Page 124 of Crash Course
Thank goodness he wasn't high-maintenance. Who had time for nonsense and men who needed constant stroking? If he were to survive in her world, particularly with her father involved, Cruz would quickly learn she moved fast and sometimes selfishly. All of which she tried to make up for along the way by not expecting too much.
All she needed was good company, good sex—something Cruz Blackwell had definitely cornered the market on—and good laughs.
Done.
Cilla strode into her office suite just after 8:00 and found Layla at her desk, grabbing something off the printer beside her.
"Morning," Cilla said.
Layla handed her the documents. "Morning, boss. Moving quote estimates. All three companies are coming over in the next two days to see the furniture. We’ll have final numbers then, but this is a start."
As usual, her assistant doubled as a rockstar.
Cilla glanced at the quotes. All similar and way more than she’d expected. Yikes.
There went the emergency fund she kept in case every one of her clients suddenly fired her and she couldn’t make payroll.
Next career? Moving company owner.
She held up the document. "Thank you. Have I told you lately that I love you?"
No-fuss Layla jerked her head. "You have. And thank you. Once you decide on a company, they’ll supply us with boxes."
"Perfect."
The suite door opened and in stepped Paul Benzman. He wore a navy suit with a bright white shirt and a paisley tie that Cilla instantly hated. The matching pocket square was a nice touch, however.
But two visits in less than a week from someone who rarely came down here? Something told her this wouldn’t be fun.
"Ladies," he said. "Good morning."
"Good morning," Layla chirped, then swiftly turned to her keyboard, smacking at the space bar to fire up the computer.
Layla, being an excellent judge of character, had never warmed to Paul. She found him, in her words, to be a pompous egomaniac who gave her the willies.
Cilla couldn’t disagree. But she swung back, fully facing him and offering what she hoped was a pleasant smile. "Morning. What do we owe the pleasure?"
He shifted his gaze to Layla, then came back to Cilla, his message a no-doubter that he didn’t want an audience. "Got a second?"
In actuality, no. She didn’t have one second to spare for Randolph Industries. Not after the time she’d given them over the last weeks.
Some battles? Not worth fighting.
"I have a few minutes."
She led the way, her mind lit with zooming thoughts. The first visit from Paul resulted in him warning her about nosing around Morgan. Not only had she not backed off, she’d leaked confidential documents.
He just didn’t know it. Yet.
Or did he?
No. He couldn’t know. Could he? She’d anticipated at least having a day to come up with a decent denial in case Dad—or one of his executives—traced the betrayal to her.
Then again, Allison Caplin didn’t win a Pulitzer for investigative reporting by sitting around daydreaming.
Cilla swung a right into her office, tossed her tote and purse on the sofa, and grabbed her phone, before moving to her desk and setting down the moving estimates.
She gestured to one of the guest chairs. "Have a seat."
