Gone is the sweet, poised man I’d seen in my office yesterday. In its place is someone else. Someone I don’t know yet, but hope to get to know soon enough.
TherealOliver. Not the one that he pretends to be, for the sake of the job.
Though I had hoped it would take me longer to break him.
“Yeah, you could say that,” he says, his voice almost soft.
“Well, perhaps if you do a good job for me, I will reward you.”
Oliver’s gaze drifts to mine. He stares at me skeptically.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, darling. I’m not a monster.”
Well, most of the time, I am not. Most of the time I can pass as a smart, straight, functional human being.
Even if it’s not true. But truth in my line of work isn’t something that can be afforded to most. Truth is what divides. Lies are the currency of the trade.
“Mostly.” I give him a surreptitious grin. Normally, I would refrain from flirting with my assistants, not because they have been women, but because the effort of doing so seemed almost pointless before.
But we are not at the office. We are in my car. In my space. Though I’m sure Oliver could complain, I doubt he will. He doesn’t seem the type to make waves, and even if he did, I doubt HR would believe him given the carefully constructed image I’ve created.
No man has ever blown the whistle on me, and they never will.
Because I cover my ass. With contracts and NDAs. Even Robert has kept quiet, likely because he knows I can and would utilize our former contract against him should he ever try to slander me. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to make my life a living hell, seeing how he was so keen on being a victim.
But I digress. The last man on Earth I want to think about—especially with Oliver in my presence, is my ex.
“Any man who gets up before six am is by definition a monster,” Oliver touts.
I chuckle.
“Is that why you are so sour, darling? Not a morning person?”
“Not before I’ve had my coffee," he says, shifting in his seat again.
The grimace returns.
“Hmmm. And does the coffee… help? Does it make you sweeter?”
Oliver twists his lips. “I suppose.”
“I take it you haven’t eaten, yet?”
“I had a Pop-Tart," he bites.
I laugh. “A Pop-Tart. Fucking hell, Oliver, that’snotbreakfast. That’s a last resort.”
“I like Pop-Tarts!” he says, crossing his arms. “They are fast and easy, and—”
“Toddlers eat Pop-Tarts.”
“And what do you classify as asuitablebreakfast, Sir?” His tone is sharp, and I half consider getting rid of the espresso machine altogether if only so I can getthisversion of Oliver every day.
Every day.
That is… if he stays. If he does not decide I am too much to handle. Though for one hundred and twenty grand a year, I would hope he can handle a little flirting and some banter.
Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I felt intrigued enough by a person to flirt with them like this. Privately.
