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“I am focused—on matters important to me,” he replies, his voice low as our eyes.
I stand up firmly. “Matters like your first meeting,” I assert, trying to steer the conversation back to professionalism.
Who am I kidding? While my exterior is clad in professional work attire, my mind is adorned in La Perla, yearning to be caressed by silken sheets.
“Exactly,” he agrees, but his gaze ensnares mine with an intensity so strong it leaves me momentarily breathless.
“You’re being naughty. Time to get to work, Mr. Sterling,” I chide.
I turn and leave his office with a new Guinness World Record for the widest grin; I think Mr. Sterling is falling head over cowboy boots for me.
Chapter 35
Poppy
"Knock, knock," Levi's voice precedes him as he peeks his head into my office.
Startled, I glance up. “Hey, come in.” My reply is hesitant, my eyes flicking back to the computer screen displaying a complicated web of international time zones. I enjoy some of my new tasks. Dare I say, orchestrating Julian's schedule can be relaxing at times. However, other parts feel like a Tetris game that I'm desperately trying to beat. Take this current project, for instance. He has a meeting requiring me to knit together people in four different time zones. It feels as complicated as learning a foreign language at the moment.
Levi wheels in a mail cart, a casual shrug on his shoulders. “Mail's here for the boss.”
“Oh.” I stand abruptly, a knot of confusion forming in my stomach. Debbie never mentioned handling the mail. Debbie never mentioned a lot of tasks. A new task isn't the issue. I need to add it to my schedule and ensure nothing is pressing about it.
I glance back at the screen, examining the time zones for partners in London, Sydney, and Los Angeles. Ugh, I need to finish this by today.
“Debbie usually sorts through it,” Levi says, catching my puzzled expression. “It comes on Mondays and Fridays unless anything’s marked urgent. There’s always a bunch of fancy handwritten invitations for charity events. The ones the boss can’t attend, Debbie hands to me for replies.”
I round my desk and pick up the first envelope. Its thick, heavy paper feels like luxury under my fingertips. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I say.
Glancing at my watch, I feel a pang of annoyance. This unexpected task is going to throw a wrench in my meticulously planned schedule. Resigned, I decide to skip lunch, nibbling on the leftover croissants instead, to sort through this pile.
“Thanks, Levi. You can take your lunch break. I’ll cover your phone and get started on this.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Levi's voice trails off as he exits.
I grab a croissant, the flaky crust crumbling deliciously with each bite. Guiltily, I imagine the calories piling onto my hips, but the taste is too divine to resist.
Sitting down, I dive into the mail cart. It feels invasive, opening someone else’s mail, but it’s part of the job.
Methodically, I separate the junk mail from the important mail that requires scheduling a meeting with Julian. I’ll need a few weeks to fully grasp what commitments he prefers.
The bottom of the cart holds a few packages. I open the first and can't help but laugh – it’s a magazine offering custom interior selections for private jets.
“This is insane,” I mutter to myself.
It strikes me then – I have no clue about Julian’s net worth. Not that it should matter, but considering the billion-dollar government contracts his family business holds, it's intriguing. And now, here he is, being targeted by high-end jet sales like it was just another Wednesday afternoon shopping spree.
Curious, I grab the magazine and hastily Google the price of the jet model being advertised. My eyes widen in disbelief. “Base price $80 million. Just take my soul, why don’t you.” I mutter.
“Is it up for sale?” Julian’s voice, smooth yet startling, causes me to whirl around. He's leaning against his office door, one leg casually crossed over the other. I feel a sudden hot flash as if menopause has hit me like a freight train.
If you are the devil, then yes, it’s for sale.
I stand up, holding the magazine out towards him. “This company seems to think so. Do you have $80 million? Because if you do, I want to hitchhike along on this private jet shopping trip?” I try to joke, but his serious face makes my heart race.
“Yes.” He deadpans.
“You mean the company has $80 million lying around.”
