New York Nights
Page 154

Did you meet Michael Leighton during the interview?
Your bestie (Do we really have to continue signing off like this on every email, like we’re still teenagers?)
Amy
Subject: Re: Did you get the job?
Sorry, I’ve been swamped with some massive reading and pre-research. (Don’t ask.) But yes! I got hired On. The. Spot! The Brad guy (Leighton’s advisor) even doubled the initial salary offer in the middle of our negotiations.
I didn’t technically get to “see” Mr. Leighton until this morning when I went to officially sign the paperwork and I lie to you not, the man is the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life. Hands down.
He made me wet after he shook my hand and said the words, “Welcome to my company, Mya.” That’s honestly all it took....
Sexy as ever or not, I’m determined to last way longer than all of his other assistants. He can’t be that bad, right?
Your bestie (Yes. It’s tradition to sign off like this :) ),
Mya
 
 
ONE YEAR LATER...
 
 
THE ASSISTANT

Mya Manhattan, New York
I stumbled into the glittering lobby of Leighton Publishing, balancing a small box of files in one hand and a binder of reports in the other. I was over an hour early, but I knew that wouldn’t be enough for my boss.
Taking the elevator straight to the top floor, I rolled my eyes as the golden numbers lit up above the doors. Michael Leighton insisted on having the entire top floor to himself, and only allowed me and the lowly secretaries access when we had a morning meeting like today. Or when he was too lazy to travel down one flight of stairs, when he would call and say, “Come up to my office.”
The second the doors sprung open, I headed toward the massive conference room that was right across from his office. I unlocked the doors and hit the lights, pulling down the projector screen as I made my way around the room.
I set out notepads and pens at each chair, and then I dialed the breakfast caterer.
“Fifth Avenue Catering,” a woman answered on the first ring. “How may I help you this morning?”
“Hello, this is Mya London with Leighton Publishing,” I said. “I was wondering what time your delivery person was going to—”
“They’re on the elevator right now, Miss London.” She interrupted, a slight smile in her voice. “We know how your boss feels about time. No worries.”
“Thank you.” I ended the call and dialed the literary agent who was due to arrive for a separate meeting later today, letting her know that we would only have time for a twenty-minute pitch. Then I emailed each and every staff person a reminder to arrive to the boardroom at least ten minutes early.
As soon as I hit send on the message, an email from Mr. Leighton popped onto my screen.
Subject: What I Need Today.
Coffee from Dean & DeLuca. Mary Kubica’s new book. Ad report. Hotel confirmations for next Saturday night, two. Q3 revenue reports. Travel itinerary for January. Files for meeting at 3 o’clock on my desk by noon.
Michael Leighton,
CEO, Leighton Publishing
There was never any point in responding to his first email of the day. One hundred percent rhetorical and two hundred percent rude, he always sent them at exactly seven o’clock and they were always comprised of staccato-like sentences. There was never a “Hello,” “Good morning,” or a mere, “Hope all is well today.” The asshole never even said, “Please.”
And even when I completed everything on his ridiculous lists in record time, instead of saying, “Thank you,” he had the audacity to say, “You’re welcome.”
“No, no, no.” I picked up a plate of banana muffins the second the catering assistant set them down. “My boss is extremely allergic to these. Can you replace them with blueberry ones?” I quickly looked over the other things she was starting to set out, making sure nothing else was suspect.
“You sure you want me to replace them?” She smiled. “He’ll die a lot a faster if I don’t.”
“I’m sure.” I said. “I’m not trying to kill him ... yet.”
She laughed and took away the offending pastries, and before I could call Dean & DeLuca to order his overpriced coffee, he sent me another email.
Subject: Time.
You were two minutes late to work yesterday, and one minute late to the noon meeting.
Don’t let it happen again today.
Michael Leighton,
CEO, Leighton Publishing
I started to respond with “Eff you and your obsession with time, you egotistical asshole,” but I wasn’t going to let him get to me today. I sent him a curt “Okay,” ordered his coffee, and scrolled through my inbox, looking for correspondence from any of the countless jobs I’d recently applied to, but all I saw was spam.
Ugh....
Dialing my personal town-car driver, the best benefit that came with being his executive assistant, I begged him to retrieve the coffee for me. And then I told him to buy whatever else “looked pretty” in that café and add it to the purchase account.
“Are you sure about that, Miss London?” he asked.
“Absolutely.” I hung up. I was only supposed to use the “CEO credit card” for Mr. Leighton’s coffee and meals, but since he’d been increasingly mean to me over the past few months, I’d been using it on whatever came to mind. He could more than afford it.
The sudden sound of the elevator stopping on the floor made me look over the room one more time, made me realize that another day with him was just beginning.
“Good morning,” I said as several staff members began to fill the room and take their designated seats. “Good to see you all today.”
They all offered me their usual warm “Hellos” and slight looks of sympathy in return.
“Thank you all for being early,” I said. “As you all know, this month is going to be extremely busy in regards to our front-list, and today you’ll be asked which books you’d like to push from your departments and how much of the budget you’d like to spend on promoting each title.”
Mr. Leighton suddenly entered the room as I spoke, turning the head of every woman at the table. He was dressed in an impeccable three-piece navy blue suit and matching tie, and the diamonds in his newest designer watch gleamed against the room’s soft light.
His beautiful eyes met mine as I continued my short introduction, and for a split second, I was reminded of how utterly gorgeous and captivating he was.
His face was flawlessly sculpted with piercing almond colored eyes that pinned me to the spot any time we were alone. His lips looked as if they were handcrafted for kissing, his jet black hair was always cut low enough for a woman to run her fingers through it, and the way his suits fit over his muscles, consistently invaded my dreams more times than I cared to admit.
When I was finished talking, he stared at me—giving me a familiar look he gave me from time to time. One I had yet to figure out. It was a cross between the way he looked in my fantasies when he was burying his head between my thighs, and when he was asking me to stay late after work. A look that said he might not be as horrible a boss as I often made him out to be.
“You can take your seat now, Miss London,” he said. “Unless you’d like us to spend the rest of this two-hour meeting staring at you.”