Free Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) by S. Ann Cole Page B

he deserved her? Jealous that he got the vixen and you—the model-hot relative with the roguish smile—got the…cheating Japanese whores?” 
    Flattening his lips, he shakes his head and steps out of the elevator. “You’re quite defensive of Fatty Nate. It’s been how long since you last saw him?”
    “Three years and change,” I fill in, following him into the apartment. “And yes, I did grow to care about him. After Sienna, he always seemed so…lonely.”
    Tension stiffens his broad shoulders as he leads me through the apartment. Maybe there’s more between him and Nate than my wild and baseless assumptions. I can’t make that my problem, though. I’ve got too much crap going on in my life to worry about rich people squabble.
    Therefore, lest I cost myself this job, I decide to shut up about Nate, and follow where he leads.
    He takes a left off the left gourmet style kitchen, which leads into an all-glass area with a wet bar, a roulette table, a blackjack table, and a pool table.
    Off this fun area, he takes a right down an abbreviated hallway with a door at the end. An isolated yet intimidating black door which perfectly reflects its owner. Turning the handle, he pushes it open, and I’m hoping it’ll make even a slight creak, so I’ll know for sure I’m not following the Devil straight into hell.
    There’s no creak.
    I follow him in.
    An office.
    If this is hell, it sure has a heavenly view. The entire room is of floor-to-ceiling spotless glass, without as much as a smear. No bookshelves or decoration of any kind. Smack in the middle of the room is the biggest, longest office desk I’ve ever seen. On each end are a number of compartments which serve as limited bookshelves and stationary storage. Must be customized. There’s a wingback office chair, and two boxy gray chairs in front of the desk. And that’s it. Nothing else is in the room. Consequentially, this renders a completely unobstructed view of the city from all angles. Genius.
    Cold and clinical, it does stand apart from the rest of the penthouse which is warm and homey with its exposed bricks and dark-wood floors.
    Moving behind his enormous desk, Van Der Wells eases down in the chair.
    “Weird office,” I comment as I clap down into of the comfy boxy chairs.
    Wordlessly, he opens a drawer—this, too, makes not so much as a squeak—and takes out a manila envelope, plucks a pen from its holder, and then slides them across the desk to me.
    I watch him for a second too long. He looks different. Half familiar, half stranger. He’s not the same man I got on the elevator with. Something I said earlier must have his panties in a bunch. Just my luck. I’m the type who never knows when to shut the hell up. I tend to push and pry until I get my ass blacklisted.
    “You seem upset with me. I’m sorry if I said anything to—”
    “Read. Sign,” he clips, nodding at the envelope.
    Nope. Nope. Nopety Nope. I’m desperate, but nope.
    With an abrupt push to my feet, I grab up my bag from where he’s placed it on top of the desk and throw it over my shoulder. “Hey, buddy, I really wanted this job, and I honest-to-God don’t have a clue where I’m gonna go when I walk out of this building right now, but this right here is sign number one. So I’m running. Out. Done before it’s begun. Have a nice evening, Abercrombie.”
    I’m across the room and almost out the door when he asks, “Sign number one of what?”
    Stopping and turning in the doorway, I tell him, “The whole bossy, tyrannical thing. The cutting off my sentences. The oblique castigations that I am woman, you are man; therefore I amount to nothing, and you amount to everything.”
    A dozen heartbeats of silence, and then the face I’m familiar with returns, as the hard, impassive dominant fades.
    “I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” I go on. “But I just don’t think I can endure being barked at and bossed around.” My voice drops to a pathetic whisper, my eyes