my notes until the words form into shapes I can read.

A soft inhalation makes me look up.

Sasha stands behind my desk, brown eyes wide. She stares at my computer monitor, and far too late I remember what she’ll find there.

A head shot of her, stolen from her HR file. Pinned to the edge of my computer screen, and scrawled on in black marker with her name.

“Grant…”

“Don’t ask me.” The words scrape against my throat. “Don’t ask me about it. I’ve learned your name, haven’t I?”

“You have.” She watches me carefully. Like I’m a wild animal she might spook with sudden movements. The dim light from my desk lamp casts shadows across her beautiful face. “But—”

“Don’t.” I’m breathing hard. Way too hard for someone sitting still, and fuck, this is why I have a treadmill in my office. Why sometimes I have to jump on there without changing clothes. Except Sasha’s here, and she’d see, and she’ll know something is badly wrong, and there’s a high-pitched sound bouncing around my skull—

“Grant.” Sasha’s kneeling in front of me, her gentle voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. She shakes my shoulders gently. “You’re alright. Everything is okay.”

I swallow hard. My throat is so goddamn tight, and her hands are so light on my shoulders. Her warmth bleeds through my shirt.

“I’ll finish up here.” My thoughts are sluggish, but once they’re in order, my chest eases. There is a simple solution. “You can go home, Sasha.”

“I really don’t mind—”

“Go.” She flinches back—and yeah, okay, that was way too gruff. I push to my feet, and then we’re both standing, the empty air between us impossible to breach. “Thank you for your help tonight.”

It’s no use. My words are too little, too late, and her pretty face has shuttered. Frost practically crackles over her skin as she bends to scoop up her bag.

“Take tomorrow morning off.”

She shoulders her bag. “Yes, sir.”

Grant,she’d called me. My chest is a ragged hole. She glances at the folders scattered over the rug, but I wave her away.

“I’ll deal with it.”

“Right.” She stomps her feet into her heels, wobbling with her hands spread in the air. I jolt forward, ready to catch her elbow, but she’s already wheeled around, marching across the office.

The door slams shut behind her.

Steady footsteps echo down the corridor.

I stand frozen, head pounding.

What a mess.

* * *

It takes fifteen shameful minutes for me to realize what I’ve done. I’ve kept my young, female assistant late alone in the office, then sent her out into the dark streets without consideration for her safety. My hands shake as I click angrily at my computer, searching the staff database, and my stomach roils as I press the phone to my ear.

Idiot.

She’d be right to hate me for this. I wouldn’t even blame her.

Pick up. Please. Pick up.

After an eternity of her phone ringing in my ear, the line picks up, and I hear the rumble of traffic. The faint clack clack clack of her heels on the sidewalk.

“Sasha. Thank god.”

She exhales sharply. “Yes, Mr Keller?”

“Where do you live?”

The address field is blank on her staff file.

“So many personal questions tonight, Mr Keller.”

“It’s Grant.” Please don’t take it back. “And I’m concerned for your safety. Are you walking home alone?”

Her shoes drum against the sidewalk, answering my question. But she’s softer when she speaks again.

“I don’t live far. Only a few more blocks.”

“You didn’t answer either of my questions.”

“No, I didn’t. Annoying, isn’t it?”

“Sasha.”

“Grant.”

I grind my teeth so hard, I’m surprised I don’t crack a molar. It’s not like I don’t deserve it.

“I shouldn’t have sent you out alone in the dark. I apologize.”

Her snort crackles in my ear. “I’m a big girl. I can get myself home.”

“It’s not your behavior I’m worried about.” I dig the heel of my palm into my eye. “Will you stay on the line?”

Her pause is deafening.

“Please,” I grit out.

“There’s really no need…”

“Humor me.”

I glance around my office as I wait for her answer. She was only in here for a few hours tonight, but already it’s colder with her gone. Lonely in a way it’s never been. Shadows slope over the walls and warp the artwork; the light from the monitor washes my desk ghostly blue.

I stare at that damn head shot of her, my heart thumping in my chest.

“Alright.” She sighs. “God, you’re a demanding boss.”

“So I’ve heard.” The smile that breaks over my face feels alien. Unpracticed. “But I’ll make it worth your while. Ask me anything you like.”

On the other end of the line, her footsteps falter against the sidewalk. Then she’s striding forward again, marching fast, and I’m sick with hoping I haven’t judged this wrong.

I’m not lying. Whatever she asks, I’ll answer.

I only hope I won’t regret this conversation.

There are hundreds of questions I’ve dodged from her over the last two weeks. I fully expect her to repeat one of those, or god help me, to ask about the head shot pinned to my monitor.

But instead, Sasha clicks her tongue, then asks: “If you could have any superpower, what would it be?”

It’s such an innocent question. So sweet. And it’s like a show of faith—I’ve given her a free body shot, and she’s refused to take it. Asked something harmless instead.

Warmth spreads through my veins like liquid gold.

“Invisibility.” My answer comes easily. “No doubt about it.”

“Really? Why?”

“No press.” She says nothing, so I shrug and keep going. Staring at her photo while I talk. “No people trolling online. No one watching my every move, waiting for me to fail, hoping and praying that I’ll slip up and do something unforgivable. I could work, and create, and be left alone.”

“Is that what you want?” Her voice is small. “To be alone?”

“No.” And somehow, she manages to get a confession out of me anyway. Because I’m still staring at her photo. “Not totally alone.”

I’ve said way too much. Maybe not spelled it out for her, but surely she must hear the longing bleeding into my tone? I grip the phone so tight it creaks, and when she tells me quietly that she’s arrived home safe, it’s equal parts pain and relief.

“Good. That’s good. Set your security alarm when you go in.”

“I don’t have an alarm.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You—”

“Goodnight, Grant.”

The line drops with a soft click. I stand there for a long time, breathing hard and trying to untangle the sharp feelings balled up in my chest.

Then I place the phone back down. Trace a fingertip along the edge of her head shot.

And stride out of my office without looking back.