She looked up at me like she was looking down. I was a full head taller than her, but it didn’t feel like it. She was the only person I’d ever met that treated being short like it put her higher.
Infuriating little termagant.
“Don’t be so judgmental,” I told her with my most charming smile. It was a smile that let me get away with a lot. Usually. “I’m sowing my wild oats.”
“Well, you’re an over-achiever. But did it never occur to you that you’d have to reap what you sow?”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Not from me, but life tends to find a way.”
“You know, I’d bet they don’t know my name, either.”
“Is that what you tell yourself, to make it better?”
I squinted at her. It was a bit early on for her to be giving me this kind of shit, but I was twisted, so I found it somewhat entertaining, enough so to gamely shout at the redhead to come back.
She seemed the more easygoing of the two.
She came back smiling. “Can I get you something? I’m making eggs for you. And coffee. Devereux, would you like some?”
“No, but thank you, Jennifer,” Devereux replied politely.
“How sweet of you,” I told Red, “but before you get back to it, we had a question for you. Actually, she did. Ask away, Glasses.”
“Do you know his name?” Devereux asked her.
Red grinned wickedly. “His real name or the one we gave him? We’d heard he likes nicknames.”
Devereux shot me a look that tickled me. She didn’t have to roll her eyes for me to see that she wanted to.
“His real one,” Devereux answered.
“I’d like to hear the one you gave me,” I answered at the same time.
Red was sweet enough to answer me first. “Tall boy.”
I caught the reference the second she said it, but Devereux seemed confused to the point that Red felt the need to explain it to her. “You know, like a tall can of beer,” as she spoke she gestured comprehensively, and obscenely, with her hands.
Devereux blushed. Blushed.
I felt myself getting hard.
That was my first inkling that we might have a problem.
I went and sat behind my desk.
“What about my real name?” I asked Red, an attempt at changing the subject, and my current, unproductive, filthy thought process.
“Turner Thorn,” Red spouted out promptly and cheerfully.
Well, dammit. I hadn’t even proven my point.
“Thanks, Red. I like my eggs fried.”
“How many do you want?”
“Three, please and thank you. Now back to these emails, Glasses.”
“No,” my new assistant said firmly, hands on her hips, trying to look intimidating, all five foot three inches of her. “You’re not doing that. It’s dehumanizing. I have a name.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine, whatever, Dev.”
“Devereux. I don’t like Dev, either.”
“Who has a name like that and doesn’t shorten it? And you won’t let me give you a nickname?” I didn’t look at her as I spoke, eyes on my computer.
“If you need to shorten it, call me Ro. Dev is trite.” The first few sentences were said in a deadpan tone, but when she got to the Dev is trite line, I could hear the clear amusement in her voice.
My eyes shot to her and widened. God, she tickled me, like every word out of her mouth was designed for my specific entertainment.
Oh, this is going to be fun, I thought with wicked glee.
That was my second inkling that we might have a problem.
I shook it off, forcing myself to be professional.
As professional as a guy could be while wearing nothing but a towel and calming down a hard-on.
“Dair told me you had management experience that qualified you for all of the random duties attached to this job,” I told her, “but that you wanted this job because you wanted to shift fields. What field was your management experience in?”
She blinked at me in a way that seemed to imply she thought I was possibly insane. “You didn’t ask him what the experience was?”
“I didn’t care then. Dair’s a close friend and colleague with a good brain, and I trusted him to make a solid recommendation, but I’m curious now.”
“I helped manage a nursing home.”
I laughed, and laughed, and laughed. When I finally caught my breath, I couldn’t hold in one snarky comment. “Well, that explains your wardrobe.”
I got a glare for that, but it seemed half-hearted to me. She had to know she was a terrible dresser.
As we began to work, I quickly realized that I’d need to rearrange my office. I’d become too accustomed to working alone. “I’ll get a corner in here cleared out for when we need to work together sometime today, but in the meantime, let me show you your office, where you’ll spend most of your time.”
She simply nodded and followed, but I got the distinct feeling that she was actually paying attention, listening to and absorbing what I said.
Taking me seriously.
I was encouraged.
It was a new experience. Usually my assistants were too busy putting on makeup or taking selfies to ever acknowledge that there was a real job to be done. I, of course, took full responsibility for that, as in the past I’d tended to hire women with all of the wrong qualifications, and all of the right measurements.
The second office was directly next to mine. It was smaller, but still large, and its current state was one of mayhem.
“What on earth happened in here?” she asked, sounding more judgmental than worried, which perversely made me happy.
I scratched my chin, looking at the bastard stepchild office. It was stacked floor to ceiling with boxes full of who knew what work crap to the point that I couldn’t even see the furniture that I was fairly certain the room contained. “I don’t really know. I haven’t had an assistant for a while, and I guess this room just got away from me. There are bookshelves, a desk, chair, and a computer in here somewhere. Hell, I’m pretty sure there’s even a sofa and a TV.”
“I won’t need a sofa or a TV,” she said briskly, pulling up the sleeves of her hideous, oversized blazer.
I liked the determination in her eyes. It made me think, before I ever had any evidence, that she might be up to any task she set her mind to.
“Obviously, this needs to be my priority,” she stated in a no-nonsense tone.
“Sounds good to me. I’ll hire some guys to help you move this stuff around.”
She sent me a look of pure affront. “Not necessary. I can move some boxes on my own. You go back to work. I’ve got this. When I finish, we’ll touch base on what I should make my next priority.”
“I’m almost certain that most of those boxes are full of books and very heavy.”
“I’ll handle it,” she said mulishly.
“You’re tiny. I didn’t hire you to do any heavy lifting; I hired you to make phone calls and work on a computer—”
“You hired me to handle the things that need to be handled so you can finish your work in progress. Go work on that book, Mr. Thorn. Like I said, I’ll handle this.”
And just like that, I was dismissed.
I took it with good grace. No way could she handle that disaster of a room on her own. When she figured it out, she’d come to me and ask for the help she so obviously needed. I was content to wait her out.