CHAPTER 9
1206 Words
Brad
How hard could it be to find a competent assistant in New York City?
Apparently, very.
For the past two days, I’ve interviewed one disaster after another—people who couldn’t follow basic instructions or listen past the sound of their own voices. By day three, my patience is shot. This is my last interview, and the woman is already thirty damn minutes late.
Fantastic first impression.
I pace the unnecessarily large office, running a hand through my hair. The coffee my sister brought earlier sits untouched on my desk, stone cold. My irritation sharpens with every passing second. So when the door swings open without so much as a knock, I snap.
“You could knock.”
“Hey.” Jodie plants her hands on her hips, unimpressed. “Don’t take your pissy mood out on me. It’s not my fault your assistant quit because you can’t be nice for once.”
“I’m always f*****g nice. If she hadn’t f****d up, she wouldn’t have gotten an earful. It’s not my fault she couldn’t take it.”
I stare at her until she exhales sharply. “Mia Willow is here.”
“Right. She finally decided to show.” I wave a dismissive hand. “You can tell her to turn right back around.”
She ignores me and takes the chair across from my desk, tilting her head. “Brad, come on. Give her a break. Her alarm didn’t go off.”
I roll my eyes. I’ve heard that excuse a thousand times.
I love my sister—she’s the baby of the family at thirty-two—but she has a bad habit of bulldozing straight over my decisions. No matter what I say, she won’t send the woman away. She’s determined to drag her in here and force the interview.
Which I don’t want.
If someone can’t manage punctuality on day one, it’s bound to become a habit. And yet… her CV is impressive. Top of her class. Valedictorian. Fresh out of college, she landed a job at one of New York’s biggest magazines. Started as Madeline Fisher’s assistant, then got offered a position in the design department after creating a piece that made the front cover.
She turned down the promotion.
Claimed it “wasn’t the right time.”
Since then? No references. No explanation. Which makes me wonder what actually happened for someone to walk away from an opportunity like that—and end up here, asking to be my assistant.
Not my business. And I won’t ask.
I roll my shoulders and take a steadying breath, closing my eyes for a moment to bleed off the irritation. “Go get her.”
Jodie studies me—golden child that she is. Married, settled, spared the constant family lectures about finding love like me and Terry endure.
“Just… try not to bite her head off for being late.”
I wave her off. “Yes, yes. Now go before I have security escort you out.”
She smirks. “You do that and I quit. Then you’ll be stuck with Dad breathing down your neck every ten seconds.”
Father. The man who wanted my success—on his terms.
Instead of taking over his company, I used my grandfather’s inheritance to build my own. Every brick, every deal, every win—I earned it. I’m damn proud of that. Even if he isn’t.
“f**k me,” I mutter. “Just go.”
She narrows her eyes before turning on her heel. The sharp click of her shoes fades down the hall, leaving blessed silence behind.
I move to the window. Outside, snowflakes drift lazily toward the street below. December is creeping closer—family dinners, forced cheer, whiskey with the men while the women bake with Mom.
To her credit, she throws one hell of a Christmas. Three trees. Decorations everywhere. A blow-up Santa and reindeer out front, snowmen scattered across the lawn. God only knows what she pays the guys who set it all up.
Mom is the heart. Father is the steel.
“Brad.”
Jodie’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn to find her standing beside a stunning woman with curly brown hair pulled into a rushed bun. Light green eyes. Flushed cheeks. Nervous, but trying not to show it.
“This is Miss Willow.”
The woman shifts from foot to foot. She really is nervous.
Interesting.
I sit back down, taking her in—the black pencil skirt and white blouse. Everything about her screams last-minute rush. Does she have kids? Could that be why she was late, trying to get them to school? It would explain the missing job history.
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “You finally grace me with your presence.”
“Sir.” She steps forward, her face turning crimson. “Please accept my sincere apologies. My alarm didn’t go off. I’m usually always on time. I take full responsibility.”
So not what I assumed.
“So you should, Miss Willow. I’m a busy man. You made me wait, and I don’t like waiting. Now sit so we can start.”
She does—too quickly—nearly tripping over Jodie’s foot in the process.
Once seated, she closes her eyes and takes a slow breath, grounding herself. I let her have the moment.
“Mr. Turner,” she says calmly, “I understand you’re unhappy with me. You’d be justified in asking me to leave. But please—let me show you this isn’t who I am. Let me prove my skills. I won’t disappoint.”
I lean back, steepling my fingers as I tilt my head. I do need an assistant, and seeing as I haven’t found one yet, I may as well give her a trial run for the day. She can take my calls, follow me to open houses, even fetch my coffee. That gives my sister a bit of a break.
I glance at Jodie. “Thoughts?”
She looks between us. “Give her one shot.”
I sigh, then meet the woman’s eyes. “Your CV impressed me, Miss Willow.”
“Please, call me Mia.”
“Alright. Mia.” I tap the desk. “Your résumé alone nearly got you hired. But your lateness—and your nerves—make me question whether you’re right for this environment. It’s high-pressure.”
She straightens, resolve replacing anxiety. “I thrive under pressure. I can handle this job without breaking a sweat.”
“Is that so?” I rub my chin thoughtfully. “Then prove it.”
I pull a folder from my drawer—my real schedule—and slide it across the desk.
“You have one hour to enter this into my calendar. If it’s accurate and finished on time, come back and show me. If—and only if—you manage to follow the instructions, you’ll come with me afterward.”
“I’m sorry, but where?”
“You’ll find out when you finish the tasks given.”
I stand and head for the door.
Behind me, I hear her whisper, “What just happened?”
I don’t answer.
- Writer
