Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 84219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84219 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“Let me take a quick look.”
Andy takes a seat at my desk, and after typing for less than a minute, the stupid machine starts printing.
“I’ve reinstalled the printer, so you shouldn’t have a problem again.”
“Thank you.” I gather the document and shred it, seeing as it’s no longer needed.
“You’re welcome.”
As Andy walks away, my phone starts to ring, and I quickly pick up the earpiece. “Yes, Sir?”
“Get Mr. Castro on the line,” Mr. Vitale orders before hanging up.
Taking a seat in my chair, I dial Mr. Castro’s number. The call goes through to voicemail, and as I leave a quick message, the ache in my shoulders intensifies from all the tension.
Checking the time, I notice it’s just turned five o’clock.
Thank God.
I quickly dial Mr. Vitale’s extension.
“Hm,” he answers.
“Mr. Castro wasn’t available. I left a message for him to return your call.”
“Hm.” The line goes dead, and I suck in a deep breath of air.
My boss has zero manners, and it aggravates me to no end.
Redialing his extension, I wait for him to answer with his usual grunt before I say, “It’s five o’clock, sir. I’m going home. Have a good night.”
Before he can grunt, I put the earpiece down, feeling a little burst of triumph for getting to hang up on him first.
I switch off my computer and gather my handbag from the bottom drawer where I keep it, but as I rise from my chair, Mr. Vitale’s door swings open, and he barks, “My office. Now.”
God. What now?
I place my handbag on my desk, and with tension coiling in my stomach, I head into the office, otherwise referred to by me as the chamber of wrath.
Mr. Vitale stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. He looks like a god, and his dress shirt and vest span tightly across his broad shoulders.
At the most random times, I’m struck with thoughts of how handsome the man is, but then he opens his mouth, and the unwelcome attraction disappears.
When he remains silent, I ask, “Sir?”
Without turning to look at me, he grumbles, “Mrs. Ross assured me you’re a hard worker.”
A confused frown furrows my brow.
Am I supposed to say something or keep quiet?
Keeping his arms crossed over his chest, he turns and levels me with an unforgiving look, instantly making me feel apprehensive and nervous.
“I’ve given you two weeks to settle into the position.” His eyes narrow on me and it makes me feel like I’m a petulant child who’s being scolded by the headmaster. “I don’t have time to waste, so if I ask you for something, I expect the order to be carried out instantly.”
“Andy had to reinstall the printer on my computer,” I explain, my tone tight from all the tension.
“I won’t tolerate excuses,” he snaps. “You’re employed as my personal assistant to make my life easier. If a problem arises, I expect you to solve it.”
Resisting the urge to cross my arms over my chest, I fist my hands at my sides and say, “Yes, Mr. Vitale.” I raise an eyebrow at the insufferable man. “Will that be all, sir?”
He shakes his head. “Your position isn’t nine to five.”
What?
He nods in the direction of the door, his tone harsh and clearly stating this topic is not up for discussion as he mutters, “If you have a problem putting in extra hours, you’re more than welcome to hand in your resignation.”
Anger begins to bubble in my chest, but I keep my expression respectful as I say, “I don’t mind working late, but I’d appreciate it greatly if you would notify me in the morning so I can cancel any plans I might’ve made for the evening.”
Plans? Ha. I live like a freaking hermit.
Still, it’s not something he needs to know. I just want him to show me respect and give me sufficient notice, so I don’t get my hopes up I’ll get to leave the office at five.
Mr. Vitale’s features tighten, and it looks like he’s a moment away from losing his temper, but then he gives me a curt nod. “For the unforeseeable future, I expect you at the office from seven a.m. to seven p.m.”
Twelve hours? The man is insane!
Turning his attention to the stacks of folders and paperwork on his desk, he mutters, “Don’t worry. You’ll be compensated for the extra time.”
Hearing I’ll be paid overtime makes my anger lessen. I could use the extra funds to pay off my credit card. The second-hand fridge I got when I moved to New York gave up the ghost the past weekend, and I was forced to go into debt to buy a new one.
“Do you need me to stay late tonight?” I ask.
Letting out an impatient huff, Mr. Vitale’s eyes snap to mine. “Yes. Get back to work.”
Leaving his office, I pull the door shut behind me. My stomach rumbles, a reminder I haven’t eaten anything today.