Three Mississippi

Count to three. Do not kill your boss.
And do not fall in love with him.

That's a good start, especially when you work for New York's most eligible bachelor with millions in one pocket and half of Manhattan's panties in the other. Not to mention those said pockets are always part of the most fitting suits any woman in the city would die to rip off.

I would love to tear these stupid suits apart, too. To strangle him on them.

Being Personal Assistant to Brandon Knox is walk through hell and back, usually ten to thousand times a day, seven days a week. Sadly for me, I have my reasons to put up with him. Which is where the counting comes in - to do his bidding, spare my teeth some gritting and not go nuts.

His blue eyes may be able to buckle your knees and mess with your head, but there won't be any wobbling knees or spinning head for me. At least not for any other reason than exhaustion and overwork. Or so I thought.

Because amidst all that counting, I forgot one important thing to count with.

Count to three. Do not kill your boss.
And do not, under any circumstances, fall in love with him.