Hard Deal. Stefanie London
ELEVEN
AS FAR AS Imogen Hargrove was concerned, this week could take a long walk off a short pier. Or go into space and take its helmet off. If she was a potty-mouthed kind of woman, she might’ve had a few more words to employ in explaining exactly how much she’d hated this week.
But alas, she could taste the soap in her mouth before any four-letter words had the chance to form.
“Breathe,” she said to herself as she tidied her desk. “The day is almost over.”
Most days she loved her job. Being an executive assistant to the CEO of the most respected architecture and construction firm in Australia had its perks. Like getting to work with a host of amazingly talented, smart and passionate people. Not to mention the little blue box that appeared on her employment anniversary every year.
But today had been the cherry on top of a giant pain-in-the-butt sundae. Not only had she managed to spill her morning cappuccino all over herself, but then she’d missed the start of the management meeting because she’d been frantically trying to get the stain out. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, except that her arch-nemesis had swooped in and made her look disorganised by handing out the wrong agenda. Imogen was positive he’d done it on purpose. Then—like a sign from the gods that she really should have stayed in bed—her boss had demanded she shuffle his entire afternoon five minutes before he was due to present at the finance team’s quarterly town hall.
Thank God Jason had been able to step in. Imogen bit back a smile as she thought of the CEO’s son. Apart from being a total hottie, he was being groomed to take over the company. Good looking and ambitious, traits that went together like peanut butter and chocolate as far as she was concerned. Chances were she’d be working for him. Intimately. All the long hours and late nights trapped together in the office sounded like a scene straight out of one of those raunchy books her friend Lainey loved to read.
You could do with something a little raunchy in your life. You’re one bad date away from becoming a born-again virgin.
Ugh. How was it her fault the dates she’d been on recently had less snap, crackle and pop than her morning bowl of Rice Bubbles? She’d tried to be funny and interesting and cute enough for a guy to take her to bed...but either she was picking the wrong guys, or she had no idea how to be any of those things.
She brushed her hands down the grey pencil skirt that covered her knees and matched the pearls around her neck. Her friends teased her for her “limited colour palette” but Imogen knew what worked for her. Monochrome made her mornings easier. Besides, it was important to look professional. She had a feeling Jason would appreciate that about her.
“What’s got you looking so dreamy, Imogen? Wait, don’t tell me.” Caleb Allbrook sauntered into her office with a swagger that made Imogen’s thighs automatically press together. “Daydreaming about me again?”
Then there was the CEO’s other son. The one who managed to get her feminine hormones singing like an opera of canaries at full volume even though he was bad news in every sense of the word.
The guy was trouble enough for an entire Taylor Swift album.
“I can barely restrain myself,” she said drily, not even attempting to keep the disdain out of her voice. “You should leave before I throw myself at your feet. It would be best for us both.”
Caleb raised a brow. He was as handsome as his brother, without a doubt. But whereas Jason was all serious, moody glances and smooth, in-command tones, Caleb was his polar-opposite. The younger Allbrook brother was always quick with a snappy comeback, and he didn’t take anything or anyone seriously. The guy oozed so much sex appeal he should be listed as a controlled substance. He was cocky as all get-out and most women in the office swooned whenever he walked past, which only inflated his giant ego further.
“Who am I to turn down a woman in need? Should I close the door or do you want an audience?” He wrapped a hand around the doorknob and waited for her response.
It was times like this that Imogen wondered if she should start swearing, because it seemed like the perfect time to use the F-word. Preferably with either a “you” or “off” following it. “What do you want, Caleb?”
His full lips curved into a wicked grin and Imogen had to tamp down the excitement zipping through her. Dammit, when was her body going to get the memo on this one?
Caleb Allbrook is not your type. It doesn’t matter if you never have another date in your life, he’s not for you.
“A moment of your precious time, Ms. Hargrove.” He walked over to her desk and planted both palms on the smooth, wooden surface.
“Miss Hargrove.”
“Single and loving it, huh? Good for you.”
She oscillated between wanting to run her fingers through his thick, wavy hair and needing to slap him across the face with her binder. As usual. The guy was her kryptonite. In every other scenario, Imogen prided herself on her poise and level-headedness. On her ability to be the cool cucumber in a room full of ticking bombs. But around Caleb Allbrook, her brain cells packed their bags and flew on a one-way ticket to Fiji.
“Can we get to the part where you tell me what you need so I can do it and go home?” she said, huffing.
“It’s dangerous to agree before knowing what I’m going to ask.” He chuckled. “Okay, fine. Enough with the death stare. I need you to help me find the marketing materials from the fifty-year anniversary campaign.”
“Shouldn’t someone from your team be able to assist you with that?” She raised a brow. “I assume at least one of the people you hired will have the requisite technical skills to navigate our shared folder system.”
“Now, now. There’s no need to be snippy, Miss Hargrove.” He smirked. “And I need the originals, not the files.”
She groaned internally. That meant a trip to the archive room in the building’s basement. The CEO was paranoid about people having access to it. Something to do with a fire-related accident before her time that resulted in a ton of tax paperwork being lost. Never mind the fact that smoking was now prohibited in offices and that they had sprinklers and fire alarms in every section of the building. Oh, and technological advancements meant they had electronic copies of everything. Regardless, there were only three keys to the archive room in the whole company. The CEO’s, Jason’s and hers.
Caleb hadn’t made the cut.
“Does it have to be done now?” she asked, glancing at her inbox. Imogen had a rule about Friday afternoons: never leave the office with outstanding tasks on the to-do list. But today