His Personal Assistant

Chapter 2

BPOV.

As with every other morning, I had to give myself a pep talk before work.

I was sitting in the cab of my red 1953 Chevrolet Pickup, steaming cup of coffee in one hand, in my parking space at Cullen International Corporation, muttering under my

breath like an honest to gosh nutcase.

"Isabella Marie Swan, you're lucky to have this job. So what if your boss is sexy as hell and clearly has no idea you exist? Just be glad you can afford the rent."

This was a valid argument. My lifelong friends, Alice Brandon and Rosalie Hale, had picked a fairly expensive converted warehouse as home. I would have been happy

moving in on my own, but Alice had taken a pact (made at five years-old) to move in together very seriously. And when Alice took something seriously, surrendering to her

wishes was the safest option.

The three of us were all twenty, and while they were both in their final year of studying, my business degree allotted a year of work experience between the second and

final years of studying. My grades had been good enough that I had won a mediocre secretarial position at CIC. I spent the first two months of work experience as Edward

Cullen's third Personal Assistant, running around after his dry-cleaning and coffee, and having no direct contact with the boss besides the occasional polite smiles in the

hallways.

While that may have been satisfying enough for someone else, especially considering the generous paycheck, it frustrated me that my studies weren't being put to use. Cullen

International was in the middle of a power transfer; its CEO, Carlisle Cullen, was trying to step down, dividing responsibility between his three sons, Edward, Jasper and

Emmett. With each son implementing new business strategies, shuffling staff around, and generally bringing the company into the modern age, I knew I could have more impact

then making Mr. Cullen's morning double-shot espresso.

However, any of the ideas I pitched to Lauren Mallory, Edward's Second Assistant, were ignored, so I chose to ignore her back. I uploaded a program that would filter emails,

contacts and appointments with increased efficiency without her permission.

Needless to say, Lauren took the credit, but when there was a problem with the computers and First Assistant Angela Weber asked Jessica to set up the program again, the

truth came out. It wasn't long before Lauren was negated to the tenth floor, and Angela and I became a team.

She would broker all personal contact with Edward, and I'd spend my time updating all the business systems that had previously been in place. By the end of another month, I

had increased the productivity of the office by 45% and Angela was in her third trimester and looking to begin her maternity leave.

When I found out that not only had she suggested to Edward that I take over as his main Assistant (without telling me), but that he had "readily agreed" I had spat coffee

halfway across my desk.

And now, sitting in my truck four months after beginning work at CIC, one month after becoming Edward Cullen's Personal Assistant, and two hours after having a vivid dream

where he pinned me down and planned to take my virginity, I knew I was in trouble.

I spent everyday pining after my boss, not just because he was gorgeous, but also because he was incredibly smart. The man was twenty-four, had graduated three years early

and was already more then capable to co-run a billion dollar company – and from what I could tell was also extremely fair and kind.

But my pathetic crush was even worse because, clearly, it was unrequited. Edward had never treated me with anything but professional politeness. He was a fair but demanding

employer, and though he would make the required small talk, he always kept things strictly work related.

My previous pep talk about being lucky to have the job was forgotten, and I banged my forehead against my steering wheel in despair. It did nothing to help, except now I was

pretty certain I'd have a headache. Apparently, I couldn't even do angst properly.

"Pathetic." I mumbled to myself, cradling my now sore head in my hands. And as if to prove my point, there was a respectful rap on my window.

"Miss. Swan?" Edward Cullen's velvet voice sounded concerned, possibly wondering why I was hunched over like an idiot.

Another perfect start to a perfect day.

I straightened up to see him wearing a navy blue suit, a stark white shirt, a blood red tie, and a politely puzzled expression.

And looking sexy as hell, don't forget that, I reminded myself sarcastically. Like I could ever bloody forget. He was leaning against his silver Volvo, in his parking spot right next

to mine, his expensive brief case in one hand.

Just another way Edward was the perfect employer – he had allotted parking next to his own, and allowed use of his private elevator, for myself and my Second Assistant,

based on the logic that we spent half our time organizing his office anyway.

I quickly took my coffee and handbag in one hand and reached for the door handle. He was there before I could, wrenching the rusting door open for me. I cringed at the sound

it made but shot him a quick smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen."

He smiled brightly at me in response (though how he could manage to be so chipper at 6:45 in the morning, not just this one – but every single morning – was beyond me) and

waited for me to precede him to his lift. We walked with a meter between us, and the only sound was the clicking of my heels on the concrete until we got into the lift.

"Was something the matter with your head?" He asked as he stabbed the top-floor button and looked at me mildly in the mirrored doors.

That was how he always looked at me – mildly, politely, and indifferently. No wonder my subconscious conjured a possessive, dominating Edward in my dreams – because the

idea of him looking at me with something other the professional distance in his green eyes would be a freaking miracle.

I blushed, as I thought about my dream, grateful that he would think it was in his response to his question, and then quickly blurted an answer. "No, no, that's just what I'm like

before I get my caffeine fix."

"Hmm, well I suppose there are harder substances to be addicted to then caffeine," he responded, in such a contemplative tone that I couldn't help but make another quip.

"Sure," I agreed, as we stepped off the elevator, "That's what my dealer tells me."

The stupidity of my joke made me internally wince, but I could have sworn I heard him snort in response behind me.