I’d become a little more social during high school with the introduction of hormones and the realization that I’d actually have to speak to girls to get them to sleep with me. This practice had continued much through my younger twenties until I had been labeled as the wild child of the Cavenaugh clan.

That had made my dear old dad incredibly happy. Rather than reading me the riot act, he’d turned my misconduct into something he could use, and suddenly, I had become the public face for our company.

I’d felt used and swindled.

I hadn’t wanted to be the face of anything, and wasting away at galas and charity auctions had felt like a slow descent into hell. But, for my father, I was exactly where I should be.

“Cute but dumb.”

But, now, I had all the time in the world to prove him wrong—if I could just concentrate.

Looking out the tiny peephole in my door—my dad’s idea, not mine, I watched my new assistant sit at her desk, staring at a cup of coffee. She appeared forlorn and lost.

Join the club, babe.

With one last glance in her direction, I walked away, back to my desk.

A different man would go out there and tell her to hold her chin up or say something to make her feel he was worth the onslaught of what was to come being a devoted assistant to someone like me.

But I wasn’t him.

A better man would have told her to not bother and join the rest of the herd. Defending me wasn’t worth her time.

But I wasn’t that guy either.

And I had shit to do.

Sometime in the afternoon, after my eyes had started to go cross-eyed from the complex reporting I was in, there was a tiny knock at my office door.

Having never actually had someone knock on my door before, I found myself uttering out loud, “What the actual fuck?”

Isn’t this what I have an assistant for? To keep out the unwanted?

How long does bed rest last?

With anger rising near my temples, I stalked toward the unfamiliar sound and pulled back the door in one swift movement. There, on the opposite side, was my new assistant, looking short and timid, as I nearly breathed fire at her.

“Um, hi, Mr. Cavenaugh. Sir. Yes, I, uh,” she stammered on.

My fingers gripped the door harder.

“Phone,” I responded.

“Sorry?”

“The phone. There’s an intercom button on it. Use it,” I said, each word clipped and concise.