“Fine,” I concede with a dismissive wave. “Schedule it. Tomorrow. Late afternoon.”
Relief crosses Davis’s face, quickly masked. “She’s on her way here.”
“What?” I sit up straighter, anger flashing through me. “You brought her to the compound without approval?”
“She was in town, and the agency said she could come today. I told Franklin to expect her at four.” Davis checks his watch. “Which is in about twenty minutes.”
“Jesus Christ, Davis.” I run a hand through my hair, frustration making my movements sharp. “You can’t just?—”
“I can and I did. You need an assistant, and I need to get back to Manhattan for the Blackridge meeting tomorrow morning.” He closes his portfolio with a decisive snap. “Interview her, hire her, don’t hire her—I don’t care. But at least meet her before you say no.”
The fight goes out of me, not because I agree, but because I recognize the stubborn set of Davis’s jaw. I’ve lost this round before it even began.
“Fine,” I repeat, the word clipped and cold. “Send her in when she arrives. But don’t expect miracles.”
Davis nods, satisfied with his victory.
“I never do. That’s why we work well together.” He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “And Caleb?”
I look up, already reaching for the next report on my desk. “What?”
“Try not to make the poor girl cry.”
The door closes behind him before I can respond. I stare at the space where he stood, torn between irritation and something dangerously close to amusement.
I glance at the resume folder, then shove it aside. Twenty minutes. I can get through at least two more reports before this Nola Vance arrives to waste my time.
Twenty minutes later,Franklin’s voice cuts through the silence of my office, the intercom crackling to life with unnecessary formality.
“Sir, the candidate from the Wren Agency has arrived.”
“Send her in,” I reply, not bothering to hide my disinterest. I straighten the papers on my desk, more to give my hands something to do than out of any real concern for order.
The door opens and Nola walks in.
Suddenly, I forget how to breathe.
She isn’t what I expected at all.
Honey-blonde hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders, catching the afternoon light that streams through my windows. Her eyes—sharp, intelligent, the kind that miss nothing—scan the room before settling on me. But it’s her mouth that destroys my concentration. She has a pouty lower lip, slightly upturned corners, the kind of mouth designed specifically to make men lose their fucking minds.
The kind that makes it impossible to focus on anything but what it would feel like wrapped around my cock.
Fuck me.
She smiles at Franklin as he shows her in, and something hot and possessive claws at my insides. Franklin, the traitorousbastard, actually returns it with a slight nod that’s practically effusive coming from him.
I force my attention to her clothes, looking for an anchor, something to pull me back to professional detachment.
Her outfit is neat but clearly worn. A black skirt, not expensive but well-maintained. White blouse with the collar starting to fray at the edges if you know what to look for. I do. I recognize the careful preservation of limited resources, the strategic deployment of a wardrobe stretched to its limits. I see the effort she’s made with what she has.
I suddenly want to strip every piece of fabric off her body and replace it all. Want to see her dressed in silk and cashmere, in fabrics worth touching. Want to watch her walk back through my door wearing clothes I’ve chosen, clothes that mark her as?—
“Good afternoon, Mr. Asher.” Her voice is low and smoky. “Thank you for meeting with me. I’m Nola Vance.”
I stand, forcing my face into neutral lines.
“Ms. Vance.” I extend my hand across the desk, a formality I typically avoid.
