“Owen’s looking for a personal assistant to manage his various foundations and charities.”
“And that’s where I come in.”
Standing, I pace around the room, my mind instantly questioning how to insert myself into his life. What might he be like, and how I can protect myself from someone like him, should I have to? Is he your typical, hot guy billionaire? Or is he something worse?
He’s accused of murder, so probably worse.
“It won’t be easy, Nova,” Declan interrupts my thoughts. “I couldn’t get you an interview for a position in his acquisitions department. You’ll be hard-pressed to get evidence working with his charities, but at least it’s a personal assistant position. You might still be able to find a way in.”
I stop pacing and look at him. “You doubt me?”
Declan smiles genuinely. “I would never doubt you.” He pauses again, as if debating whether or not to say the next part. “I know how you are with guys like him. You’re going to have to pretend to actually like him.”
“So no punching, kicking, or knives to the throat?” I ask, grinning innocently.
Declan rolls his eyes. “You can punish the bastard by putting him behind bars.”
“Not nearly as fun,” I mumble.
He laughs, loud and genuine this time. “Go do your research. Your interview is in two days.”
Chapter 2
Two days fly by, and I don't feel prepared, even with all my research. I’m accustomed to targets who already have established records and primarily work within crime syndicates. Those bastards are easy to take out because no one cares if they are found dead or alive. They are also easy to manipulate with a racy outfit and shameless flirting. They are all the same—thinking pretty women have no brains and are only after a slice of their fortune.
Owen Mills is a different story. Although he has a reputation with the ladies, it's clear that he vets his employees with meticulous attention to detail. He requires extensive interviews, background checks, references, years of experience, the highest degrees an education can buy, and even a trial period.
All for a personal assistant position.
The strangest requirement is “a love of plants.”
I fly through the initial interviews with a panel of his employees, playing a part I know well. No one suspects the lies that easily spill from my lips during the video calls.
They buy it all.
My extensive research into the company pays off, which is how I find myself staring into captivating green eyes on the other side of my computerscreen a few days later. My sparsely-decorated office is the perfect place for the interview. It’s quiet and unassuming, giving nothing away.
“Good morning, Miss Riley. My team seems quite taken with you.” Owen’s voice is deep and rich, and I almost roll my eyes at his insinuating tone.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mills,” I reply, adding a sweet smile to finish off my image.
He smirks back, appearing satisfied that I didn’t take the bait. “You seem to check all the boxes, Miss Riley. I only have a few questions for you before we give this a trial run.” I nod when he pauses. He continues, “What is your opinion on the food system here in America?”
An odd question to ask, but since his charities are mainly focused on changing agriculture, I’m prepared with an answer. “The food system is not only insufficient, creating more waste than necessary while still not supplying enough to everyone, it is also at risk of failure due to climate change and loss of topsoil.” I pause, gauging his reaction, worried my response was too rehearsed. Too rigid.
His brow furrows as he watches me, the smirk gone. He sits up straighter when I begin to speak again.
“But if you’re asking me my personal opinion,” I add, taking a sip of my cappuccino, “Then I think the power needs to go back to local small farmers. They need the resources and money to switch to regenerative ways of tending the land. And not just farmers—everyone. Even if all they have is a small apartment balcony or a window box. The money shouldn’t be going into the hands of large farm owners, regardless of their promises to switch to regenerative agriculture. Farming shouldn’t be a monopoly run by billionaires. It should be a community effort. It should be something everyone buys into and controls.”
Mr. Mills smiles, and this time it isn’t a cordial one. It’s an authentic one, lighting up his whole face and causing a single dimple to appear on the leftside. It’s nice, until he opens his mouth. “There is more to you than what’s on the surface. I see why my employees like you.”
Once again, I grit my teeth at the insinuation. He can’t be more than thirty-five years old, and despite my hate for him, he’s more than easy on the eyes. Yet he’s a billionaire CEO and has the nerve to assume I’m all surface-level. He’s captivating, with dark hair, light brown skin, and the brightest green eyes I’ve ever seen. His messy hair falls to his brow, and even through a computer screen, I have the urge to brush it aside.
I don’t know how to respond to his little comment, so I say simply, “Thank you, Mr. Mills.”
“Owen.”
I raise my brows.
