Crash

CHAPTER THREE: ALEX

This temp's going to be a problem, and it's the last thing I need tonight.

For one thing, she doesn't seem like she's capable of performing the job. Not due to the way she spilled coffee on me, because hell, that was my fault. And it's not the tone of her voice, nor that snark she displayed when she asked whether I could tie my own tie.

No, there's something about her that doesn't seem qualified as an assistant. Like she hasn't been trained in dealing with the flow of an executive office. I can tell by the way she's pussyfooting around the place. It's puzzling. Usually the agency sends over confident women who have loads of experience.

Why the hell did my regular PA decide to go on vacation this week?

I take the tie from her and loop it around my neck. "Of course I can do it myself. See?"

She scrutinizes me with an adorable little frown as I loop the silk fabric around itself. This woman is distractingly pretty. But I can handle that. I'm not a Neanderthal. At least not outwardly. I'm rather complicated when it comes to women. I'm both Atlanta's most eligible bachelor (according to Peachtree Magazine) and "something of an overgrown fuckboy" (according to a woman I'd met in a bar recently).

The latter detail is one thousand percent false, but as I've come to realize, a rakish reputation—even a false one—is difficult to live down.

Despite all this, or maybe because of it, I have rules.

Not screwing an employee is one of those rules. It doesn't matter that Evie's eyes are as blue as the Caribbean, or how her pink lips pout as she watches me; I'm not getting involved with a subordinate—even one who is here temporarily. And I need to stop flirting and joking with her, for Christ's sake. I approved the company's new sexual harassment policy last week.

"Wait, no. That's crooked." She waves my hands away and undoes the tie while shaking her head. She reties it and straightens the knot at my throat. "There. You look way better than before."

What the hell does she mean by that? Save the snappy comeback, Jenkins . . .

"Thank you," I say briskly, trying to steer this situation back into something resembling an orderly office environment. "Now. Let's go over what I need for the next hour while Gram, ah, Eleanor, is here." I step behind the desk and point to one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk from me. "You're going to sit there. Eleanor will be there." I stack some papers hastily.

"Mr. Jenkins, I need to tell you, I'm not your assistant." She remains standing, behind the leather chair.

I raise my hands in a WTF gesture. "Then who are you? A woman off the street who enjoys spilling scalding coffee on men and showing off her Windsor knot talent?"

"Technically, you spilled the coffee on me. On my work sweater."

I pause to grind my molars together while I let everything sink in. Maybe I didn't hear her correctly, so I'll start fresh with an olive branch of kindness. "And I apologize for that. The coffee spill was my fault, I'll be sure to dry-clean your sweater. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." Good lord, this woman's attractive. Normally I don't like women with shorter hair, but the way hers brushes against her graceful neck? Hell, I could stare at that for hours.

"Did you say . . . work sweater?" I narrow my eyes.

"It's freezing on my floor. Subzero. You should really fix that. I keep a sweater here so I don't get frostbite." Her eyelashes are long and alluring. "And it would probably save the company money if you bumped the thermostat up a degree."