Chapter 2

The stranger from the bar.

The man whose lips I had kissed like I owned them.

Matteo. Bloody. Russo.

I stopped breathing.

He looked up from the file in his hands, his expression unreadable cool, detached, corporate.

“Miss Hart, I presume?”

I froze.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give the slightest hint that he recognized me from the night before. No flare of amusement in those stormy eyes. No smug smirk. Just ice.

I opened my mouth, then closed it. My voice caught in my throat. “I… yes.”

He shut the file with a soft thud and set it aside like it bored him. Then he stood, tall and intimidating in his tailored navy suit, and came around the desk with that same panther-like grace I’d memorized the night before.

“You’re late,” he said curtly, glancing at his Rolex. “By seven minutes.”

I blinked. “I what?”

“You’ll find I value punctuality, Miss Hart. Especially in an assistant.”

“Assistant?” I repeated, my brain still short-circuiting.

“That’s correct. Didn’t you read the job offer? Or did you skim through it like you skim through basic self-control at a bar?”

My mouth fell open.

Did he just?

No. No way. That had to be a jab. A subtle, cutting one. He remembered me. He just wanted to watch me squirm.

I clenched my jaw. “Yes. Of course, Mr. Russo. Assistant. Got it.”

He walked past me, the scent of him woody and expensive brushing against my senses. He didn’t even look back.

“Come on,” he barked. “I don’t have all day.”

I followed him into the sleek conference room, where a leather chair and a notepad waited for me. I sat down as he tossed a thick stack of files in front of me.

“You’ll review, sort, and summarize these by noon.”

I stared at the stack. “All of them?”

He tilted his head, feigning concern. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, sir,” I said through clenched teeth.

He smirked. “Good. Because I don’t tolerate incompetence. Or excuses. Or whining.”

Asshole.

I smiled tightly and picked up the first file. Matteo sat at the head of the table, tapping away on his laptop like I didn’t exist. Occasionally, he’d bark out an order:

“Coffee. Black. Two sugars. No soy crap.”

“Print this. Double-sided. Staple it right.”

“Stop sighing like a teenager and work faster.”

I wanted to throw the files at his head.

Instead, I muttered under my breath, “Jerk.”

“What was that?” he said without looking up.

“I said I’m working on it, sir.”

He smirked again.

Ten minutes later, he tossed a stapler across the table. “Fix page three. It’s crooked. My five-year-old nephew could staple better.”

I didn’t even blink. “Well, maybe you should hire him then,” I whispered.

“Hmm?” he asked, arching a brow.

“Nothing, Mr. Russo.”

Cocky bastard.

He was enjoying this. I could feel it. He was toying with me testing me. Seeing how far he could push before I snapped.

“I don’t like perfume,” he added casually, wrinkling his nose. “Whatever you’re wearing is giving me a headache.”

I bit down on a groan. “Duly noted.”

“You might also consider a more professional skirt next time.”

I glanced down at my pencil skirt. It wasn’t even tight.

“I’ll be sure to dress in a garbage bag tomorrow,” I muttered.

His head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“I said I’ll be sure to dress by the handbook tomorrow,” I lied sweetly.

He stared at me. For one terrifying second, I thought he might fire me right there. But instead, he just gave a quiet, cruel chuckle and leaned back in his chair.

“Welcome to hell, Miss Hart.”

Oh, I was already there.

By lunch, I’d reorganized forty-seven files, run down to the café twice, retyped a client proposal because he didn’t like the font, and listened to him complain about the temperature in the office like he was Goldilocks trying to find the perfect porridge.

“I’m not your damn secretary,” I hissed under my breath as I poured his second cup of coffee.

He took it without a word. Sipped.

Then looked me dead in the eyes.

“Next time, try not to burn it.”

IT WAS COFFEE.

I wanted to pull my hair out as I tried to calm myself by breathing in and out. "Sir, I have documents to work on and have wasted most of my time today doing nothing."

He cut me off. "And whose fault is that?" His eyes met mine, and I gulped, saying nothing as I reached for the tray. He added, "And when you're done, analyze and edit these documents." He dropped some files on the table. As his hands moved, my hands slipped, and the coffee cup fell, spilling on his suit. The coffee was now a searing stain on his expensive suit.

"Shit!" I exclaimed, rushing to get a towel from the far end of the office. Falling to my knees in front of him, I attempted to wipe off the stain from his suit.

In my haste and embarrassment, I didn't think the situation could get any worse until I realized I was furiously rubbing the towel against his groin.

I averted my gaze, feeling a heated blush spread from my face down my neck as I caught a glimpse of the noticeable bulge in front of his pants.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, sir.”

This man was Satan.

Hot, smug, maddening Satan in Armani.

Every little command, every smug glance, was his twisted way of punishing me for last night. He remembered. I knew he did. But instead of calling me out, he was using it like a weapon. Pretending he didn’t know me gave him all the power and me? I had nothing but a headache, a stapler-related finger cramp, and a growing list of names I wanted to call him.

“Arrogant douchecanoe,” I muttered as I passed him a revised report.

His lips twitched. “Something amusing, Miss Hart?”

“Not at all. I live to serve.”

“Good,” he said with a smirk. “Because this is only day one.”

Oh, I was going to kill him.

Slowly.

With a paperclip.