Holidays with the Billionaire

Chapter 1

Adlee

––––––––

W hat. The. Actual. ..

I stare in disbelief at the computer screen.

How did I not get the job? I’m way more qualified than Lea Jordan. She can’t even remember how to submit the monthly report, always asking me for help—after the deadline. Every. Single Month.

Yet, she gets the job? How?

“Problem, Phillips?”

I look up in annoyance as my friend, Gabe, leans nonchalantly on the edge of my cubicle, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, his dark, sculpted eyebrow perched in question.

“Mind ya business,” I mutter, turning my monitor away from him. It would have been a lot more satisfying to have a laptop to snap shut.

He comes around the cubicle and stands in front of my desk—you know, since I don’t have enough room for a chair in this prison cell they call a workspace. “What’s your deal?”

I’m so pissed off, I just let it rip. “How the hell did Lea freaking Jordan get the job instead of me?”

A smirk plays on his lips, his brown eyes narrowing in amusement. “Um, because she has big tits and flirts a lot? Not that she flirts with me, but still...”

“Well, you’re not her type, so don’t be so insulted.”

Gabriel Jose Aquino has perfectly flawless Filipino skin and thick black hair shellacked into a purposefully messy ’do. Still, he flicks his head, an old habit from having hair in his eyes all through high school because it was the style, even though his hair doesn’t move now. “You’re right. Mr. Fox is more my type. Gawd, that man is beautiful.” He looks off wistfully.

“I don’t think you’re his type.” I snort.

Gabe sets his coffee on my desk for the sole purpose of punching both fists onto the hips of his dark-blue and too-tight dress slacks. “Excuse me, bitch. Let a boy dream.”

A smile I can’t help lifts my lips and I have to bite it back.

Gabe picks up the coffee cup and hides his own smile behind it as he lifts it for a sip.

Probably two pounds of sugar in that thing...

“Well, when you’re done dreaming, you’re going to have to help me start job hunting. Screw this place. They don’t deserve me. I’m quitting as soon as I find something better. They can’t pass up a more qualified person because she’s better looking.”

Gabe scowls at me. “She’s not better looking. She has bigger tits and has the whole dizzy, dumb blonde thing going for her.”

“I know.” I sigh. “It’s not fair. On top of not getting the job, they’re not replacing Lea and I bet I’ll be doing her job working for Mr. Adams in Marketing along with dickhead Laskin! And do you think I’ll get a raise? Hell no.” I run a hand over my long, dark tresses, resisting the urge to pull my hair. “I deserved that promotion, dammit.”

He places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “I know you did, honey. I mean, is working for Mr. Laskin so bad?” He purses his lips to keep from laughing.

I groan and slam my head onto my arms that are resting on the desk. “The worst.”

Jerrold Laskin is a sixty-seven-year-old married father of two and grandfather of four, with an annoying and needy wife named Muriel who calls him nonstop, and a penchant for not keeping his eyes on my face when he talks to me. Here at Fox Investments, he’s the chief financial officer—CFO. He controls the money and somehow thinks he controls the world on top of it. Snapping—yes, literally snapping his fingers—when he wants coffee. Or anything else. Any minute now, I’m waiting for him to holler from his office for one thing or another. I should have my own space outside of his office, but instead, I’m stuck in this erected cubicle along with the rest of the employees, alongside marketing and accounting people like Gabe. It’s not fair. I was supposed to get the promotion to be Mr. Fox—the CEO’s—personal secretary, where I would have had my own damn office. His previous one retired, a woman who’d worked for Mr. Fox’s father before him, and now they are in need of a replacement. One they will regret choosing Lea Jordan for. I will enjoy watching her go down in flames, and Gabe and I will howl in laughter and dance on her ashy corpse.

I want to wring my hands together like Felonious Gru. I shall enjoy watching your fall!

Gabe snaps in my face. “Earth to Adlee!”

I sigh. “Sorry. I was just picturing Lea being burned at the stake.”

He grins. “Nice.”

“What am I gonna do?” I whine. “I can’t do this anymore. I wanted that promotion so bad. It’s not fair.”

Gabe whips a hand in the air. “Babe, life’s not fair. Maybe you should flirt with Mr. Kelton Foxy next time you see him. Show some cleavage. Lick your lips and waggle your eyebrows.”

“I think you need to go back to school for flirting, ’cause that ain’t it.”

He snorts. “Maybe for your... kind.”

“Men are men.”

He snaps his fingers. “Oh no, girlfriend. No, they’re not. You obviously don’t watch my TikToks.”

He lifts his chin, turns, and saunters out of my cubicle.

A s I sit in the breakroom eating my salmon salad, I regret looking up when Lea Jordan enters.

“Hi!” she says with a bright white smile, waving enthusiastically.

I force a grin and say nothing. When her back is turned, I roll my eyes like a thirteen-year-old.

Fuck her.

To my horror, after grabbing her lunch from the fridge, she plops down at the seat across from me. I make a dramatic gesture of looking around the huge breakroom and the other two very empty tables where she could have sat.

“Whatcha eatin’?” she asks, opening up a container with what looks like soy noodles. She begins to eat them cold. Of course she can eat noodles and still look like that, while I choke down a salmon salad because if I gain another pound, my ass will start screaming.

I tip my bowl toward her and go back to reading the book on my phone. Dark romance fits my dark mood, and I really hope this guy either kills the main character or fucks her. Or both.

“So, I got the promotion to Mr. Fox’s secretary! Can you believe it?”

I deadpan at her. Read the room, blondie. I’m not happy for you .

“Congrats.” I force another smile.

“Thanks!” she chirps, swirling her fork into her cold noodles. “So, I will probably need your help with some stuff. They said I needed to be proficient—whatever that means—in spreadsheets, so I said I was.” She pauses her fork at her lips and whispers loudly. “Newsflash. I’m not.” Then, she proceeds to giggle like she just solved the mystery of why the Titanic sank.

Is this chick for real?

I say nothing, going back to my phone and the book I was so rudely interrupted from.

“Then, the monthly report. I don’t know why I can’t get the hang of that dang thing. You’ll help me with that, won’t you?”

My blood boils and I contemplate getting up and moving to an empty table, but I know the bimbo will follow me. So I ignore her.

“Adlee, did you hear me?” she says, trying to sound stern but she just sounds more air-headed.

“What?” I snap. “I already help you with the monthly report. I’m not going to anymore. You got the promotion, figure it out for yourself.”

I grab my salad and phone and stomp out of the breakroom like a petulant child. How dare she ask me for help. She can freakin’ figure it out.

She calls after me but I ignore her, taking my food to my desk so I can sulk in private.

I dig my emergency Cool Ranch Doritos out of my bottom drawer and proceed to stuff three into my mouth. Screw that salad, I need comfort food.

“I deserve this,” I mutter to myself maniacally as I chew. As I’m reaching into the bag for three more, I hear a throat clearing.

The chips pause at my mouth, and I swallow the remainder of them down. Hard.

I set them down and my face flames. “Mr. Fox.”

My mouth goes dry as the CEO and owner of Fox Investments stares down at me. His eyes are the exact color of the sky on a clear day, and his light-brown hair is styled in a professional cut. He sneers at my big blue bag of junk food, then back at me with disgust. “Lunch of champions.”

I fluster. “Oh, no. I had a salad, and—”

He walks away before I can explain—justify—my use of empty calories and bioengineered food ingredients as comfort.

Wow, what a jerk. Maybe I should be grateful Lea got the job.

No! I refuse. I already work for a jerk. I could have worked for someone less jerk-like and easier on the eyes such as Kelton Fox. No one’s worse than Mr. Laskin. No one.

I sigh and put the Doritos away, then go back to my sad, gross salad. Did I mention I hate fish? Yes. Yes, I do. But if I have to eat any more grilled chicken, I’m going to throw my lunch through the window. Why couldn’t I have been born thin and perfect?

“Adlee!” I hear Mr. Laskin yell—and snap—from his office.

“I’m freaking eating,” I grumble under my breath. “Do I not get a damn lunch break? Am I not technically off the clock?”

Ignoring him is an exercise in futility. He’ll just yell louder until I run to him like a dog.

I wipe my hands and mouth on a napkin, get up, and walk around my cubicle and to his office door.

I plant a smile on my face. “Yes, Mr. Laskin?”

“I need the office Christmas party budget.”

Shouldn’t you be asking Accounting for that...?

Instead of saying it aloud, knowing I can ask Gabe, instead I reply, “Sure, I can get that for you. Anything else?”

“Yes, I want a detailed budget. Not some aggregate number without itemization. I need to know where every penny is going to be spent. Every penny! Do you hear me, Adlee?” He smacks his palm on the desk. “Every. Single. Cent!”

“Yes, Mr. Laskin.”

You should think about retiring, you cranky fucker.

Again, I keep that to myself. “Anything else?”

“No. Get out.”

Gladly.

I close his door so he doesn’t subject any more employees to his grumpiness and keep walking when I hear he demand I leave the door open. I pretend I didn’t hear him.

I wander to Gabe’s cubicle.

“Whatcha need, babe?” he asks, turning from his computer.

I stare at his tie and squint my eyes. How did I not notice that before?

I point, stuttering. “Are-are those... two people going at it?”

He looks down and lifts the dark-blue tie with what appears to be the pattern two people—ambiguous bathroom-style stick figures—doing it doggie style, standing up, 69, everything you could imagine littered all over the tie. He smiles. “Yep.”

I cock my head to the side. “Why?”

He chuckles and lets it fall to his chest. “Because I can, and only cool people will notice it. Welcome to the club.”

Frowning, I say, “I was already in the club.”

“True. What do you need?” he asks.

“Christmas party budget,” I reply. “I really don’t know why he has me being the middle man when he could call Accounting in there personally. And by Accounting, I mean you.”

“Because that old fart wants to feel important, and having a ‘secretary’ makes him feel that way.”

He’s not wrong. “I hate that title. So outdated,” I gripe.

“Yet, you applied for a position with the same title,” he quips, typing fast on his computer.

“You got me,” I reply, having no defense as he clicks buttons to send me the Christmas party budget.

“There. Email sent. Let me know how bad he balks at the booze budget.” Gabe chuckles. “We’re gonna need it this year to put up with these jerks.”

I blow out a breath. “You got that right.”