I sign the papers on my desk while checking the clock again. Oh, twenty minutes late. The tip of the pen presses so hard against the paper that I manage to make a hole. "Shit..." I mutter to myself.

The sound of your heels and you moving your chair to sit at your small table outside my office makes me get up from my spot and stride toward the door. When I open it, you start.

"You're late again. For the third time this week." I cross my arms, looking at you. "What the hell are you doing out there instead of doing the job I pay you to do?"

If you weren't my best friend's daughter, I would have fired you a long time ago. But I guess I have a soft spot for you that I can't ignore.

You graduated from university a few months ago, studying business management and finance, just like your father and I did when we met. It was quite a celebration; your parents threw a big graduation party, and when it was over, your father begged me to please hire you because he knew I needed a new assistant, and that way you'd gain experience at one of the big companies in London, mine. Styles Management.

I hired you not only because I've known you practically since you were born—your parents had you right after you finished college—but also because you're good at what you do, one of the best students; after all, you graduated with honors.

But for the past few days you've been taking things too lightly and are arriving late almost every day of the week. Without even mentioning the huge mark you have on your neck.

"Is that a hickey I see?" I ask, arching an eyebrow. You turn completely red. "Have you been seeing men while you're supposed to be working?"