“The pleasure is all ours, I assure you,” she responded as I stood and came around the desk to shake my hand. “I’m sure Rowan is just as excited as you are…” I doubt that, I thought, but she wasn’t finished. “…and if you have any issues… any issues at all…” she continued with a side glance at Rowan. “You don’t hesitate to come to me.”

Well, that was rather cryptic. Before I could fully grasp the meaning behind her statement, I was being graciously, if not somewhat hastily, pushed from the office, the door clicking behind me with resounding finality.

“Well,” I said to myself as I headed toward the elevators, “a job’s a job. It can’t be that bad.”

Famous last words.

“Hey!” Harlow said excitedly as she came through the front door after work, looking like a supermodel in a tight, cream-colored pencil skirt with a blush-colored sleeveless, tie-neck shirt. God, I envied her. She really was gorgeous, all long limbs and slim figure. She had flawless, olive-toned skin with long, glossy chocolate-colored locks, and what could only be described as cat eyes--a mixture of green and brown that almost appeared yellow depending on the color shirt she wore. If I didn’t love her with all my heart, I’d have no choice but to hate her for her perfection.

Luckily for me, she was as genuine and loving as they came. Freshman year at NYU, we’d been roomed together and Harlow, being the loud, boisterous person she is, gave me no choice but to be her best friend. The girl just wouldn’t have it any other way. Over the past four years, she’d really helped me to come out of my shell. I’d gone from meek and mild, the poor bullied girl, to someone who refused to let other people bring her down. I had to admit, I totally loved the new me.

“Hey, Har. How was work?” I asked as she kicked the door shut behind her and dropped her purse on the small bench next to it.

“Work was work,” she answered with a roll of her eyes as she kicked off her heels and came to join me on the couch. “They might as well take executive assistant off my nameplate and put personal bitch in its place.”

“Well, at least you’re working in the industry you love,” I placated.

“Blah, blah,” she grumbled. “I wanted to be a fashion photographer, and this is kinda the furthest thing I could get from that. Anyway, tell me about your day. How’d the interview go?”

I stood from the couch and headed into our tiny galley kitchen to pour us each a glass of wine. One thing Harlow and I had learned to appreciate was the taste of cheap red wine. Some of those bottom shelf bottles were just as good as the expensive stuff.

“It wasn’t really an interview,” I spoke across the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. “Turns out I already had the job.”

“That’s great!” she exclaimed as she took one of the glasses from my hand. “Why don’t you seem more excited about it?”

I sat at the end of the couch, pulling my feet up underneath me, taking a hearty gulp before answering. “I am, don’t get me wrong. But the whole thing was just a little weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the job isn’t for an administrative assistant. I got hired on as a personal assistant. And the pay is more than what I originally applied for. Like, a lot more.”

Harlow’s perfectly sculpted brows rose. “How much more are we talking?”

“Almost double.”

“Holy shit!” she shrieked, nearly spilling her wine on the sofa as she did a little happy dance. “Navie, that’s awesome! Whose personal assistant are you supposed to be? Is it someone rich? Oh, please, tell me they’re famous. Pretty, pretty please!”

“Some guy named Rowan Locklaine. He was there today and I gotta tell you, he didn’t give the best first impression. It was like he was pissed off about something. And Lauren kept giving him these weird looks…”

“What kind of looks?”

“Looks that said she’d murder him in his sleep if he so much as spoke a word. I walked out of there feeling like I was missing something.”

Harlow’s expression grew pensive as she spoke his name softly, “Rowan Locklaine... why does that name sound so familiar to me?”

“Don’t ask me,” I answered with a shrug. “I’ve never heard of the guy, but apparently he’s big enough to warrant having a personal assistant.”

“Well, let’s Google him and find out.” Harlow set her glass on the coffee table and jumped up to retrieve her laptop from her bedroom. Once she sat back down, we typed his name in and clicked 'search'. Page after page after page popped up on the guy.

“Sweet Lord in Heaven,” she breathed out. “Navie, that dude is seriously fine. I’m talking stupid fine. Jesus, girl, that’s your new boss?”

“All right, simmer down,” I grunted as I clicked on the first link.

“That’s where I know his name!” Harlow shouted. Good Lord, that woman didn’t do anything quietly when she was excited. Her exuberance reminded me so much of my foster brother’s adopted daughter, Willow. That little girl only had two volumes--loud and deafening shrill. “Rowan Locklaine is the author of the Broken series.”

“The what series?”

She looked at me like I’d just admitted to hating Sons of Anarchy and thinking Charlie Hunnam was icky.

“Are you serious, right now? The Broken series is only the best murder/mystery series to be written ever, since the beginning of time.” She ignored my little snort, laughed and continued on. “He’s the number one New York Times best seller. The man is legen… wait for it… dary.”

“First of all,” I started, holding up one finger. “No more How I Met Your Mother marathons. And secondly, I’ve never heard of him. I’m not a big murder/mystery fan. Sorry.” I gave her a shrug that said anything but sorry.

“Ugh!” she grunted in frustration, “Whatever. The guy’s an icon, and hot as hell apparently. And you get to work for him,” she squealed, bouncing up and down on the couch, causing me to nearly fall off.

“Cut it out. Look at this,” I said, pointing to one of the most recent articles posted about Rowan Locklaine. “Apparently, he got into a Twitter fight with a reader who left him a bad review.”

“What? Let me see?” Harlow snatched the laptop from my hands and began reading the article I’d pulled up. Her face scrunched up, her top lip curling as her eyes moved back and forth. “Oh…oh…ohhhhh, that’s not good.”

“What?” I asked anxiously. “What’s not good?”

“Well, it looks like this guy’s kind of a douche.”

“Fantastic,” I harrumphed, flopping back on the couch. “I get to work for an asshole. Just what I need.”

“Jeez, Navie. There are pictures of this guy everywhere. Drunk in public, getting into a fight in public, having sex in public. Damn, doesn’t the dude do anything in the privacy of his own home?” Her head tilted to the side, her eyes squinting as she studied a picture intently. “Wow, he’s got some serious upper body strength.”

I sat up and slapped the lid of the laptop shut so I wouldn’t be subjected to a visual of my boss having sex. Serious upper body strength or not, that was just something I didn’t need to see, even if he was fine as all get out.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admitted sullenly. “How the hell am I supposed to keep a job working for a man like that? I’ll be fired within a week!”

“Stop,” Harlow demanded, propping one leg up on the couch so she could face me full-on. “None of that. You’re awesome, and you’re going to kick ass at this job.”

“Harlow—”

Her hand shot out and slapped over my mouth. “Nope, none of your negativity. You’re going to be fantastic, and Rowan Locklaine isn’t going to know how he survived without you.”