For Starters

When Nora lets him walk inside my office, he sucks all the air out of me.

I swear he's the size of the doorframe.

His info said he was six-foot-four and over two hundred pounds, so I guess they really weren’t lying.

Abraham Kent is a golden Canadian boy through and through. He has lovely honey eyes with thick eyelashes, golden skin and light-brown wavy hair. He looks effortlessly beautiful... except his body is obviously not effortless at all. That comes from dedication and exercise.

Nora was fucking right, to my dismay. He's even more stunning in person and it's creating a full-body reaction on me. Or maybe I’m getting possessed by something.

I have to lick my lips to deal with the sudden cottonmouth and clench my fists to stop myself from reaching to touch him. Just to see if he's real or a magical representation of everything I like.

Raw masculinity. Effortless beauty. Natural charm. Obvious talent... and I bet he has a big dick, too.

He's perfect. I want him. I want him. I want him.

"Anastasia, this is Abraham Kent," Nora says with her professional voice, as if she wasn't fangirling over him five minutes ago, "He already went through HR, he's all ready for you."

"Uhm, hello," he says with a slightly forced smile, then lifts a badge around his neck, "I'm officially yours."

Oh my god. The cottonmouth gets worse, but I manage to smile at him.

"Yeah... I mean, cool," I gulp and lift a hand to push my hair back. It gets caught in a knot, though. And he focuses on it for a second, so I freak out and lower my hand, "Nora, you can leave us."

"Alright," she murmurs and gives him a full look before walking out the door. She pretends to faint before closing the door behind her.

And then I'm all alone with this man that just called himself officially mine. Wow.

I need to remember I'm the boss here.

"So, Abraham..."

"You can call me Kent. Or Bram," he quickly corrects me, "I don't like my full name. Is there a specific way you'd like me to call you? Ann? Ana? Annie? Stasia? Stas? Sia?"

Oh, boy. He's a talker.

"You can call me whatever you want," I respond, a tiny bit too breathlessly, "I don't have a preferred nickname. But... well, I'm also your boss, so I think you should just call me Anastasia."

"Right, right," he makes a face, like he's embarrassed, "You don't look like a boss... sorry, I don't mean it in a bad way. You just don't look intimidating. But it's a good thing! Sorry, I talk a lot when I'm nervous. And this is new to me, I've never had a job before. Not a real one."

His nerves make me feel a little more composed, so I just nod and return to my desk.

"It's alright, we'll figure something out," I say and motion at the chair in front of my desk, "I know your coach sent you to us. He's my dad's friend... from high school, I think."

His eyes almost bug out of his face.

"Oh, right. Of course. You're Charlie's daughter. Anastasia Blomqvist," He lets out, getting a little pale when he makes the connection, "Sorry, it just clicked that you’re his daughter. I just... I was completely expecting something else and you caught me off guard. I’m all over the place, but I swear I'm not usually this stupid."

"What were you expecting?"

"Like... a tall, older woman in a suit? I don't even know why. I'm so sorry," he makes a pained expression and covers his face. I laugh at his embarrassment, "You look so young, it threw me off my game."

"I'm twenty-six," I respond, "You?"

"Twenty-seven," he says and then we both share an awkward stare. So I have to remind myself I'm the boss again.

"Alright," I clap and focus on my computer, "So, Kent, what are you good at?"

I look back at him and catch him freezing, like he doesn't know how to answer that.

"I'm guessing you want me to say something unrelated to hockey?" He finally asks, I nod. He spends a few seconds trying to come up with something, "I'm pretty much dyslexic, so nothing related to words. Or numbers, really."

What the hell is 'pretty-much dyslexic'? Does he mean he simply doesn't know how to read?

"Got it," I nod, "But that's not what I asked. You think you're only good at playing hockey?"

"No, not only hockey. I'm good at anything physical," he quickly responds, giving me a hopeful look, as if I'm going to miraculously say I need him to play a game, "If you wanted to use me as a handy-man, that would be way better than... using me to sell makeup. Seriously."

"This is not the handy-man department, though," I tease, making his shoulders sink, "My father sent you to me because marketing is the most dynamic department. And I'm open to anything, really. So... okay, first impressions, I'd say you could be really good at sales."

He makes a face.

"You're very likable," I continue, making him smile at me in just a second. He beams at me, actually. A boy who likes praise is hot as fuck, but I force myself not to dwell on that thought, "You know how to talk. And you talk a lot. You're also... you know, attractive. Guys like you could come up to any woman and sell her anything."

"Not makeup," he says, like that's preposterous, "I've never worn makeup and I won't start here. I'm not that desperate."

That implies he is a little desperate, which is interesting. He's also a little dumb. And such a jock, it's crazy.

"I never said that," I laugh, showing him more patience than I would with any other guy alive, solely because of his pretty-privilege, "You don't need to wear something in order to sell it. You could simply say something like... women in red lipstick are so hot. Every red lipstick would go out of stock in a day."

He blinks and leans back, his eyes going wide as if he's just having a realization.

"So, all I have to do is sell some red lipstick? Because that could work. I have a lot of females always asking me stuff like that. Like what do I like on them."

Oh, dear.

"I'm just trying to explain how selling works and how you'd be good at it. But this isn't a boutique, this is a worldwide company. We need to come up with ideas on how to sell plenty of products to millions of people,” I explain, very slowly. He’s nodding along, “Usually, I would use a person like you and I would create an ad around him to sell specific items. I could technically use you… or any other guy like you, to sell makeup…”

"So, like," he interrupts me, "Like we put up a video online with a hot man going crazy for some red lipstick on a girl. That would send a message he likes that, so every girl would want to buy it.”

"Yes, yes, exactly,” I nod, glad he's getting it, "So, that's what I do. I have to come up with ideas about new products and how to sell them on a large scale. Usually, using someone with a large following.”

"I think I'd be good at that. Coming up with ideas," he murmurs, getting excited. He's so cute, I'm going to choke and die.

"Alright. Well, right now we have a new era ahead of us. Authenticity and originality. We want to create products to sell the idea of being your most authentic self. How would you sell this idea to someone?"

I speak to Abraham Kent from the Vancouver Seagulls for ten more minutes and realize, his ideas are completely different to mine or anyone on my team.

They are not particularly good right now, he has no female gaze whatsoever, he doesn't know anything about beauty products... but I still love it. I could use that fresh outlook for a twist here and there.

I mean, not everything has to be so cookie-cutter feminine all the damn time, we could use a break.

I've been trying to add a gender-neutral (or even masculine) element since I started working here, trying to break away from the bubblegum girly aesthetic my dad went for since he started the company.

As a dad of two of the most bubblegum girly girls alive, that worked for him immensely. He grew a billion-dollar empire in a decade... but he also thinks it's time for a change, that's why he begged me to join the family business.

As his third, completely different, not-so-girly daughter.

So I'm definitely going to use Abraham Kent, his interesting man-brain and those three million followers.