He nods once, as if confirming something to himself. “Practical.”
“Necessary,” I correct gently.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, but it feels different now. Less awkward, more contemplative. I’ve laid bare more than I intended, the full precariousness of my situation spread out between us like the silverware on this table. But there’s a strange relief in the honesty. No pretense, no façade of success or stability. Just the truth: I need this job, and we both know it.
“Tell me why I should hire you, Ms. Vance,” Caleb asks as Franklin clears our plates. “Specifically, you.”
I consider my answer carefully. “I think I have the right temperament for the position.”
“Which means?”
“It means I don’t scare easily.” I meet his gaze. “And I understand the value of privacy.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Fourteen assistants have sat where you’re sitting in the past year. None lasted more than a few weeks. Why will you be different?”
Because I have nowhere else to go. Because I’m down to my last options. Because failure isn’t something I can afford.
But I don’t say any of that.
“Because I don’t need to understand you to work for you. I just need clear directions and reasonable expectations.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“The expectations aren’t reasonable. I’m demanding, exacting, and intolerant of mistakes. I expect availability at all hours, absolute discretion, and flawless execution of tasks.”
“That sounds reasonable to me,” I reply honestly. “As long as the tasks themselves are possible.”
He leans back slightly, something like surprise crossing his features. “You’re either desperate or delusional.”
“Maybe a little of both,” I admit with a small smile. “But I’m also good at what I do.”
Caleb’s jaw tightens. Then he sets down his napkin with deliberate precision.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Ms. Vance,” he says. “Seven o’clock. Franklin will show you to my office.”
Then he stands and walks out of the dining room without another word.
Chapter Three
CALEB
I’ve beenawake for hours, my cock hard and aching in my hand for the fourth time since midnight.
Her face won’t leave me alone. Those eyes that looked straight at me without flinching, that mouth that I can’t stop imagining against my skin.
Fuck.
She’s been in my house less than twenty-four hours and already she’s crawled under my skin like a splinter I can’t dig out.
I finish with a grunt that sounds more like pain than pleasure, come spilling hot over my fist. It helps exactly as much as it did the first three times.
Which is to say, not at all.
I reach for the tissues on my nightstand, clean myself off with clinical efficiency.
I should be disgusted with myself.
Fourteen assistants in twelve months, and I never once thought about any of them after hours. Never imagined the sounds they’d make underneath me. Never jerked off thinking about the curve of their necks or the way their lips formed words.
