I glance back at Aidan—Brooks?—shrugging. It’s not the end of the world, really. In fact, I realize, as he turns and strides from the room and I scramble to keep up with him in my heels, maybe this is a good thing. We got along well at Marco’s, and he was a great listener, not to mention kind. My father could have assigned me to some douche who ogles me, or barks orders atme, or talks down to me, but Aidan’s not like that. Not from what I can recall, anyway.
And that’s before we even get to the fact that this man is sheer eye candy. I don’t mind getting paid to look at him all day, even if my fatheristaking half my paycheck. For the first time since Dad forced me into this job, I feel a tiny spasm of relief. Maybe working here won’t be so bad.
I follow him into what I assume is his office, smiling hopefully, and he turns to shove his office door closed behind me. While I’m sure this isn’t his intention, I get an image of him swiping his desk clear to bend me over it, and bite back a naughty smile. I would most definitely be on board with that.
But when he turns back to me, the color draining from his face, my smile falters.
“How old are you?” he asks in a low voice.
I cringe. “I’m, uh, twenty-six.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He wipes a hand down his face, exhaling roughly. “You said you were in your thirties.”
“Actually,yousaid that. I just didn’t correct you.”
“It’s the same thing,” he grates out, and I lift a shoulder.
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
His eyes meet mine, incredulous. “How could it not matter?”
“Well…” I shift my weight. I mean, yes, I lied, but it’s not as if I’dplannedto pull him into the restroom. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again.
Besides, it’s not like I’m underage. Not even close.
A muscle tics in his jaw. “I’m assuming you’re not a student at Columbia,” he mutters, and I cringe again, glancing away.
“It’s… complicated.”
“It’s not complicated,” he says in a low, angry voice. “You lied.”
My jaw falls open. He’s not wrong, but it’s not like it was intentional. I didn’t set out to fool him—I lied to hide my shame. My humiliation at fucking up yet another thing in my life.
“What aboutyou?” I retort. “Your name isn’t even Aidan.”
“Of course it is,” he replies, voice infuriatingly calm. “There are two Aidans here, so everyone at work calls me by my last name, Brooks.”
Oh.
That makes me feel momentarily better.
Until he says, “You can’t be my assistant. There’s no way this can work.”
And even though ten minutes ago I didn’t want this damn job, indignation darts through me. Why doesheget to be the one who’s annoyed?
“You’ll have to take that up with my father,” I reply crisply. He grimaces, and I feel the power shift, feel myself gain the upper hand, because no way will he tell my father what happened between us. Fooling around with the boss’s daughter—regardless of whether you knew who she was—is a big no-no. Especially when you’re, ooh, I’d guess around eighteen years older than her?
He stares at me as this sinks in, and I contemplate my next move.Icould tell Dad what happened and use it as my ticket out of here. It would cause problems for Aidan, that’s for sure, but let’s face it, I don’t even know the guy. Not to mention he’s being a complete jerk right now. But most importantly, it would set me free. Dad would never allow me to work under—ahem—a man I’d had a thing with, especially not at his firm. Admittedly, it wouldn’t makemelook very good either—typical Iris, finding yet another way to make a mess of things—but I’d be far enough away from this place not to care.
Goddammit. How the hell did I end up here? I wanted to do something wild and reckless, something to take back control of my life.Onething just for myself, and I can’t even have that.
My gaze drifts around Aidan’s office, taking in the decor for the first time: exposed brick walls, double windows overlooking the quiet street below, and a threadbare Persian rug covering the pine floorboards. In the center squats a large, solid oak desk, facing the door. Chunky wooden bookshelves line one wall, an antique drafting table against the other, laid out neatly with papers and a triangular scale ruler, framed blueprints hanging above. An old Chesterfield sofa sits against the wall behind me, the whiskey-colored leather cracked and worn bare in places. The entire space is immaculate, but the warm, cozy feeling of the decor fits the old brownstone perfectly, and is the polar opposite of the modern elements in my father’s office; the large, matte-black executive desk, integrated LED shelving that highlights his awards, and the state-of-the-art drafting tablet in place of a traditional drafting table. My father’s space is efficient, no-nonsense, and intentionally cool in tone.
Much like the man himself.
And I realize, as I glance back at Aidan, that I don’t have the upper hand at all. It’s one thing to imagine walking into my father’s office and telling him I can’t work with Aidan because we have a sexual history, and another thing altogether to actually do it. Even if Icouldsummon the courage, I still owe my father thousands of dollars, and I’m still at a loss for what I’d do next.
But it’s not only that. I’ve taken a beating over the past couple days, what with being kicked out of school and having my father rub salt in the wound by accusing me of not even trying. I’m not sure I could take much more from him.
