Wanting My Assistant

Chapter 8

   My fingers rub my temples, staring at a copy of the second floor layout. I can't focus though. My mind too focused on Dawson.

   I snapped at my boss. I accused him when he did nothing wrong.

   All he wanted me to do was paint him something. I'll do it. To make it up to him. I'll give it to him for free.

   I shouldn't have done what I did.

   He probably is fuming with anger upstairs. Yelling into the phone to put out new job applications for a new assistant because I snapped at him.

   My fingers tighten around the mechanical pencil in my hand, trying to trace out the layout to make everything look good. He hasn't called down for a coffee once. He's totally going to fire me. I deserve it. All he wanted was a stupid painting from me, of the city. And I blew up on him for offering more money than my mind could comprehend.

   Do most people freak out over $100,000? I don't think so. He was just joking around. I took it too far.

   The elevator doors open and I sigh, my head pounding with a horrible headache as I stare at Dawson's handwriting. I can read it. But it's not easy. Changing things around and adding some details in.

   It's been at least a good couple hours since I walked out of Dawson's office. He's probably pissed at me.

   I let my head fall into my hands, the pencil in my hand dropping to my desk as I let out a groan. A gentle knock echoes through my tiny office and I let my eyes close, messaging my temples to try and sooth the pounding.

   "Come in." I call as softly as I can.

   The door opens, the sound of dress shoes clicking against the floor. Then they stop. In front of my desk. I pull in a deep breath and freeze. Rich cologne and spices. Shit. Dawson.

   He's come to fire me.

   "I'm sorry."

   "I apologize—"

   My head shoots up from my hands to stare at my boss. Shock pulling my thoughts. He's looking at me like he has a headache too, his hair a little misplaced and shoulders dropped. My brows furrow at his cut off apology.

   My eyes flicker down to his hand and widen. He's holding two one hundred dollar bills. "What?...I don't understand." I mumble, looking back up at him. His dark red eyes aren't firm, or flaming with anger. They're calm, soft. "If I pay you beforehand, can I still get my painting?" He asks and shock courses through my body.

   "I thought you were firing me—"

   He chuckles and I stop my sentence short. His laugh is so smooth and rich, raspy too. Deep. It's soothing in a way that makes my headache start to fade.

   "I didn't mean to hit a nerve up in my office. I apologize for making you jump to conclusions." He states, standing in front of my desk looking down at me completely calm. He doesn't care that I snapped at him? Scowled at him? Rolled my eyes? Walked out?

   "I shouldn't have pressed the issue. My apologies."

   "No," I mutter, shaking my head with a sigh, "No, it's my fault. You were joking around and I just—I don't know. But I'm sorry." My voice is tired, my headache returning.

   My fingers find their way to my temples again, rubbing them in gentle circles. The green cash is offered to me, the money held by Dawson's large, veiny hand. "Will you still paint the city for me?" He asks gently.

   "I'll do it for free—to apologize for my unprofessional behavior." I bargain, looking up to meet Dawson's eyes again. He shakes his head, setting the money carefully down in front of me.