When her fingers touch mine, another jolt runs through me. Her hand is smaller than mine, but her grip is firm. I hold on a fraction too long before releasing her.
“Thank you, Franklin, that will be all.”
Franklin hesitates for just a moment and that slight pause tells me he’s noticed something off in my tone. I level a cold stare at him, and he withdraws with a slight bow of his head.
Then door closes, leaving me alone with Nola.
I gesture to the chair across from my desk.
“Please have a seat.”
She sits, smooth and graceful, crossing her legs at the ankle. Her posture is perfect and her shoulders are relaxed. Like she belongs here. Like she owns the chair and the office and maybe me.
Fuck.
I need to get my shit together.
“Davis tells me you’re looking for an executive assistant position,” I say, forcing myself back into interview mode.
“Yes, I am.” She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t rush to fill the silence with nervous chatter like most candidates do. Instead, she waits.
I pick up her resume, pretending I haven’t already dismissed it.
“Well, I’m sorry Ms. Vance, but I’m afraid your experience is rather... limited.”
“Perhaps. But my capabilities aren’t.”
The directness of her response catches me off guard.
“The position requires discretion,” I tell her, watching for her reaction. “Absolute confidentiality. My life and work remain private.”
“I understand boundaries, Mr. Asher.” Something flickers in her expression. Not quite amusement, but close. “And I respect them.”
I lean back in my chair, trying to create more distance between us. It doesn’t help. The air feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.
“The position is live-in,” I say, watching her carefully. “The compound is remote. The nearest town is thirty minutes away. Most assistants find the isolation... challenging.”
“I’m not most assistants.” She holds my gaze without wavering. “And I don’t mind isolation.”
There’s a story there, something behind those words. I find myself wanting to know it, which is unusual. I typically don’t care about the personal lives of my employees. Their problems are their own, as long as they do their jobs.
But I want to know hers. I want to unravel her like a puzzle, one layer at a time.
“Your references?” I ask, though I could just read the damn resume in my hand.
“All in the file.” She nods toward the paper I’m holding. “My former employer closed six months ago. I’ve been doing freelance work since then.”
That explains the worn clothes. Six months without steady income would strain anyone’s wardrobe. I find myself wondering where she’s been living, who she’s been relying on. Whether she has a boyfriend waiting for her somewhere.
The thought makes my jaw clench.
“And you’re available immediately?”
For some reason, the question comes out more like a demand.
“Yes.” Again, that direct answer without elaboration.
I need to end this before I lose more ground.
