MY BOSS MARRIED MY BEST FRIEND

"No! How is it possible that you can't even make a simple photocopy correctly?"

Sebastian's furious shout startled his unfortunate assistant so badly that she nearly lost her balance on her sensible heels.

"Sir, but you told me to—" Eleanor tried to explain.

"What did I tell you? What?" he demanded, raising his voice. The man had no patience whatsoever.

"To copy it onto two sheets of paper.."

"Yes! But did you bother checking whether you were doing it correctly? What the hell am I supposed to do with twenty badly copied booklets when the page is upside down every time I turn it?"

"I didn't notice."

"Clearly," he barked, on the verge of losing his temper completely.

"Give me a little more time and I'll redo them," she offered hesitantly.

"And what about all the money you wasted by getting one simple task wrong?"

"I... I can pay for it," she offered, biting her tongue to keep from insulting him.

"No. I'm done with your incompetence. Pack your things, and don't come back."

"But it was only a photocopy. It's not that serious," she protested, a little too boldly.

"If you insist on doing everything your own way—just like you did at your previous job—I don't even want to imagine what you'll do next."

"That isn't fair, Mr. Ashcombe." Her voice rose with frustration.

"What isn't fair is my having to deal with incompetent assistants. Get out of my sight."

"Are you serious? You're firing me over one badly copied report?"

"With that attitude, I don't want you anywhere near me. If you'd simply redone the stupid report instead of copying and binding twenty of them, I might not be this angry."

"And you're firing me just like that? Over something so trivial?"

"It's unbelievable how stupid you can be. Get your things and get out of my sight."

"Fine! I'm leaving. I can't stand arrogant people like you." Her voice was sharp with contempt.

"Be very careful what you say. You'll need a reference from your previous employer if you expect to find another job, and right now I couldn't care less what happens to you."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

Sebastian Ashcombe stood at the helm of Ashcombe & Co., the firm founded by his grandfather, Alistair Ashcombe. The prestigious company worked with leading architects to create homes that were genuine works of art, along with every other aspect of design and construction.

Unfortunately, Alistair had been forced to retire for health reasons. He had worked until his body finally gave out, but years of bone problems and heavy smoking had taken their toll, leaving him no choice but to hand control to his grandson—a young man every bit as passionate as Alistair had been in his prime.

Two years after assuming responsibility for the family business and managing it with the same dedication as his grandfather, Sebastian still faced one persistent problem.

HE COULDN'T KEEP AN ASSISTANT.

They came and went as though parading down a runway. None lasted longer than a month. He had even tried hiring a man, but that had been a complete disaster. If there was one thing Sebastian hated more than wasted time, it was incompetence. Why was it so difficult to find someone who could follow instructions without questioning every order? Someone who valued the position enough to make an effort? He finally decided his next assistant needed to be inexperienced—someone he could train from the ground up, someone capable of absorbing every detail.

That person was Eleanor Hartley, an attractive, optimistic twenty-four-year-old with seemingly endless energy and a formidable work ethic. She had no experience as a personal assistant and had yet to finish her business degree, but she was the only candidate who had held Sebastian's gaze throughout the interview. Everyone else had looked away within seconds. That was the first point in her favor.

Now all she had to do was learn how to tolerate her boss: a difficult, arrogant, cold, demanding man—the list went on—who had always possessed everything he wanted and never hesitated to point out another person's mistakes. Sebastian said exactly what he thought, no matter how cutting it sounded. Eleanor put up with him because she needed the job. The salary also offered the stability she desperately needed. But when Sebastian's grandfather died and left an unusually specific clause in his will, Eleanor discovered just how complicated her position could become. Her boss needed help satisfying a condition that could either drive him out of the company forever or give him absolute control.

Eleanor

Do you know what it really means to be the brand-new, well-paid assistant to the boss of all bosses?

"MASOCHISM."

That is exactly what it means.

Being the assistant to a man as handsome as Mr. Ashcombe—insert radiant sunshine and a rainbow here—has its pros and cons. Mostly cons, of course. But that is work for you, right?

Let us start with the pros: the view.

Mr. Ashcombe is the perfect height—tall, but not absurdly so. About six feet. It is not as though I carry a measuring tape in my purse, but I like to think my powers of estimation are excellent. At least, that is what my literature professor used to say. Broad shoulders, strong arms, and an ass so perfect it deserves its own fan club.

The cons: he is a complete pain in the ass.

Annoying, unpleasant, and impossible. What a hateful man. Grumpy. Bossy. Demanding. Condescending. And, yes, very, very cruel when he wants to be. He is always throwing my mistakes in my face while conveniently forgetting everything I do right. I even had to buy condoms for him once.

Ugh. If the pay were not so good, I would have quit after my first day as his nanny-slash-personal assistant. Who needs dinner confirmed at his own house when he eats from the same weekly menu?

No comment.

I understand why he changes assistants so often. He must drive them crazy, and not because of his looks. Because of his damn temper! One minute he's talking to you calmly, and the next he's seething with rage over something you don't even know you're doing wrong.

He even has the nerve to comment on my wardrobe. Thank goodness I do not care what he thinks. And as for staying quiet? Never. My late grandmother always told me that even when arguing with a boss—or someone under my authority—I should defend myself without being disrespectful.

So I always answer him. Respectfully. That only makes him more furious because, when I have done nothing wrong, he cannot justify yelling at me. Of course, he gets his revenge by piling work onto my desk until I leave at ten at night.

Damn you, Sebastian Ashcombe, and your beautiful, infuriating body. I have to admit that if you were a fat, bald man, I would tell you to go pick lice off monkeys without a second thought.

And then there's the boss's secretary—yes, Mr. Ashcombe already had one when I started as his assistant four months ago. Lavinia Mercer, the most unpunctual woman I've ever met.

And she's also my friend.

It's always the same with her. Every single Monday she's late. And the idiot decides that today, the first Monday of the month, she'll be later than ever. Thirty minutes late isn't the fault of traffic or a car accident anymore, it's because you overslept, period. If she weren't my friend, I wouldn't cover for her constant lateness, and all because of that monster of a son she has.

Yes, I know. I should not talk about a four-year-old this way, but he is a genuine little devil—a real-life Chucky. He has the face of an angel: blond curls, round rosy cheeks, huge blue eyes, and an uncanny ability to make everyone adore him at first sight. But the little monster waits until the second you turn your back.

Since Lavinia Kahlo still has not shown up and it is already 7:30 a.m., I get to work. I grab some cash and hurry to the Starbucks on the corner. I order a skim-milk cappuccino—no unnecessary calories for that body—and rush back to pour it into Mr. Ashcombe's special mug.

With the coffee in the boss's mug, I take it to his office and place it on his desk, in the upper right corner, on top of a black leather coaster so as not to leave a mark on the refined wooden furniture. Without wasting any time, I turn on his computer (an iMac, meaning everything Apple for this man) and follow the routine of my friend's slowpoke. I turn on the heat, because it's winter and freezing cold. With everything on, I rush out of that office to continue with my "routine" of covering up for the chronically unpunctual criminal.

Now it's time to get my sweetheart's desk ready. I turn on the computer, log into her email—yes, the silly girl always leaves her session open—then click on the company program and minimize that tab. I rush to my desk, grab my bag and jacket, and take them to Lavinia's workspace. I hang my jacket on the hook next to the printer, put my bag on the chair, and head back to the break room to get a cup of tea.

I'm exhausted and it's not even 8 a. m. I walk into the very cozy break room, and no, I'm not being sarcastic. It's really lovely and elegant. With incredibly comfortable armchairs, a dark wood breakfast table, leather-upholstered chairs, a couple of paintings on the walls (art!), an amazing 70-inch screen, ultra HD (I think, I rarely get to look at it), and the kitchen area, wow, it looks like it belongs in a fancy restaurant, everything gleaming, the star of the show: the cappuccino machine, the fancy tea, milk, chocolate, muffins, cookies, wholegrain items, everything. And a refrigerator that doesn't look like one from the outside. I wish I lived in this little room; it has everything.

I look for the mug Lavinia brought; the fussy one doesn't share, she can't use the ones the rest of us use, it has to be hers. I make her a strong tea with seven teaspoons of sugar. Yes, seven teaspoons, the sweet tooth. I hurry back to her desk, put the mug on the Cars coaster, and as soon as I straighten up and turn around, I see my boss standing there. So handsome in that dark blue suit, with his perfectly white shirt and that electric blue silk tie. But all his splendor is ruined when my gaze falls on his frowning face.

What the hell did I do now if he just arrived?