Apparently, I'm not the only one who senses it. When we get in, the office is dead silent. People scurry out of his way like they're afraid to breathe in his direction.
He's oblivious, his eyes glued to his phone like it holds nuclear codes.
I hover in the doorway as he stalks to his desk, muttering under his breath.
"Coffee?" I ask.
"Not now," he says, not looking up from his phone. "We don't have time."
I don't even make it to my desk before he reverses course, striding toward the door. "We have an important meeting in ten minutes. A new client who refuses to meet with anyone else. Be ready."
I don't get a chance to ask what I need to prep before he's stalking into the hallway, leaving me alone in the office to figure it out my damn self.
"What the fuck?" I mutter, staring after him. Last night, he was almost perfect. He held me like I was the most important thing in the world. He fucked me so sweetly in his bed, whispering praise and adoration until I couldn't breathe. Now, he's back to being cold and closed off.
It's as exhausting as it is infuriating. It's not really surprising, though. Anytime things get too real for him, he retreats, like he's afraid to let himself feel anything good. Like he's not allowed to feel it.
Which means today will probably be hell. He'll punish us both, just to try to prove to himself that I'm not under his skin. He'll fail, but he'll try like hell anyway.
Ten minutes later, I hear voices in the hall. Asher's is little more than a rough growl, but there's another one—male, but as smooth as ice, with the confidence of someone who's always gotten what he wanted.
As soon as they step into the office, I recognize him instantly. Miles Andrews is the next big thing, the actor every director wants, and the man every woman in America wants to fuck. I've never met him, but my brother has worked with him a few times over the last three years.
He's tall, with shaggy blond hair and a smile that looks like it belongs on a model. His suit is a shade too tight, the shirt unbuttoned enough to show off a line of tattoos peeking out from his collarbone.
Miles notices me the moment he steps into the office. His blue eyes lock on mine, his stare so intense it burns. My stomach churns with anxiety as I glance from him to Asher, not because I'm afraid of Miles, but because I know that look. I've seen it a thousand times before, and it always leads to disaster and destruction. Every single time a man has looked at me like that, Asher has destroyed him, just to prove he could.
Part of me—the wild, bratty side that loves ruining Asher's day as much as he loves ruining mine—wants to bat my lashes and flirt just to piss him off. But the biggest part knows not to push, not right now. Not when he was almost human all weekend. If I push now, he'll snap, just to try to prove to himself that he's still in control here.
Instead, I send up a prayer for today to go well…but the ball of anxiety in my stomach and the way Miles stares at me says it won't.
"You must be Brielle," he says right on cue, holding out his hand with a smile that probably charms half the country out of their panties. "Miles Andrews. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
"Hi." I smile, accepting his hand for a quick shake.
Except, he doesn't let go immediately, not even when I tug. He lingers, his thumb brushing the back of my wrist. "Your brother always has a lot to say about you. You're even moregorgeous than your picture," he says. He glances at Asher, who is watching the interaction like he's measuring us both for caskets. "You didn't tell me that your assistant was Dabry's goddess of a sister."
I finally manage to slide my hand away, thrusting it behind my back like he might try to grab it again.
"I wasn't aware you needed to know anything about who works with me," Asher snaps, stomping toward his desk. "Let's get to business, shall we?" He drags my chair right up beside his, pointing at it. "Brielle, take notes."
I quickly hurry toward him, my cheeks blazing as I create as much distance between Miles and me as possible.
Miles arches a brow at me, like he's asking what Asher's problem is. I pretend not to see the look, refusing to explain or apologize for Asher as I take the seat beside him, half expecting him to bite my head off. The way he's glowering at me, it wouldn't surprise me. He's mad as hell, a muscle in his jaw ticking.
Miles sits across the desk, legs spread, arms draped over the chair's arms like he's posing for a magazine cover. "So," he says. "How does this work? You sign me, get me a multi-million-dollar deal, and I get to play superhero?"
Asher's face is a mask, but his knuckles are white where he grips the edge of his desk. "We represent talent, not dreams. If you want to work with us, you need to be prepared to work harder than you ever have in your life."
Miles leans in, grinning. "Is that a threat or a promise, Blackstock?"
"It's a fact," Asher snaps. "I don't give a shit what your dreams are. If I represent you, you make me money. In turn, I make you one of the biggest stars in the world."
They stare each other down in a way that reminds me of two dogs preparing to go for the other's throat.
After a moment, Miles turns to me. "Do you ever get used to him?" He jerks his thumb toward Asher, his blue eyes dancing with amusement.
"Used to what?" I ask, like Asher's attitude isn't obvious.
