Franco Vitale; 35. Samantha Blakely; 26.
Samantha.
I’ve only been Mr. Vitale’s personal assistant for two weeks, and I’m already considering quitting.
God, the man is impossible.
Letting out a huff, I suppress the urge to kick the printer. The stupid machine keeps giving me error messages.
I’m starving. I could wolf down an entire pizza on my own right now.
My phone starts ringing for the millionth time today, and I feel like whining like a puppy as I dart to my desk to answer the internal call from Mr. Vitale’s office.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Where’s the contract?”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before I explain for the fourth time, “The printer is giving error messages. I’m waiting for Andy from IT to fix it.”
“There are hundreds of printers in this building! I want the contract on my desk in five minutes,” he barks before hanging up.
Impatient ass.
I’ve worked at Vitale Pharmaceuticals in the administration department for the past eight months, and until I got promoted to Mr. Vitale’s PA, I loved my job.
It’s only been two weeks. Give it more time. You just need to get used to how Mr. Vitale wants things done, then it will get better.
I roll my eyes because my gut instinct tells me it won’t improve. Mr.
Vitale is just one of those people who’s never satisfied with anything.
All the employees in the building cower in fear whenever he’s near. I should’ve known I was in trouble when I got promoted and the admin team gave me looks of pity as if I was on death row.
While I worked on the third floor, I didn’t see much of Mr. Vitale, but the few times our paths crossed, he always looked like he was a second away from wringing someone’s neck.
The past two weeks as his PA have shown me the man is always grumpy, and he loses his temper at the speed of light. He’s downright rude and impossible to please.
I quickly email the contract to the admin department’s printer, which is still linked to my profile, before hurrying to the elevators.
While heading down to the third floor, I wiggle my toes in the high heels I’m wearing. It gives my tired feet some relief before the doors slide open, and I rush toward the printer. I lose precious time when I have to sift through all the printed documents and ensure I have the whole contract before hurrying back to the elevators.
Who needs to go to a gym when you work for Franco Vitale?
In the elevator, I quickly pull my bra strap back into place. I’ve lost weight from all the running around and need to get new underwear.
The doors open, and I shoot forward like a bullet, but my heart sinks when my desk comes into view.
Crap.
Mr. Vitale is standing by the printer in all his six-foot-five glory, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he watches the machine spit out page after page.
When I reach him, I hold the papers out to him. “Here’s the contract, sir.”
His dark brown eyes flick to me, and I feel the punch of his intense gaze in my gut. I swear, whenever this man looks at me, I feel like I’m nothing but a worm.
I’ve worked with intimidating people in the past, but Mr. Vitale overshadows them all.
The first time I laid eyes on him, I was struck speechless by how handsome he was, but the attraction died a quick death after I watched one PA after another leave the building in tears.
As the printer spits out the last page, his dark gaze remains locked on me while he swipes the contract from the traitorous machine.
His tone is low and filled with a world of warning as he mutters, “If you can’t do something as simple as printing a document, we’re going to have a problem, Miss Blakely.”
I suck in a deep breath as I watch him stalk back to his office, and the moment the door shuts behind him, I glare at the printer. “Sure, for him, you’ll print.”
“What’s the problem?” Andy, one of the IT guys, asks from behind me.
With a tired sigh, I set the now spare copy of the contract down on my desk and gesture at the machine. “It won’t print for me. I’ve checked everything, but it keeps giving me error messages. It printed for Mr. Vitale, though.”
“Let me take a quick look.”
Andy takes a seat at my desk, and after typing for less than a minute, the stupid machine starts printing.
“I’ve reinstalled the printer, so you shouldn’t have a problem again.”
“Thank you.” I gather the document and shred it, seeing as it’s no longer needed.
“You’re welcome.”
As Andy walks away, my phone starts to ring, and I quickly pick up the earpiece. “Yes, Sir?”
“Get Mr. Castro on the line,” Mr. Vitale orders before hanging up.
Taking a seat in my chair, I dial Mr. Castro’s number. The call goes through to voicemail, and as I leave a quick message, the ache in my shoulders intensifies from all the tension.
Checking the time, I notice it’s just turned five o’clock.
Thank God.
I quickly dial Mr. Vitale’s extension. “Hm,” he answers.
“Mr. Castro wasn’t available. I left a message for him to return your call.”
“Hm.” The line goes dead, and I suck in a deep breath of air. My boss has zero manners, and it aggravates me to no end.
Redialing his extension, I wait for him to answer with his usual grunt before I say, “It’s five o’clock, sir. I’m going home. Have a good night.”
Before he can grunt, I put the earpiece down, feeling a little burst of triumph for getting to hang up on him first.
I switch off my computer and gather my handbag from the bottom drawer where I keep it, but as I rise from my chair, Mr. Vitale’s door swings open, and he barks, “My office. Now.”
God. What now?
I place my handbag on my desk, and with tension coiling in my stomach, I head into the office, otherwise referred to by me as the chamber of wrath.
Mr. Vitale stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. He looks like a god, and his dress shirt and vest span tightly across his broad shoulders.
At the most random times, I’m struck with thoughts of how handsome the man is, but then he opens his mouth, and the unwelcome attraction disappears.
When he remains silent, I ask, “Sir?”
Without turning to look at me, he grumbles, “Mrs. Ross assured me you’re a hard worker.”
A confused frown furrows my brow.
Am I supposed to say something or keep quiet?
Keeping his arms crossed over his chest, he turns and levels me with an unforgiving look, instantly making me feel apprehensive and nervous.
“I’ve given you two weeks to settle into the position.” His eyes narrow on me and it makes me feel like I’m a petulant child who’s being scolded by the headmaster. “I don’t have time to waste, so if I ask you for something, I expect the order to be carried out instantly.”
“Andy had to reinstall the printer on my computer,” I explain, my tone tight from all the tension.
“I won’t tolerate excuses,” he snaps. “You’re employed as my personal assistant to make my life easier. If a problem arises, I expect you to solve it.”
Resisting the urge to cross my arms over my chest, I fist my hands at my sides and say, “Yes, Mr. Vitale.” I raise an eyebrow at the insufferable man. “Will that be all, sir?”
He shakes his head. “Your position isn’t nine to five.”
What?
He nods in the direction of the door, his tone harsh and clearly stating this topic is not up for discussion as he mutters, “If you have a problem putting in extra hours, you’re more than welcome to hand in your resignation.”
Anger begins to bubble in my chest, but I keep my expression respectful as I say, “I don’t mind working late, but I’d appreciate it greatly if you would notify me in the morning so I can cancel any plans I might’ve made for the evening.”
Plans? Ha. I live like a freaking hermit.
Still, it’s not something he needs to know. I just want him to show me respect and give me sufficient notice, so I don’t get my hopes up I’ll get to leave the office at five.
Mr. Vitale’s features tighten, and it looks like he’s a moment away from losing his temper, but then he gives me a curt nod. “For the unforeseeable future, I expect you at the office from seven a.m. to seven p.m.”
Twelve hours? The man is insane!
Turning his attention to the stacks of folders and paperwork on his desk, he mutters, “Don’t worry. You’ll be compensated for the extra time.”
Hearing I’ll be paid overtime makes my anger lessen. I could use the extra funds to pay off my credit card. The second-hand fridge I got when I moved to New York gave up the ghost the past weekend, and I was forced to go into debt to buy a new one.
“Do you need me to stay late tonight?” I ask.
Letting out an impatient huff, Mr. Vitale’s eyes snap to mine. “Yes. Get back to work.”
Leaving his office, I pull the door shut behind me. My stomach rumbles, a reminder I haven’t eaten anything today.
You’re getting paid overtime.
I take a seat at my desk and switch on my computer. Opening my email folder, I see Mr. Vitale’s already sent eight emails, and I get back to work, determined to show him I’m a damn good PA.