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Chapter Two
Benjamin
You’ve got to be kidding me.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I look at the schedule Isabella placed on my desk and groan. I lean back in my chair and unbutton the top of my collar and loosen my tie.
I don’t want to do anything today except sit in my office and read the mystery novel that popped up on my eReader this morning. It’s the latest from a favorite author so I preordered it last month. Yes, I would rather read than meet with any of the simpletons in this goddamn city. Regardless of the amount of pressure that I put myself on with work, I still do my best to find time to read every now and then. It keeps my brain fresh and my tongue sharp.
I have no desire to sit in a room with anyone and have a pissing contest over what the fuck ever they want to talk about. Unfortunately, keep my Fortune 500 company in the top 100, I have to put on a smile and shake hands with the elite of this business world.
“Bella!” I bellow into the empty space of my office.
I can hear the click-clack of her heels as she hurries across the space from her office to mine. She taps on the frame and opens the door, then her lithe body slips inside. She confidently walks across my space and comes to stand in front of my desk.
She’s beautiful.
Since she started working for me a few weeks ago, I’ve noticed other things about her, such as the bright blue color of her eyes that closely resembles Caribbean waters, a smattering of light freckles across her nose, and the small tattoo that lines her wrist under her watch or the bracelets that she wears. I’ve also catalogued some of her subtle mannerisms such as she purses her lips when she’s holding back something she wants to say, or she fiddles with her jewelry when she’s concentrating. I can pick up her moods by how her rosy lips situate during her different moods. I am able to differentiate when she’s happy, annoyed or biting her tongue in wanting to chastise me. Today, she is wearing a fitted black skirt and a tailored to perfectly fit her shapely breasts sapphire blue blouse. Her shoes, I notice are the same blue as well, matching. It’s something she does often: match her shoes and her tops.
“Yes sir?” Her voice is calm, hiding her nerves.
I rattle off a list of things I need from her before any of the meetings this afternoon takes place. Then I instruct her to attend the meetings with me, take notes throughout, and make sure my driver knows what I need this evening after my workout since I have a dinner with Mrs. Anthony afterwards. She takes meticulous notes on the notepad that the brings with her to all of our meetings. She then turns briskly to begin her tasks once it's clear I am finished.
My desk phone chirps, interrupting my not so professional thoughts about my assistant when Bella’s soft voice alerts me that the director of purchasing is waiting inside the conference room for my first meeting.
“I'll be there in a minute. Please make sure to send a message to Mrs. Anthony and remind her of our standing reservations this evening.”
I laugh to myself. She must think that Mrs. Anthony is my ‘Mrs. Robinson’, but the truth about her couldn't be more different. I've had a standing dinner with Mrs. Anthony, my late fiancée’s mother, once a month for the past ten years. I'm not sure why we still have them anymore since we never talk about her. I shake the thoughts out of my head. Why do I care?
A few minutes later, Bella enters the conference room across from my office and shows our colleagues to the medium-sized conference table. I stand and button my jacket before walking over from my office and taking my seat at the head of the table. All eyes are on me as I arrange my notepad and the reports that Bella printed off for the meeting. Bella sits opposite of me at the other end of the table, pen in hand and her attention forward as she waits for me to begin.
I nod my head at her, indicating go-time, and I dig into the company’s spending and office budgets.
An hour later, everyone leaves the conference room more solemn than they entered, as I cut purchasing spending for the remainder of the year. Bella hangs back and waits until the door clicks closed before she speaks up.
“If you don't mind me saying, sir…” she starts.
“I don't mind,” I say to her honestly. In that moment, I realize I don't when she gives it to me straight. This isn't the first time she has voiced her opinion and it certainly isn't the first time I've listened to her with interest. She has a mind for business, which I admire, and I appreciate her thoughts. It’s a bit strange though, since I don't allow anyone else to speak to me the way she does.
What is it about her?
“You know, you could move funds around in a lesser department and not cut the purchasing department’s budget. They operate at a fuller capacity than some other departments because they supplement everybody.” She bends over the table to retrieve scattered papers and pens from the conference room table, alerting my eyes to the movement and opening of her blouse. I can definitely see down her shirt, showcasing her breasts wrapped in black lace. I'm not completely dead. I notice these things.
“I could have, but I didn’t,” I say roughly as I stand, gather my materials, and cross the room to return to my office.
“Ben, you don’t always have to be a complete asshole to everyone.”
“I meant what I said. The budget is cut for the remainder of the year. I don’t want my family’s company, my legacy, to fall into the red, ever. We need to spend more wisely. I want a profit increase in each department with a budget and if I have to cut more line items within certain budgets, then I will. I would love it, if you didn’t always have to contradict my decisions.” The annoyance in my tone is clear.
“You asked me to be always honest with you—,” she starts, but I cut her off with a look that says not to cross me.
“Isabella, I would like for you to call Forest Deli and order sandwiches for the lunchtime meeting.” I only use her full name to indicate I’m done talking, which she has come to understand in our short time together.
* * *
After my last meeting of the day, I head straight to the gym. I wrap my hands in tape and step up to the punching bag. Raising my hands into a fighting stance, I toss a few single punches to the bag. I throw a left hook and then step back to switch my stance and do a right roundhouse kick. After twenty minutes of repetitive combinations of punches and kicks, adding in a few more here and there, I’m drenched in sweat. I finish off my workout by jumping on the treadmill and jogging three miles before I towel off and head to the locker room to shower and head to dinner.
