Stepbrother, Sort of... Page 6

  “I did,” she replied. She brushed her long, silky blonde hair over her shoulders and sat up straight, eyes locked into mine. She was gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. And young as fuck. Not only that, but I felt like I’d seen her before.

  “Who are you?” I asked as I made my way towards the end of the table.

  “Mirabelle Baker,” she replied, her lips curling into a sweet smile. Mirabelle Baker. My former kid-stepsister. Sitting in my office, in the flesh. “Intern.”

  “What the fuck is an intern doing in our meeting?” I asked, my question directly focused towards Monica as I tried to wrap my head around seeing Mirabelle again, all grown up and hot as fuck.

  Monica shook her head and turned away. She knew me well. Most of my questions were rhetorical.

  “If I may, sir,” she said, her voice fell out of her perfect, soft lips with a sweet air of confidence. “I have some ideas.”

  I crossed my arms, studying her face, and nodded. “Alright. Go ahead, intern.”

  “I think what they need is a social media explosion,” she began. “Let’s blow up Twitter and Facebook and Google Plus and buy out ads on all the big health websites like Spark and MyFitnessPal. If we can start with this brand that no one’s ever heard of and then suddenly it’s all over the place, that’s going to have a longer tail than a slow, gradual build up plan.”

  “Okay,” I said as I soaked in every luscious word that fell from those sweet lips. Her beauty was distracting, slightly throwing me off my game and tilting the room. “Continue.”

  “If we use the right marketing copy and target to a younger audience, I think we’re golden,” she said. Her eyes grew excited as she spoke, like a passion had been ignited inside of her. The slightest shake in her voice could be heard as she continued. “Everyone knows millenials and younger have the most spending money, and they’re the ones most focused on looking good and being healthy and having that rock star body. That’s where need to be focusing all efforts. If we do it right, their brand should become an overnight success.”

  She clapped her hands together for emphasis as her face was plastered in a huge grin. She was in her element, that was for sure, and I’d never seen any of my other employees get one tenth as excited as she had just become.

  “Mirabelle Baker, you said?” I asked, still studying her face and pretending not to know her. I knew her all right. I knew her well. The geeky, brace-mouthed, pimply little thirteen year old was now a full-blown woman with legs a mile long and curves in all the right places.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied. The long lashes that framed her big, blue eyes were only amplified by the perfect little arch in her brows. Not only was she sexy, but she was fucking smart as a whip.

  “How old are you, Mirabelle?” I asked, her name leaving a taste in my mouth like hot brandy.

  “Twenty-three,” she said. She attempted to read me, as if she wanted to know I was going to love or hate her for being so young.

  “I assume you’re going to school for marketing. Is that correct?” I asked.

  “Advertising, yes,” she replied, her shoulders squaring back. “After this semester, after this internship, I’ll graduate magna cum laude with my B.S. from Southern Georgia State.”

  She was onto me and playing the game right back, point for point. We may as well have been strangers though, at this point in our lives. I hadn’t seen her in ten years.

  “Bravo, bravo,” I said, pressing sarcasm into my tone as I clapped my hands. “Isn’t that sweet. Magna cum laude. How about that.”

  Her eyes shifted as her fingers nervously traced her collarbone and she looked down at her notebook. I was being as ass, I knew that, but it was for the best. She was a smart girl, the kind of girl I needed on my team, but I wanted to knock that shiny, newfound confidence right off her face and injected a little bit of hardness. I needed to break her down and mold her into the cutthroat ad exec I knew she could be.

  My lips curled into a wicked smile as I realized I’d just found my new project. Mirabelle Baker was going to be my next shining star, whether she liked it or not. I was going to take her under my wing, and she wasn’t going to have a damn choice in the matter.

  THREE

  MIRABELLE

  “Is he always like that?” I asked Monica the second we took refuge in her office. I could still feel the way his crystal blue eyes pierced into me, and I’d have given almost anything to know what he thought of me. I wanted him to like me, as much as I hated that fact.

  “Pretty much,” she said with a defeated sigh as she shook her computer mouse and turned her eyes to the screen. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Are interns not allowed in meetings?” I asked as I took a seat across from her and slung my purse over the back of the chair. “I noticed I was the youngest person in that boardroom. “

  “Generally, no,” she answered with a careful cadence. “I didn’t think you were going to speak up and draw attention to yourself. I’d asked you to take notes, remember?”

  “So it’s bad to speak up around here?” I was confused. “Isn’t that what you do in the real world? You communicate and brainstorm and-”

  “It’s different here,” she said. “Preston – Mr. Woodfield – sort of rules with an iron fist. Don’t speak unless spoken to. We’re all peons regardless of our fancy titles. That sort of thing.”

  “And you guys all put up with that?” I asked, my hands on my hips and my voice raised in slight disbelief. I was beginning to realize some things never changed. He was still a jerk. A sexy jerk, but a jerk nonetheless. “He can’t treat you guys like you’re dogs. You’re highly educated, talented, seasoned professionals.”

  “Try telling him that,” Monica huffed, her eyes rolled as if she’d tried many times before. “It’s sort of best to lay low and fly under the radar around here. The last thing you want is Mr. Woodfield to know who you are.”

  “I’m not a afraid of him,” I huffed, crossing my arms and leaving out the fact that I’d known him since he was twenty and thought he knew everything about everything.

  Monica looked at me as if I’d just blasphemed in her office.

  “You still love what you do though, right?” I asked, searching for an ounce of reassurance that my entire world hadn’t just crumbled apart.

  Monica pursed her lips and stared off to the left as she thought long and hard about it. “Some days, yes.”

  A shrill tone sounded from the phone on her desk, and Monica swiped up the receiver mid-ring. “Yes, Tiffany? Okay. I’ll send her that way.”

  “What?” I asked. The look on her face spelled trouble already.

  “Mr. Woodfield wants to see you.” She spoke as if she were delivering the most ominous news she’d ever heard. Her red lips parted, as if she almost wanted to apologize, but instead she pointed to her door. “Sixth floor. Check in with his secretary.”

  “Am I being fired from my internship?” I asked, my jaw dropping as I stood up and collected my things. I wondered if he still was going to pretend like he didn’t know me.

  Monica shrugged, her demeanor softening. “He’s a wild card, honey. I hope not, but I don’t know. You just never know what’s going to set him off. I never should’ve brought you to that meeting. I’m so sorry.”

  My eyes burned hot for a moment, but I forced the sensation away. I wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me weak, especially not Preston.

  You’re smart, I reminded myself as I marched to Preston’s floor. You’re talented. You know who you are. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. You’ve come too damn far to give up this easily.

  Monica’s words echoed in my ear, and with every step I took towards his secretary’s desk, fear of the unknown coursed through my every vein.

  “Hi, Ruthie,” I said, remembering her from the meeting an hour earlier. “I’m here to see Mr. Woodfield. Mirabelle Baker.”

  Ruthie smiled through crinkled blue eyes as she picked up the receiver and called him. “He’
ll be right out. You can have a seat over there.”

  I took a seat in an extra cushy leather waiting room chair next to a babbling marble fountain and a stack of shiny, glossy magazines as I waited for Preston to come out.

  I waited five minutes. Then ten. Eventually ten minutes turned into twenty, and anxiety began to settle in. I crossed my legs to stifle my foot from twitching, but it only made it worse. I grabbed one of the magazines from the table; a trade publication called Market Bits.

  The man on the cover looked familiar, and I squinted and pulled it a little closer to my face. He was wearing a jet-black suit with a red tie and had the most arrogant of smirks across his face as he sat perched on the edge of his shiny, mahogany desk. It was Preston, and the caption read, “The Next Big Thing.”

  Well done, I thought. No wonder his head’s still so big.

  I chuckled, audibly, and flipped the magazine to the article. My eyes hungrily scanned over the five-page spread dead-center in the publication, resting when they reached a page full of various photos of him. If he wasn’t so busy being an arrogant ass, he’d actually be quite attractive. Okay, so he was still very attractive, but his personality was ugly. I could only pray he didn’t have a girlfriend. Guys like him never found anything – or anyone – to ever be good enough for them.

  According to the spread, Preston attended Duke on a full-ride scholarship and earned two degrees: one in advertising and one in marketing with a psychology minor. Just like me. He worked for a couple of firms just outside the city before buying out the flailing Halston firm for a mere pittance and turning it from a withering, sad little company into one of the next big things in the world of advertising. And he’d done it all in just five years.

  I didn’t read a single thing about his personal life. The guy must eat, sleep, and breathe advertising.

  “Interesting article, Ms. Baker?” A man’s voice startled me as I the magazine flew from my fingertips and landed on the floor by a pair of shiny, black patent leather loafers.

  Compose yourself, girl!

  “Yes,” I replied, my eyes locked into his. The way he stared at me put a quiver into my voice. I thought about adding something about how fascinating it was and how impressive it was that he saved the Halston firm, but I knew he’d see right through me. Preston didn’t seem like a man who appreciated a good ass-kissing.

  “Come,” he said as he wagged his finger at me and pointed towards his office at the end of the hall.

  Two enormous doors were pushed open, beckoning us forward towards a shiny, polished mahogany desk that sat front and center. Behind the desk were wall-to-wall windows overlooking the city. Even for a sixth floor office, he had breathtaking views overlooking the George Washington Bridge and the Statue of Liberty.

  “A girl could get used to this view,” I marveled as my eyes took in the sights. Puffy white clouds filled the perfect, robin egg’s blue sky outside. Sun trickled in and warmed the dry, January air just enough.

  “Have a seat, Mirabelle,” he said. Apparently he had no time for small talk.

  For a second I almost forgot I was possibly in trouble for speaking out during the meeting. I swallowed the lump in my throat as my palms prickled with sweat and I forced a confidence smile across my lips.

  “Do you know why I called you in here?” he asked. He took a seat in his overstuffed, brown leather chair and scooted it up to his desk. His tie, an intimidating shade of scarlet, was pinned neatly to his starched button down shirt. His dark brown hair, perfectly combed and parted on the side, had not a single strand out of place.

  “I don’t,” I replied, my hands folded neatly in my lap.

  He sat back in his seat and stared, as if he didn’t know what he wanted to do with me. I thought about what Monica said and how everyone put up with the way he treated them. If he was going to make my life a living hell for speaking up and putting my education to good use, then I didn’t want to work for him anyway. I didn’t deserve that. Then again, an internship at Woodfield and Halston on my resume would pretty much guarantee a job at any other firm in the country upon my graduation.

  “That meeting Monica brought you to this morning,” he said, his eyes intense and piercingly blue. “You shouldn’t have been there. It was for ad execs and account managers only.”

  “Oh, okay,” I replied with raised eyebrows. I didn’t see what the big deal was. It wasn’t like we talked about anything too sensitive. “My apologies. I had no idea.”

  “Why weren’t you in the intern orientation this morning?” he asked. I felt as if my father was scolding me, only Preston Woodfield wasn’t much older than thirty.

  “I wasn’t aware of the orientation,” I said. I flashed an innocent smile and crossed my legs. I refused to let him break me over something so piddly. “Monica said she’d make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

  “Monica,” he said with a chuckle as he stared off into space. “That Monica. She’s a real handful these days.”

  What did that mean?

  “Monica’s been great so far,” I said. My positive attitude was nearly award winning, and I prized myself for it.

  “You’ve been here, what, two hours?” he asked with a rude huff, but I didn’t let it shake me.

  “Two very interesting and educational hours,” I corrected him. “With all due respect, I learned a lot at that meeting this morning. I really liked just diving in like that, even if it wasn’t protocol. Thank you for letting me stay and participate.”

  “You’re right, it wasn’t protocol,” he said, his hands folding into an upside down “V” as he concentrated on my face. I couldn’t help but notice his ring-less left finger and the lack of personal photos around the room. He truly was a Douchebag with a capital D. Again, not much had changed besides the fact that he was hot as fuck.

  “Again, I’m very sorry,” I repeated, only I made sure to hold my shoulders extra high. “I really didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I guess I’m confused as to why that warrants a personal meeting with you in your office?”

  His face twisted into a calculated smirk. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re not going to be working with Monica anymore.”

  My heart sank. Was I being fired? My breathing grew labored as my mind jumped to the worst possible scenario. My fingers gripped the buttery leather of my satchel, and my body was urging me to jump out of my seat and get the hell away from that asshole.

  I had no words. I sat, paralyzed, waiting for him to explain.

  “You’re going to be working with me from now on,” he said. His hands, which were previously calculating and intimidating, fell gently into his lap. His eyes, which were cool and menacing a second before, now held a small yet noticeable glimmer of hope.

  “Oh, wow,” I said with a sliver of relief in my voice and a million emotions flooding my mind. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “What, did you think I was firing you?” he said with a smirk, but the way those words so easily fell off his tongue were a little too close for comfort, like he’d said them a million times before.

  I shrugged, giving an ambivalent response before changing the subject. “So what would you like me to do today?”

  He shifted his weight in his chair before standing up and walking around to the front of his desk. He leaned against it, our knees nearly grazing, and crossed his arms. “Mirabelle, I’m putting you on the Johnston account.”

  “What?”

  Was I dreaming? Did Preston Woodfield just give me my own account on my first day of my internship?

  “Do you need me to repeat myself?” he seemed annoyed. He was a cut-to-the-chase kind of man with very little time for theatrics.

  “No,” I said. “I heard you loud and clear. I’m just shocked. I wasn’t expecting this at all.”

  He reached over to the phone and buzzed Ruthie. “Ruthie, set Mirabelle up in the office next to mine…Yes, Sapphire Hart’s old office…She’s going to be working directly with me until further notice.”


  My own office? I tried to stifle the ridiculously enormous grin that was aching to come out and show itself for all the world to see.

  “Preston?” I asked. “Can we stop pretending like we don’t know each other?”

  He stared at me, saying nothing as a devilish grin spread across his mouth.

  I stood up and showed myself out, meeting Ruthie on the other side of the door.

  “Here are your keys, Ms. Baker,” she said as she handed me two dangling keys on a shiny, silver keychain. I pressed the keys into the lock and the handle turned, swinging the door open to reveal the most beautiful office in all of Manhattan, well, except maybe for his.

  FOUR