But here I am, dick in hand like a fucking teenager, all because Nola Vance sat across from me in a worn yellow dress and didn’t flinch at my scar.
I shove the sheets back and sit up, pressing the heels of my hands against my closed eyes until I see stars.
This has to stop. She’s an employee. A temporary solution to a staffing problem. Nothing more.
The shower does nothing to clear my head. Hot water sluices over my shoulders, down my back, and all I can think about is her hands. Small but strong, nails short and clean. Practical hands. What would they feel like on my skin? In my hair? Wrapped around my?—
“Fuck.” I slam the temperature to cold, letting the shock of it drive the thoughts away.
It works for about thirty seconds.
My morning routine is precise. Shower at 6:00. Dressed by 6:20. Breakfast at 6:30. Office by 7:00. It’s 6:22 now. I should be heading downstairs for coffee and whatever Franklin has prepared.
Instead, I find myself walking toward the east wing. Toward her room.
I tell myself there’s a reason for this deviation. That I need to brief her on the day’s expectations. That I should check if she needs anything before we begin work. But these are lies I’m not even convincing myself with. I want to see her. Simple as that.
Pathetic as that.
Her door is open when I reach it. Franklin is inside, straightening the already immaculate bed. He looks up at my approach, and something shifts in his expression.
He’s not surprised to see me here.
“Good morning, sir.” He straightens, his hands clasped behind his back. “I trust you slept well?”
I glare at him. “Where is she?”
“Ms. Vance has been in your office since 5:30, sir.” Franklin’s voice gives away nothing. “She declined breakfast, saying she wanted to review the files before you began your day.”
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest. “What files?”
“The quarterly reports you left on your desk, sir. And the Thorne Industries contract.” He pauses. “She also asked for coffee. Black, no sugar. I took the liberty of bringing her a second cup at 6:15.”
I stare at him. Franklin stares back, his face a mask of professional neutrality. But there’s a hint of amusement there, too.
My eyes move past him to the room. The bed is made with corners sharp enough to cut paper. No personal items on the surfaces. No clothes visible. The only sign that someone occupies this space is a single framed photograph on the nightstand. It’s a picture of an older woman with silver hair, smiling in front of a farmhouse.
“Is there anything else you require, sir?” Franklin’s question pulls me back to the present.
“No, that’s all.” I step back from the doorway. “Thank you, Franklin.”
“Of course, sir.”
I turn and walk away, my steps quickening as I head toward the stairs.
She’s been in my office for almost two hours. Going through my files. Sitting at my desk. Touching my things.
I should be furious.
Should be storming down there, ready to fire her on the spot for overstepping. No previous assistant has ever dared enter my office without explicit permission, let alone before I arrived for the day.
I take the stairs faster than usual.
When I walk into my office, I see Nola sitting in my chair. My fucking chair. Her head is bent over a stack of papers she’s sorting through while a few strands of her blonde hair hang loose from her ponytail.
Fuck.
I want to pull that elastic from her hair and watch it tumble down around her shoulders. Want to mess up all that neat control she’s wrapped herself in. The realization makes me even more irritated than finding her in my seat.
