“Yes, sir.”
For a moment, his eyes are a little less hard, and the smallest of smiles curves the corners of his mouth. Wait. Is he smiling because I called himsir? I try not to let my brain run riot. He obviously likes polite people. Nothing more. Don't go getting carried away.
“Can you use an electronic calendar?”
“Yes, sir.”
This time, his eyes positively twinkle. I’m not sure I could stop myself saying ‘sir’ if I wanted to.
“Are you reliable?”
“Yes, sir.”
He strokes his beard.
“I’m not sure if Valerie sent my CV across, but I have a copy if—”
He waves his hand, cutting me off. “You can’t be any worse than the last person she sent. You’re hired. You can start tomorrow at nine.”
I gape at him.
“Unless you don’t want the job?”
“I do. Thank you, sir.”
“The agency handles the money side of things, so you’ll have to ask them what the pay is. I’ll see you at nine tomorrow.” He picks the mug back up.
“Here?”
“Where else would you be working? I’m an author. My home is my office. Is that a problem?”
I shake my head.
“Scram.” He waves towards the patio door and takes another sip of the coffee.
I can't quite believe I've been hired based on my coffee-making skills. If he'd been anyone else, I'd have probably turned the job down on the spot. But if working for Hamish Cameron means I have to make gallons of coffee every day, I'll do it.
2
Hamish
I drink the rest of the coffee as I watch Archie trip over his own feet to get out the door and down the garden. I’m almost sorry to see him vanish out of sight behind the hedge. I use the security system to shut the first gate and then take my coffee through to the office in the other extension. It’s a tall, curved tower, rendered white on the outside, which provides staircases up to the three main floors of the water tower. The ground floor also holds my office, the first floor has a small guest bedroom, and the top floor is used for storage.
I sit at my desk, which is in front of a window that looks out onto the garden, and drink more coffee as I stare at my monitor. It’s a damn fine cup of coffee, but that isn’t why I hired Archie Morris.
I’ve given up caring about CVs and experience. Anyone can make themselves look amazing on paper. All that matters to me is whether or not they can do the job and put up with my crankiness. God help anyone who has to deal with me before I have coffee, or if the words aren’t fuckin’ flowing.
So why did I hire Archie? Based on my little experiment, he’s obedient. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the way he called me ‘sir’ stirred something inside me. The way the word tripped out of his mouth so casually and innocently was sexy. Not that I should be perving on a guy I've just hired, but he was pretty braw looking too, with his swept-back light brown hair and the soft green eyes that had stared at me from behind black thick-rimmed glasses. It was utterly inappropriate to think about how thick his lips were and how he'd bitten his bottom lip ever so slightly while he'd made the coffee.
I frown at the words on my screen—a half-finished chapter for the next Orion King novel. It's due with my editor in a month, and I'm less than halfway through. To be honest, I'm getting sick of the character. I'd pitched a trilogy to my publisher and had delivered it, but it had done so well they'd insisted on another trilogy and then another. I'm working on the eighth book, and I've had enough of Orion King and the Edinburgh Castle-sized chip on his shoulder. I want to write something light and angst-free, but thriller and mystery novels don't exactly lend themselves to that.
This is precisely why I have a pen name that's secret even from my publishers. I close the file I'm meant to be working on and open up my latest Lee Lawson novel. I picked Lee Lawson as my nom de plume because it was the last name anyone would expect me to pick. The books I write as Lee are low angst and so fucking steamy I give myself a hard-on writing them. I don't get to work on his books anywhere near as much as I'd like.
I read over the last chapter I've written, which is normally the best way for me to get back into the story. But I'm not even enthused for the sexy antics army medic Jack Evans and broad-chested sergeant Kaleb Hudson are up to deep in the hot and steamy jungle. My Lee Lawson books could never be described as realistic. Too many huge, pulsing dicks thrusting into tight holes in ridiculous situations. In the chapter I'm writing, Jack and Kaleb are going at it like fucking rabbits against the tall, smooth trunk of a rubber tree. But while I read what my characters are up to, I'm imagining Archie against the tree, his arse bared for me as he whispers "yes, sir."
Fuck.
I glare at my phone as I debate ringing Valerie to tell her I’ve changed my mind about hiring Archie. Not that I’ve told her I offered him a job at all. I should do that. Or not. Can I really work with a guy I’m lusting after?
