The Carrero Effect - Falling for the Boss (Billionaire CEO)

Chapter 2

He’s twenty-eight and despite having worldly maturity about him, he looks younger than his age when you see pictures straight on and caught off guard. I can’t deny that I see the appeal. He seems to have the body of someone who is graced with a good strong, tall physique, and he takes care of it. There are enough topless shots of him in the media to confirm that, and he’s not shy about showing it off. He also seems to have a weakness for tribal and Aztec tattoos, which litter his body in a rather complimentary way. He looks like a typical brainless model; too good-looking to be a nice guy and far too muscular to have a decent IQ. Content held by NôvelDrama.Org.

There’s no doubt he’s been blessed with more sex appeal than necessary for one man, and this is the root of my nausea. He’s someone who charms and strings along women effortlessly. Unlike all the men I’ve ever known, and that makes me distrust him.

I can handle men who leech and grope, whose intent is written on their faces and have cowardly natures. I’ve never been faced with someone with the capabilities Jacob Carrero seems famed for. The effortless ability to make women swoon at his feet and follow him around doe-eyed and lust sick. The man seems to just click his fingers to find dates and they all scramble to get a go at him. It’s pathetic really.

I know it’s a huge honor to get this position. I know that I’m good at my job, and I’ve pleased the right people downstairs to even get here at such an early age, but I feel sick and scared for the hundredth time. I’m doubting myself, despite my achievements; the curse of my self-doubts.

The old Emma still hidden in the shadows, shaking her head at me, and trying to convince me that I am a fraud. I don’t know if I’ve overstepped my worth. I don’t know if I’m capable of the task ahead of me. Capable of working with someone so young and as all-encompassing as Jacob Carrero, the celebrity hotel tycoon and New York’s most eligible bachelor.

I pull my focus back to task, putting my mind onto doing something manual always helps me get myself together. I do as Margo asked and ready the large expensive espresso machine in the white kitchen. It’s small, modern and sleek, if a little clinical, and seems to only be used to supply tea and coffee despite the huge refrigerators. I wipe down the surfaces of the machine and surrounding worktops, removing the dust from the coffee grounds and ready his tray with iced water. Taking some comfort in this calming task. My nerves still rattled, and this irritates me. I thought I had gained more control than this.

I arrange everything she has requested neatly on his desk, straightening things as I go and checking the room to make sure everything is in its place. I like neatness, it makes me calm and feel more in control, as though somehow by everything being orderly, my life is more so.

I smooth down my blouse, now that I’ve removed my jacket, savoring the silky feel of the expensive pale gray fabric and return with the pile of mail and messages I took for him yesterday. They’re only the ones that require his attention and place them on his desk in line with the leather seat sitting neatly behind it.

The office is spacious and airy. One wall of glass and through it, the view of New York at its finest, hindered only by vertical blinds that sit open. Large abstract prints fill the sea of gray expanse to the left. I can’t help but let my eyes skim over the silver framed pictures to the left corner of the wooden desk, with various people in black and white stills. Beautiful women, celebrities, and one of his father, Mr. Carrero Sr. Someone I’ve seen from a distance before, during a huge function last year that required extra staff. They look only vaguely alike in that Italian way, although I know Jacob must look more like his mother, as the resemblance ends there.

In pride of place is a large framed picture of, who I recognize, is his mother. She’s very beautiful, and the resemblance is striking. Same dark hair, gorgeous face, cool tan. Same bright green eyes, and yet a gentle warmth in that face.

In comparison, Carrero senior is fairer haired with deep brown eyes and a tight, harsh face, etched with lines as though his skin is weather beaten. In the picture of father and son, there’s a coldness between them, despite the fact they’re standing close, holding a champagne bottle in front of a ship’s stern. It sends a shiver down my spine. I know cold looks on men and the memories are completely unwelcome.

I look around quickly making sure there’s nothing else that requires my obsessive attention to detail and slide back out gracefully, assured everything is ready.

It’s almost 9.00 a.m.; he will be arriving shortly, and my nerves are so taut I may actually snap with the tension if it isn’t over soon.

I’m absent-mindedly twisting my pen in my fingers back at my desk, and it gives me a huge surge of anger—at myself. Stilling the pen sharply and laying it down with a smack and scowling at it as though it’s the cause. Another habit from childhood that I’m permanently trying to overcome, and just one of the subtle tells that I’m not who I perceive to be. The only flaw in my perfect demeanor that I grasp so tightly onto.

I fidget.

And it’s so at odds with the persona I’ve managed to create for myself since my teen years, getting away from the life I once knew. A stark reminder of how far I’ve come from my childhood in Chicago, and a habit that annoys me on a serious level. Not only because it betrays the confidence I seem to emit, but also because it’s juvenile. My fidgeting occurs on many levels. For the most part, I’ve mastered it, but with my raw nerves this morning; I’m betraying myself.

I still my hands and focus on typing the documents Margo has given me to adjust, reminding myself to take steadying breaths as I do so. To stay calm while waiting for my new boss to appear. It’s agony.

Margo sweeps out into the foyer in a graceful cloud of Chanel No. 9, passes me at my glass desk near the entrance to our offices, indicating his arrival. My heart stops. She smiles my way fondly and quickly as she passes and gives me an encouraging wink as though I am about to meet royalty.

Maybe I am.

Oh hell! Swallow. Deep breath. Relax.

I can hear her running through his itinerary out in the hall as they approach. I know she’s been emailing him back and forth, but this verbal being brought up to speed is something she told me he prefers, to recap. Something I need to remember as it will be my role soon enough.

I stay seated and keep my eyes on my keyboard, willing my nerves to stay under wraps.

I catch him speak to her and despite seeing interviews online, I’m taken by surprise by the natural sound of his voice. It’s deep and husky and has a boyishness to it that I never noticed in his interviews. The kind of voice you would recognize anywhere, even across a crowded room, and it draws you in. So crazily familiar and comforting. He sounds at ease with her and there’s something alluring in it. Like a warmth sliding over you, completely throwing me.

I pause my typing as he laughs at something she says. It’s unexpected and I flinch, shocked that it causes butterflies in my stomach.

I don’t react like this to men!

Fumbling fingers on keys betray me, and I’m glad no one is paying me any attention.

I need to get hold of myself. Get a grip, Emma!

My cheeks instantly begin to warm, and I take my practiced steadying breath to curb my blush. There’s gibberish on my screen and I quickly hit the back button to remove it, hiding the evidence of my stumble. Cursing the inability of my clumsy fingers, cursing that childish part of me that I’m forever pushing down and trying to gag into silence.

Stop it, Emma … Just stop. You are more capable than this.

There’s a group of them walking through the main area of our airy office toward Margo’s desk, which is behind me in a separate room. Margo is nearest, concealing him fully from view, but I catch a glimpse.

He’s still standing taller than her, despite her four-inch heels. There’s two men with him; one in all black, suited and looking serious—he has some sort of wire in his ear, indicating he’s most likely security. The other is dressed more casually, in a tan jacket and chinos and strolling along behind leisurely.

I realize this is Arrick Carrero, his younger brother. He’s not in the papers as much, but I recognize him. He hasn’t really inherited the same masculine beauty or presence as his brother, and he seems rather publicity-shy, although he is only late teens. I note that he’s also only about five-foot nine, yet still muscular and has tawny hair much like his father’s. That same weird nose profile too that Jacob Carrero does not have. Jacob seems to have a perfect nose, to match his perfect—well, everything. I wonder how Arrick feels, being the less attractive Carrero son, living in his brother’s shadow.