Free BEAUTY and the BILLIONAIRE (Part One) by Glenna Sinclair

full.”
    The receptionist shrieked with laughter, and I tried to shrink inside myself as people craned their necks to see just what was so funny.
    “You are going to get so fired!” she whispered, her shoulders still shaking with laughter. “How you are back here today?”
    “Believe me, I’m asking myself the same question,” I muttered. The receptionist had confirmed one of my suspicions. Why had my sass been tolerated yesterday—not only tolerated, but rewarded with a veritable limitless shopping spree? Add that item to the official “Shit Here Does Not Make Any Sense Whatsoever” list.
    “Well, I’m glad you’re sticking around,” she said. “You’re spunky. I’m Sam, by the way.”
    “Beauty,” I said, shaking her hand.
    “Oh, honey,” Sam laughed. “Everyone knows your name after yesterday.”
    I cringed. That felt more like a bad thing than a good thing.
    “Well, I better go focus on not spilling Roland’s coffee on his newspaper,” I joked.
    “Don’t let anyone hear you call him by his first name” she hissed, surprising me. “They’ll think you actually like him.”
    “Like him?” I frowned and shook my head. “I don’t like him. And he definitely doesn’t like me.”
    “He doesn’t like anyone,” Sam confirmed. “Well, good luck in there, soldier.”
    “Thanks,” I said, laughing and feeling uncomfortable at the same time. I felt almost traitorous talking about Roland behind his back. He’d helped me probably more than he’d helped anyone in this building. So why did all of these people work here if they all hated him so much?
    I stopped by the break room, filled a mug full of freshly brewed coffee, and took small, slow steps to ensure all of the hot liquid stayed firmly in the cup. I was going to do this right today. I wasn’t even going to give him a reason to shout at me.
    There was something almost comforting, though, in the knowledge that if he did shout at me, it was just another part of my self-enforced punishment. I’d take the licks and keep on going for as long as I was employed here. Having a clear plan—no matter how messed up it might have been—was strangely nice.
    Myra’s purse was on our desk, but she was off to parts unknown again. Was I going to be that busy once I took over for her? The thought lingered in my mind as I leaned against Roland’s office door, knocked with the hand securing the paper, and entered.
    “I have your coffee and paper here, Mr. Shepard, just as you asked,” I announced as cheerily as possible for so early in the morning.
    “No, not as I asked.” He was seated at the desk, like yesterday, but the chair was turned around. He was hunched over the keyboard to his computer, his phone display alight, working hard. The office was just as dark today as it was yesterday, the only source of light coming from his devices and that single lamp on the desk.
    “Not as you asked?” I repeated. “I promise that I paid for the paper, and the coffee is hot, and I haven’t spilled any of it…yet.”
    “Would you care to tell me what time it is?”
    My eyes darted around the room for a clock, but the light was just too dim. I jammed the paper under my arm and fished around in my purse until I came up with my cellphone, keeping my eyes on the coffee mug, willing the beverage to stay put with all of my strength.
    I mashed the button to engage the display.
    “It’s eight o’clock,” I said, confident.
    “Wrong.” He pointed at his own phone. “It’s 8:03.”
    “I rounded down,” I admitted. “If it was 8:05, I would’ve gone up to 8:10.”
    “When I say that your day begins at eight o’clock sharp, that’s what I mean. It’s not three minutes after, not five minutes after, not ten minutes after. Not thirty seconds after. Eight in the morning. Precisely. If you find you need to get here a little earlier to ensure you’re on time, do what you need to do.”
    His words were harsh, but his tone was mild. I absorbed this