The wall ends. I know this space. It is the informal lounge area outside Mr. Hale’s office, complete with gleaming leather couches and a view of the lake that I have never properly appreciated until right this moment when I can’t actually see it.
Bastian Hale.The head honcho himself. He’s six-foot-something of blond-and-blue perfection wrapped in Tom Ford suits and an ego with its own gravitational field. To be fair, it’s sort of earned—the man built a hospitality empire from nothing before his fortieth birthday.
The first problem is that he knows he’s a genius.
The other problem is that he never, ever lets anyone forget it.
He goes through assistants like tissue paper and, if the rumors are true, he goes through romantic partners even faster. Given the way half the women on staff look at him, the rumors are probably understating things.
Not thatIlook at him. Much. Okay, I’m human and possess functioning eyeballs—for the next ninety days, anyway—so yes, I have noticed that he is unfairly attractive in that way that makes you angry at genetics for being so unequally distributed. He’s taller than seems necessary and smells better than the job requires.
But I have also noticed he is an absolute nightmare to work for. The project manager position I currently occupy only became available in the first place because he gave the last girl a mental breakdown when she used the wrong shade of cream in a menu layout.
Fortunately, his office is vacant right now. It is past nine, and even Bastian Hale has to go home sometime. Probably to his Gold Coast penthouse with its wraparound views of Lake Michigan and whichever VS supermodel is gracing his bedsheets this week.
Assuming he has bedsheets, that is. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sleeps in a coffin like Dracula.
I move forward, gaining confidence little by little, step by step. Maybe it is stupid, but I feel almost giddy. Like I’m getting away with something. I’m reclaiming some tiny piece of control in a day that has stripped me of almost everything.
I pick up speed. My hands swing freely now instead of clutching at walls. I can do this. I can adapt. I can overcome all things through spite and stubbornness who strengthens me. I am strong, I am powerful, I am woman, hear me?—!
What.
My palms make contact with something warm. Something solid. Something that is definitely not a wall or a piece of furniture or any inanimate object that should reasonably be in an office at 9 P.M. on a Thursday.
It is skin. Warm, bare skin stretched over what feels like an absolutely ridiculous amount of muscle. The kind of torso that suggests its owner either has a serious gym addiction or was crafted by Michelangelo during a particularly inspired phase.
For one horrible, endless second, I keep my hands there. My brain short-circuits as it tries to process what is happening.
Then, slowly, with the kind of dawning horror usually reserved for people who’ve just realized they’ve replied-all to the entire company with something deeply inappropriate, I open my eyes.
It is, in fact, the worst-case scenario.
Bastian Hale stands there, topless, a white dress shirt dangling from one hand. He’s looking at me with that trademark blend of scorn and weariness that he does so well. It’s a look that says,You do not even deserve my attention, much less my wrath.
Unfortunately for me, he wears that look well.
I blame the chin. It’s just shaped too perfectly. No one outside of Henry Cavill should have a chin that artistically cleft, that masculine, that blunt.
Although, as I gawk up at Bastian and wonder just how bad the fallout is going to be from this disaster, I’m starting to wonder if maybe the brows are also at fault here. They slice above his blue eyes, two cliffs overlooking two icy mountain lakes, set on either side of the ever-so-slightly crooked ridge of his nose. His mouth is a stern slash, twisted up, ten percent smirk and ninety percent scowl.
Aw, screw it; I can’t decide. The whole face is guilty of letting him get away with saying so much toxic crap. Crap like:
“Ms. Hunter.” His voice is a baritone rumble. “Care to explain what you’re doing?”
My hands are still on his chest. Why are my hands still on his chest? Why can’t I move? Why is he shirtless? Why is my brain choosing this exact moment to notice that he has a small scar just below his left collarbone, and a tattoo on his left pec, and a light dusting of hair leading from his chest, down the valley of his abs, and then teasing me as it descends lower and lower, into?—
“I—” I yank my hands back so fast I nearly lose my balance. “I wasn’t— This isn’t— Why are you shirtless?”
God, I hate how my voice sounds to my own ears. So squeaky and shrill. Somewhere down the block, a dog just got very concerned for me.
One of Bastian’s eyebrows floats up. “Generally, that’s what happens when one changes clothes.”
“It’s nine at night!”
“How remarkably observant of you. And here I thought you had your eyes closed.” He tilts his head. “Which brings us to the more interesting question: Why were you wandering around my office in the dark, looking for victims to grope?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
