Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
I’ve worked concierge, waitressing, behind the bar. There’s no aspect of hotel work I don’t enjoy, no aspect of the business I haven’t studied up close and personal. I’ve seen it all—which is why I can see The Mayfair hurtling toward the drain if someone doesn’t replace the manager.
A little research revealed that Leo owns the place. After getting over the initial shock of finding out the guy I needed something from was the same guy who’d blown me off two years ago, I put my bruised ego to the side and got to work. I tried numerous times to contact him about taking on the role as manager of The Mayfair. I’ve emailed my résumé and sent it via snail mail. I’ve called, even turned up at his office and handed him my materials personally—well, not personally, since security wouldn’t let me through the lobby. But I watched someone place the résumé in an interoffice mail envelope and hand it off to a courier, so that’s something at least.
None of it has gotten me a response.
I get it; I never made it to college. I don’t have any previous experience managing a five-star hotel. But I know I’ll be good at the job.
I decided I needed a new way to get Leo’s attention. I applied for the open assistant role and sailed through the interview process. My plan is to work hard, gain Leo’s trust, then tell him to his face he needs to hire me as the new manager of The Mayfair.
I’m still in phase one of my plan: prove I’m trustworthy and capable.
“Jules,” the man in question shouts from his office. I roll my eyes, but stand and pick up my phone. I’m about to round my desk and go into his office when he bursts out the door, looking like he’s just gotten out of bed. His hair is ruffled, his shirt a little crumpled. The urge to nuzzle into his hard chest hits me like a bottle of Clorox to the head.
Fuck. I hate him. And I hate that I find him so completely attractive.
Eyes on the prize, Jules. Eyes on the prize.
“Have you heard anything about Hammonds?” he asks.
“The agency? You never deal with them. Were you expecting a call?”
He shakes his head. “I’m going to be awarded Developer of the Decade at the PI Awards and they’re sponsoring it. Which reminds me, can you call up Property International and get us a table? Then figure out which of the team is going to go.”
“A table for the awards ceremony. Got it,” I say. Leo only ever gives me half the information I need for any project he tosses in my direction, but I’ve gotten used to it over the last few months since I started. “And there are nine spaces for the team. Let me know who you want to attend and I’ll let them know.”
“Eight,” he corrects me. “Because you’re on the list.” He flashes me a smile that makes my insides melt like a bowl of ice cream abandoned in the sun. I look away, pretending I’m not affected at all.
I know he thinks he’s being a good boss by inviting me to an awards ceremony, but in fact he’s being the exact opposite. The last thing I want is to be anywhere near Leo Hart when I’m dressed up in heels and a tight dress. I definitely don’t want to see him in a tux. Day-to-day business casual is bad enough. But once we’re both dressed to the nines, I don’t trust myself not to do something embarrassing, like throw myself at him. Not in the slightest. I can handle it in the office. He’s a professional and so am I. There is definitely no flirting going on. And the job I want is always on my mind when I’m behind my desk.
But outside the office? I can’t really think about that.
I both appreciate and slightly resent Leo for being professional enough not to flirt with me. In the same way that I’m hardwired to be attracted to men like him—players, playboys, womanizers, philanderers—he’s hardwired to flirt, to reel women in, to make them feel good, to feel special, to want him. I should know. Flirting is Leo Hart’s superpower, even when he’s not the one in a superhero costume.
It’s good that he looks through me rather than at me. Yes, sometimes it’s a blow to my ego, but this is the way it has to be. If I want to keep this job—which I do, until I get the job I really want—I have to be just another non-sexualized cog in the wheel of Leo’s professional life. Like a desk chair with a heartbeat or day planner with a mind as sharp as a tack.
“So, there’s nothing about Hammonds in there?” Leo nods toward the open copy of Property International on my desk.