I mumbled a question, her hand over my lips muffling each word.

“Huh?”

Shoving her hand from my mouth, I rolled my eyes and repeated the question. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

“Impossible,” she said confidently. “There’s no way anyone in the world can’t like you. You’re so tiny and adorable,” she finished in a baby voice while pinching my cheeks.

“Gah!” I laughed while batting her hands away. “Stop, asshole! That hurts.”

She wouldn’t give up. Her cheek-pinching quickly turned into tickling until I was rolling around, trying my hardest to get away as I laughed hysterically.

“Not until you admit you’re going to rock that shit!” she demanded, her fingers digging into my side, eliciting a high-pitched squeal from me.

“Stooooooop!”

“Say it!”

“I-I’m gonna rock this s-shit!” I yelled through giggles.

Harlow finally stopped her attack with an enthusiastic, “Yeah, you are! Now, let’s go shopping in my closet for something to wear on your first day. You’re going to have that douche-y, sexy-as-sin exhibitionist eating out of the palm of your hand before the day’s over.”

Two more glasses of wine later, Harlow and I had managed to relocate every article of clothing from her closet onto her bed. It took a thousand and one failed attempts, but we finally managed to pull together a cute outfit that somehow fit me--a soft, swishy, pleated skirt the color of coral and a sheer aqua top with a matching lace camisole underneath. Matched with a pair of her tan peep-toed heels, it said sassy without coming across as unprofessional.

By the time I fell into my bed, slightly buzzed, I felt much more confident. I was going to be the best damn personal assistant there ever was. And Rowan Locklaine wasn’t going to know what hit him.

“Best assistant ever. Best assistant ever. Best assistant ever.” I repeated the mantra over and over, trying my best to psych myself up as I stared at the cream-colored, wooden door before me.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, I gave myself one last mental high-five and lifted my hand to knock. Then I waited… and waited… and waited some more. Pulling my phone from my purse, I opened the text Lauren had sent that morning, double checking that I’d gotten the address right. Sure enough, I was in the right place. I’d woken up an hour early that morning just so I could Google the directions and plan which route to take from Murray Hill to Rowan’s opulent building on the Upper East Side. I had the right address, the right apartment number, and a quick glance at my watch showed I was even a little early. Lauren said to be there at 8:30AM. It was only 8:20. I made great time.

I knocked again, a little louder that time, just in case he hadn’t heard the first one. I waited for a few seconds, my ear pressed to the cool, wooden surface, trying to hear any sounds of life on the other side, when a loud bang followed by a muffled curse caused me to jump back.

“What!” Rowan barked as he yanked the door open, looking absolutely edible in all his sleep-rumpled glory. I tried my hardest not to drool at the sight of his bare chest and all its chiseled perfection, but that proved to be a daunting task when all that warm skin was right there in my face.

“Uh… um…,”I stuttered, my mind having jumped ship the second the door swung open.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Rowan growled. At second glance, maybe he didn’t look all that yummy. That intense glower on his face knocked his handsomeness down a few points while spiking my anxiety at the same time.

“It’s 8:20. Well, technically 8:23, since it took you a while to answer the door. But I can see now that was because you were sleeping,” I blurted, unable to stop the word vomit that nervously flowed from my mouth. “Lauren texted me to be here at 8:30. I’m a little early… sorry,” I added with a shrug that I hoped conveyed my apology.

“Oh, Christ,” he mumbled, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Just… just stop talking, for the love of God.”

“Sorry,” I said again, making sure to whisper.

“Baby,” a feminine voice called from behind the door. I couldn’t see who had spoken, but judging by Rowan’s dramatic eye roll and under-his-breath ‘fuck me’, I was willing to bet he’d forgotten all about his overnight guest.

My eyes narrowed as I watched a red tipped, manicured hand snake over his bare shoulder and down his chest. “Baby, who’s here?”

At those words, the door pulled open all the way, revealing a statuesque blonde wearing nothing but a men’s button-down shirt, with only a few buttons done up, revealing an uncomfortable amount of skin.

“Well, this isn’t awkward or anything.” I laughed awkwardly.

“Who are you?” the woman asked snidely.

Jeez, the chick was so gorgeous she could have been a model… or maybe she was. Lord knew she had perfected the resting bitch face required in that industry. “Uh…” I mumbled, trying my best to formulate an educated response that didn’t involve a bunch of finger-twitching, hair-tossing, and ‘oh, no, you didn’t’s’.

“Time to go, Stephanie,” Rowan answered in my place.

“It’s Bethany,” she hissed furiously.

“Yeah, sure,” he responded drolly. “Last night was fun. I’ll call you.”

Oh, man, if she hadn’t been such a raging hemorrhoid, I might have felt a little bad at the epic brush-off she just received. Bethany stomped off into the apartment, her feet slapping against the hardwood floors as she went. Once she was out of sight, I heard the sound of something shattering, no doubt something expensive, and no doubt on purpose. My skin began to feel itchy from the discomfort of having to stand on the other side of the threshold, Rowan’s icy gaze boring into me while his one-night stand trashed his apartment.

It wasn’t until Bethany came back into sight, yanking her shirt over her flat-as-a-board stomach and too-perfect-to-be-natural breasts that our odd, one-sided staring contest finally ended.

“You’re an asshole,” she seethed as she hopped from foot to foot, sliding on her undoubtedly expensive heels.

“So I’ve been told… many times,” Rowan replied drily.

With a shove past both of us, Bethany stormed down the hall toward the elevators, leaving us there, standing in silence.

“Sooo,” I drug out with another nervous laugh.

Rowan let out a huff and reached over, snatching something from what I could only assume was a table by the door… seeing as I was still standing outside of the apartment.

“I need you to pick up my suit from Sal’s Cleaner’s,” he said, slapping a dry cleaning receipt into my hand. “Then I’ll need you to get me a venti Americano with two raw sugars and a splash of skim milk, not half and half, skim milk.” He spoke slowly, like I was a mentally challenged eight-year-old. “And a low-fat blueberry scone from The Bean on 85th and Park. Not the one on Lexington, that place is shit.”

I stood in complete silence, my mouth hanging open as I tried to process what the hell was happening.

“You got all that, or you need me to write it down for you?” he asked snidely.

I snapped my mouth shut and narrowed my eyes into glaring slits, trying my damnedest to set him on fire with my eyeballs. No such luck. “I got it,” I answered between clenched teeth.

“Great. Well, hop to it, then.”

With that, the door was rudely slammed shut in my face and I was left honing some newfound murderous tendencies.

It was official.

I hated my job.