The Art of Awkward Affection by Alina Jacobs

I admit it was me who shouted, “Looking good, hot stuff!” at Mr. Richmond this morning, but I didn’t mean it like that.
Honest, Mrs. HR lady, I was paying him a compliment! That’s kind of what I do: I’m a proud, small-town Floridian, and Manhattan is craving some Florida sunshine—nothing like a sincere compliment to turn those New York frowns upside down!
Grayson Richmond needs some positivity.
Have you seen how grumpy he is? The man wears an arrogant snarl almost as well as he wears a suit. Drool!
Wait, I’m sorry, he felt threatened? Are you kidding me?
I’m dead broke, my fashion style is Disney adult, and I’m five feet tall when I stand up straight. People constantly stop me and ask me if I lost my mommy.
Grayson is six foot five, one of the richest men in Manhattan, and literally owns multiple city blocks and two of the tallest skyscrapers in the city, which is, by the way, totally a phallic calling card.
Yes, I understand that Mr. Richmond takes these matters very seriously.
No, I’m not making a mockery of this company or of him.
Yes, I will return to my duties as Mr. Richmond’s lowly assistant of the assistant to the secretary.
No, I’m not being snarky. Believe me, my credit card debt and I are very happy to have this job.
Also, I hate to ask, but Mr. Richmond didn’t say anything about the notes of positive affirmation in his underwear drawer, did he?
Wait, what? He wants to see me in his office? Now? Like now now?
Gulp!