Starr Media Second-Assistant Survival Guide
1. Don't call your hot boss the antichrist to his face.
2. Don't stare at hot boss's, um, package or his full sleeve of tattoos. (No. Really. Stop!)
3. Don't get on the malicious first assistant's bad side.
4. Don't forget to memorize the 300-page employee manual.
5. If you value your cashmere, steer clear of boss’s dog.
6. Boss’s dimples are lust-inducing. Do. Not. Give. In.
7. “The elevator ate your clothes” is not a valid excuse for showing up to important meetings half dressed.
8. Don't break seven of the rules within the first week of employment if you, ya know, are in dire need of money to support your sick mom.
9. Whatever you do, don’t fall for the boss. See rule eight about sick mom.
10. Never forget the rules.
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Jennifer Blackwood is an English teacher and contemporary romance author. She lives in Oregon with her husband, son, and poorly behaved black lab puppy. When not chasing after her toddler, you can find her binging on episodes of Gilmore Girls and Supernatural, and locking herself in her office to write.
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Waterfront Seattle was devoid of the usual hustle and bustle at six in the morning. Much like Portland, a lot of the active business professionals ran along the water. The November chill cut straight through my bones until we were well into our second mile along the bay.
Zoey hated running—something I never understood because she was always so excited up until the point our feet hit the pavement—and she was puffing along with short, shallow breaths.
I’d run cross-country in high school and college, and when I ran, everything fell into perspective. I hadn’t been able to get out all week because of my crazy schedule, and the twitchy desire to let off steam had become so bad that I was willing to sacrifice an extra hour of sleep for some much needed exercise.
I was contemplating my goal of finding another deal on Black Friday in a few weeks when Zoey elbowed me in the ribs. I tore out one earphone and shot her a look. “What?”
“Look at that tall, dark, and give me some of this.” She nodded toward a man running toward us, and I fumbled a few steps.
Of all the spots in the city at the crack of dawn, not just any tall, hot guy was running my way. No, that would be totally awesome and fair of the universe. This man with the sweat soaked gray T-shirt, the material plastered to a set of nicely toned abs, was none other than the friendly neighborhood anti-antichrist.
A dog loped beside him, pulling at the leash to go faster. At my estimation, we’d intersect in the span of fifty steps.
Crap. I knew it was pure coincidence, running (oh, the irony) into him on a morning jog, but my personal vanity would not allow him to see me in such a disheveled pre- makeup, pre-hair-taming state. This chance meeting could not happen—no, would not happen—if I could help it. I pushed Zoey off the paved path and into a grassy area with a few large oak trees and waist- high shrubs.
We were well-hidden from view when she asked, “What the hell?”
“That’s my boss.” I whispered.
“The Antichrist?” She moved to peer around the tree, and I grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back.
She let out an exasperated sigh and threw her arms out to the side. “Come on. He doesn’t know what I look like. Why can’t I take a little looksee?”
“Because someone staring at you from behind a tree is creepy.”
She raised a brow. “So is hiding from your boss behind a tree,” she deadpanned.
“Touché, but I’m willing to let that one slide if you are.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen any time this decade.” She peered around the tree again and let out a low whistle. “I’d totally hit that if I were you.”
“Rule book,” I reminded her. Which he expected everyone to stick to. Everyone but himself, apparently.
“Screw the rule book. Maybe he could even smack your ass with it.”
I chuckled. “You’re sick.”
She wagged a finger at me. “Resourceful.”
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