Typist #1 - Working for the Billionaire Novelist (Erotic Romance) by Mimi Strong Page A
Authors: Mimi Strong
Ads: Link
the place. The interior was larger and more sumptuous than I'd expected. An enormous chandelier made of antlers and a thousand tiny lights hung from a vaulted ceiling, lighting the spacious open-plan interior. To my left, a wood-burning fireplace that was large enough to walk into dominated one wall, with three good-sized sofas placed around the hearth, as well as chairs and wood side tables. To my right was a long dining table with a dozen tall-backed leather chairs, and beyond that was my dream kitchen.
My apartment kitchen, the one I'd had a hurried piece of toast at that morning, featured about six inches of working counter space, between the stove and refrigerator. This so-called “cabin” had a kitchen that could service a neighborhood restaurant.
The man buttering two slices of bread for a grilled cheese sandwich was not at all the type of boss I was expecting. I figured this mysterious novelist would be chubby, bald, and hunched—hobbit-like. Before I left home for the assignment, my mother and I had joked about me pushing a dresser in front of the door while I was sleeping at night, alone in the woods with some neckbeard goober.
A thought came to me, sharp and clear, like a voice in my head: He's the one who'd better barricade his room at night!
He had light hair, the kind of ash blond that hid gray hairs, and it was just long enough that it feathered at his temples. His hair was thick and his hairline came down low on his forehead, into a small widow's peak. His jaw was wide and square with a crease in his chin—the kind of handsome bone structure it would be a shame to hide under any more than a few days' stubble. His eyes were not the gray-blue you'd expect with his fair coloring, but a golden brown.
Did I know him? His face was familiar, as though he resembled a well-known actor, though I couldn't think of which one for the life of me.
He looked up from the grilling sandwich and smirked, seemingly aware I'd been checking him out. Being an author, he was probably good at observing people, plus he had life experience points on me. The crinkles around his eyes and the lines on his forehead would make him about forty or so. It was hard for me to guess his age, as I'd been hanging out with nobody but college students the last four years.
I wondered if all that life experience made him a better lover. We were to be working closely together for two weeks. I'd dismissed the idea of fraternizing with my boss, but now that I saw him, everything changed. He had no ring on his finger.
He was still looking at me, and smiling. Could he read my mind? I felt dirty and guilty, my cheeks growing hot as I blushed.
He flipped the sandwich, spanked it with the spatula, and said, “How fast are you?”
“Beg pardon?”
He nodded down at my hands, which I was wringing together nervously. “As a typist. How fast do you type?”
I spread out my fingers wide and stared at my hands, my prized tools. “One hundred words a minute, though my accuracy's better at about ninety.”
He quirked up one eyebrow. “Sometimes a slow hand's good. Sometimes hard and fast is the way to go. Or a mix.”
I held back my response for a second to think. The man was a bestselling novelist, who worked with words for a living. His double entendre was not an accident, not at all.
Oh, but I could give as good as I got. There was a reason my girlfriends got me to write their flirty emails and text messages for them, and why my nickname was Tori the Torrid .
I took a deep breath, leaned up against the counter so my cleavage showed at the top of my blouse, and said, “Some people would swear I'm ambidextrous. That's how good these hands of mine are.”
He mouthed the word wow and spanked the grilled cheese sandwich a few more times.
I said, “Thanks for making lunch. I am ravenous. That hike and my oh-so-awkward meeting with the moose worked up my appetite.”
He chuckled as he put the sandwiches on plates and led me over to the long
My apartment kitchen, the one I'd had a hurried piece of toast at that morning, featured about six inches of working counter space, between the stove and refrigerator. This so-called “cabin” had a kitchen that could service a neighborhood restaurant.
The man buttering two slices of bread for a grilled cheese sandwich was not at all the type of boss I was expecting. I figured this mysterious novelist would be chubby, bald, and hunched—hobbit-like. Before I left home for the assignment, my mother and I had joked about me pushing a dresser in front of the door while I was sleeping at night, alone in the woods with some neckbeard goober.
A thought came to me, sharp and clear, like a voice in my head: He's the one who'd better barricade his room at night!
He had light hair, the kind of ash blond that hid gray hairs, and it was just long enough that it feathered at his temples. His hair was thick and his hairline came down low on his forehead, into a small widow's peak. His jaw was wide and square with a crease in his chin—the kind of handsome bone structure it would be a shame to hide under any more than a few days' stubble. His eyes were not the gray-blue you'd expect with his fair coloring, but a golden brown.
Did I know him? His face was familiar, as though he resembled a well-known actor, though I couldn't think of which one for the life of me.
He looked up from the grilling sandwich and smirked, seemingly aware I'd been checking him out. Being an author, he was probably good at observing people, plus he had life experience points on me. The crinkles around his eyes and the lines on his forehead would make him about forty or so. It was hard for me to guess his age, as I'd been hanging out with nobody but college students the last four years.
I wondered if all that life experience made him a better lover. We were to be working closely together for two weeks. I'd dismissed the idea of fraternizing with my boss, but now that I saw him, everything changed. He had no ring on his finger.
He was still looking at me, and smiling. Could he read my mind? I felt dirty and guilty, my cheeks growing hot as I blushed.
He flipped the sandwich, spanked it with the spatula, and said, “How fast are you?”
“Beg pardon?”
He nodded down at my hands, which I was wringing together nervously. “As a typist. How fast do you type?”
I spread out my fingers wide and stared at my hands, my prized tools. “One hundred words a minute, though my accuracy's better at about ninety.”
He quirked up one eyebrow. “Sometimes a slow hand's good. Sometimes hard and fast is the way to go. Or a mix.”
I held back my response for a second to think. The man was a bestselling novelist, who worked with words for a living. His double entendre was not an accident, not at all.
Oh, but I could give as good as I got. There was a reason my girlfriends got me to write their flirty emails and text messages for them, and why my nickname was Tori the Torrid .
I took a deep breath, leaned up against the counter so my cleavage showed at the top of my blouse, and said, “Some people would swear I'm ambidextrous. That's how good these hands of mine are.”
He mouthed the word wow and spanked the grilled cheese sandwich a few more times.
I said, “Thanks for making lunch. I am ravenous. That hike and my oh-so-awkward meeting with the moose worked up my appetite.”
He chuckled as he put the sandwiches on plates and led me over to the long
Similar Books
