I rip my hands away and cement them to my sides. I don’t need to be noticing my female campaign manager’s muscles—or body shape. That’s a lawsuit begging to happen.
“Sir, why did you tell that woman you’re seeing someone? You’ve been on three blind dates and have turned every woman down. Is there something you’re not telling me?” Hayden’s hands find their natural home on her hips as she continues on. “If you’re seeing someone, I need to…”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Stop calling me sir. I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Why did you say that?This has got to…”
The pitch of her voice continuously grows with each passing word, piercing profusely into my skin. Closing my eyes, I uncross one arm and lean my head into my hand, pressing my fingers to my right, aching temple. Tuning her out isn’t working, no matter how hard I try.
“…makingmelook bad…”
“Hayden. I said stop.” My voice is as sharp as a pin prick.
The silence is a welcome guest. I rub my temple one last time before opening my eyes. Her eyes—a rich shade of cocoa—sparkle like they're on the verge of dumping tears.
Why?Why do I always go one step too far and make her want to cry?
A deep sigh releases from my chest as I think over my next move and drop my arms to my sides once more. Hayden remains silent just as I asked.
No,ordered.
What’s the harm in one more command? “Follow me.”
The moment I begin walking away, I hear her heels in pursuit. She follows at a distance, probably to make sure she doesn’t wind up in my arms again.
Good. Personal space is imperative.
I journey through my home, weaving around corridors and taking a set of stairs. Eventually, we arrive at the third floor sitting room, which is tucked away in a corner of the house. It’s much different than the first floor sitting room where the interview was held. That room screams old money, and it’s what everyone expects in a house like mine. I strictly reserve this third-floor room for one-on-one conferences that I need to make sure remain outof earshot. It’s also cozy and comfortable and doesn’t overwhelm the senses. Plus, the shorter walls are lined with eras of knowledge accumulated in the form of the written word.
A room more preferential to my tastes.
After opening the door and breathing in the smell of old books, I sweep my arm to motion for Hayden to enter first. Her brows knit and a crinkle forms just above the bridge of her nose.
“After you,” she says, dropping her head.
I don’t have time for this.
Her heels follow me into the little nook.
Taking a seat in one of the dark brown velvet armchairs, I motion for Hayden to do the same. She sits, smoothing her black skirt and tucking her legs off to the side. I catch a glimpse of white gauze on her hand as she reaches for a stray curl in her face.
“What happened this time?” I ask with a huff of annoyance. Is it too much to ask that my campaign manager remains whole and unbroken for the duration of this campaign?
Her face twists in confusion before her dark brown eyes bug out at the sight of her hand. She yanks the injured hand down to her lap, covering it with her other hand.
“A little scrape from cleaning up glass earlier, that’s all. No biggie.”
I briefly recall something shattering during the interview. “Who dropped the glass? Why couldn’t one of the housekeepers clean it up?”
Her tawny cheeks flush as she looks down at her hands. “I dropped the cup I was holding when you mentioned a girlfriend.”She meets my gaze. “So, I guess it was technically your fault for lying to that interviewer. I mean, we haven’t even discussed—“
“That’s why I brought you here. Please, fix this.”
She stares at me, mouth agape. A beat later, she erupts with laughter, jabbing her finger to her chest. “Me? Fixyourlie?” She laughs more, and I grow on-edge with every cackle.
“Yes, you. You were already supposed to have someone lined up like I requested last month.”
Hayden makes a sound somewhere between a snort and huff. Then she adopts a horrid impression of what I’m assuming to be my voice. “She’s too tall. She’s too short. She’s cretinous. She’s tiresome.”
