The Player + The Pact = I Do (New York City Billionaires #2)

Chapter 2

TWO

Jules

If I were a betting woman, I’d wager that for most people reeling off their top ten most life-changing films, Pretty Woman doesn’t make the cut.

In my personal top ten, it’s the only entry.

I’ve replayed the scene when Vivian describes herself as a bum magnet a thousand times. Nothing had ever resonated so hard with me. I watched that film at twenty-five and immediately ditched my on-again-off-again boyfriend/late-night booty call.

Of course, the difference between me and Vivian is that I’m not a bum magnet, I’m an asshole magnet. Show me a guy who’s too handsome for his own good, has serious commitment issues and an inability to be faithful, and there I’ll be, pawing at him like a dog desperate for a scratch behind the ears.

On the flip side, if you’re a sweet, kind, faithful guy, I’ll happily go on a couple of dates with you, but soon enough, you’ll be giving me the ick when you pull out my chair or insist on getting the check.

I’m a mess.

From what I can see, there’s no cure, so I’ve resigned myself to a life of celibacy. Sort of. Maybe celibacy isn’t the right description. I can do the sex bit. I quite like sex. But actually try and have a committed relationship? Nope. I’m officially out.

All of that should make working for Leo Hart a lot easier than it actually is.

It’s not like I’m looking for a partner, a mate, a boyfriend. I’m absolutely not. The problem is, Leo is still as attractive as he was when I first met him at the party. Still dazzling. Still easy to get sucked into his vortex of bullshit if I’m not on high alert at all times.

He doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t realize that he’s the reason I spent the day after the party on the couch watching Pretty Woman . That’s the day I came to the conclusion that until I get de-magnetized from the assholes, I’m not interested in dating.

But thank god he doesn’t recognize me. If he did, there’s no way I’d have gotten this job. And this job—as Leo’s administrative assistant—is the job I need so I can get the job I really want.

My cell buzzes in my bag. I quickly check it—it’s a message from my mom, telling me she loves me. She sends the same message every day, and has since the first day I got a phone. She knows I won’t respond at work, but she tells me anyway. Her message is a reminder to keep my eyes on the prize, since, like her, I’ve spent the last decade working in hotels. I started in housekeeping, cleaning rooms in five-star hotels, just like her. I worked my way up to become deputy housekeeper before moving to events, then reception, where I eventually headed up the team.

I’ve worked concierge, waitressing, behind the bar. There’s no aspect of hotel work I don’t enjoy, no aspect of the business I haven’t studied up close and personal. I’ve seen it all—which is why I can see The Mayfair hurtling toward the drain if someone doesn’t replace the manager.

A little research revealed that Leo owns the place. After getting over the initial shock of finding out the guy I needed something from was the same guy who’d blown me off two years ago, I put my bruised ego to the side and got to work. I tried numerous times to contact him about taking on the role as manager of The Mayfair. I’ve emailed my résumé and sent it via snail mail. I’ve called, even turned up at his office and handed him my materials personally—well, not personally, since security wouldn’t let me through the lobby. But I watched someone place the résumé in an interoffice mail envelope and hand it off to a courier, so that’s something at least.

None of it has gotten me a response.

I get it; I never made it to college. I don’t have any previous experience managing a five-star hotel. But I know I’ll be good at the job.

I decided I needed a new way to get Leo’s attention. I applied for the open assistant role and sailed through the interview process. My plan is to work hard, gain Leo’s trust, then tell him to his face he needs to hire me as the new manager of The Mayfair.

I’m still in phase one of my plan: prove I’m trustworthy and capable.

“Jules,” the man in question shouts from his office. I roll my eyes, but stand and pick up my phone. I’m about to round my desk and go into his office when he bursts out the door, looking like he’s just gotten out of bed. His hair is ruffled, his shirt a little crumpled. The urge to nuzzle into his hard chest hits me like a bottle of Clorox to the head.

Fuck. I hate him. And I hate that I find him so completely attractive.

Eyes on the prize, Jules. Eyes on the prize.

“Have you heard anything about Hammonds?” he asks.

“The agency? You never deal with them. Were you expecting a call?”

He shakes his head. “I’m going to be awarded Developer of the Decade at the PI Awards and they’re sponsoring it. Which reminds me, can you call up Property International and get us a table? Then figure out which of the team is going to go.”

“A table for the awards ceremony. Got it,” I say. Leo only ever gives me half the information I need for any project he tosses in my direction, but I’ve gotten used to it over the last few months since I started. “And there are nine spaces for the team. Let me know who you want to attend and I’ll let them know.”

“Eight,” he corrects me. “Because you’re on the list.” He flashes me a smile that makes my insides melt like a bowl of ice cream abandoned in the sun. I look away, pretending I’m not affected at all.

I know he thinks he’s being a good boss by inviting me to an awards ceremony, but in fact he’s being the exact opposite. The last thing I want is to be anywhere near Leo Hart when I’m dressed up in heels and a tight dress. I definitely don’t want to see him in a tux. Day-to-day business casual is bad enough. But once we’re both dressed to the nines, I don’t trust myself not to do something embarrassing, like throw myself at him. Not in the slightest. I can handle it in the office. He’s a professional and so am I. There is definitely no flirting going on. And the job I want is always on my mind when I’m behind my desk.

But outside the office? I can’t really think about that.

I both appreciate and slightly resent Leo for being professional enough not to flirt with me. In the same way that I’m hardwired to be attracted to men like him—players, playboys, womanizers, philanderers—he’s hardwired to flirt, to reel women in, to make them feel good, to feel special, to want him. I should know. Flirting is Leo Hart’s superpower, even when he’s not the one in a superhero costume.

It’s good that he looks through me rather than at me. Yes, sometimes it’s a blow to my ego, but this is the way it has to be. If I want to keep this job—which I do, until I get the job I really want—I have to be just another non-sexualized cog in the wheel of Leo’s professional life. Like a desk chair with a heartbeat or day planner with a mind as sharp as a tack.

“So, there’s nothing about Hammonds in there?” Leo nods toward the open copy of Property International on my desk.

I have no interest in property development, but I need Leo to see that I’m great at my job, so I always scour the magazine to make sure I’m up-to-date with industry news. “It only just came this morning, so I haven’t had a chance to go through it all.” Why they send a hard copy of this thing, I have no idea. I also get a daily email.

Leo continues to stare at the magazine before stalking over to my desk, bringing with him the scent of freshly mown grass and crackling fires—totally incongruous with our location in the center of Manhattan. I’m sure whatever he needs is online. Must he need to come so close? “Did you do an online search?” I ask, hoping the idea will send him back into his office.

He stands next to my desk and flips through the pages of the magazine. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” he replies like it makes sense. “There’s just something in my gut that says… something over there has changed.”

“Oh,” I say, looking at the page he just turned to. “The awards.” A two-page spread on the awards ceremony is at the center of the magazine. Leo’s name is under Developer of the Decade and the Hammonds logo is front and center.

“Surely a different agency sponsors the awards every time?” I ask.

“Absolutely. But it’s never Hammonds because they’re too cheap.”

“Does it matter?” I ask.

He flips the page and takes a step back. I follow his eyeline, but it’s just more sponsored material about Hammonds. About how the CEO is retiring.

“Can you read it?” he asks, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He starts to pace in front of my desk.

I pick up the magazine, eyeing Leo, wondering whether he’s about to have some kind of breakdown. I’ve never seen him so ruffled. He’s usually put together, charming, unflappable.

“‘Hammonds CEO to step down in a changing of the guard,’” I say, reading the headline. I pause, and Leo glances up from his pacing. I continue: “‘Frank Hammond is retiring from the firm he founded in 1984. Grant Boden, his son-in-law, will relocate to New York from California, where he runs the West Coast office, to take over. Husband of Mr. Hammond’s eldest daughter, Caroline Hammond, Grant has worked at Hammonds since?—’”

I don’t get to finish my sentence before Leo turns back to his office and closes the door behind him.

Is Grant Boden some kind of rival? Archenemy? Have I stumbled on to some kind of real estate war?

I skim over the rest of the article, but it doesn’t say much. It’s basically a puff piece about how Hammonds is a vital part of the industry and has done loads of high-ticket deals. Who cares?

Apparently my asshole, overly attractive boss does. Which means I do. I need to solve whatever problem this creates for Leo. But first I need to find out what the problem actually is.