This interview was supposed to be a formality, a courtesy to Davis that would result in another rejection. Instead, I’m sitting here imagining how she’d look in clothes I’ve bought her, wondering about her life, noticing the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder.
“You’ll have dinner with me tonight,” I say abruptly.
Her eyebrows rise slightly. It’s the first sign of surprise she’s shown.
“Dinner?”
“To continue the interview.”
It’s not a request. It’s not even entirely professional. But I need more time to figure out what the hell is happening here, why this unremarkable candidate on paper is anything but unremarkable in person.
She studies me for a moment, those intelligent eyes taking my measure. Then she nods once. “Alright. I’ll have dinner with you tonight.”
“Franklin will show you to the guest room where you can freshen up. Dinner is at seven.” I stand, signaling that this part of our discussion is over.
She rises smoothly, that same quiet grace in every movement. “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Asher.”
When she extends her hand again, I take it automatically. The second touch is no less electric than the first. I release her quickly this time, unwilling to reveal how affected I am.
“Seven o’clock,” I repeat.
She nods, then turns and walks to the door. I watch her go, unable to tear my eyes away from the subtle curve of her hips beneath the simple skirt.
The door closes behind her, and I sink back into my chair, feeling like I’ve been running uphill for miles. My heart pounds against my ribs. My skin feels too tight for my body.
What the fuck just happened?
I’ve conducted hundreds of interviews. Hired dozens of employees. None of them have ever affected my like this. I press my fingers against my closed eyes, trying to regain equilibrium. This is dangerous. This feeling—this instant, visceral want—it’s a vulnerability I can’t afford. I need to get control back. Need to remember who I am and why I’m here.
I reach for the mouse and pull up the security feed. I watch her follow Franklin down the long, shadowed hallway toward the guest wing. Her back is straight and her chin is lifted. She doesn’t look intimidated by my fortress, by my cameras, or by me.
Chapter Two
NOLA
Franklin walks aheadof me at a military clip, his broad shoulders filling the corridor as he leads me deeper into the mountain compound. I struggle to keep up, taking in the gleaming floors, the reinforced glass walls, the cameras mounted in every corner with their tiny red lights watching.
This place feels like a fortress built to keep the world out. Or maybe to keep something in. Either way, I’m suddenly aware of how small I am.
“The main living quarters are accessible through your biometric clearance,” Franklin says without turning around. His voice is as crisp as his posture. “Mr. Asher’s private wing is restricted at all times.”
I nod, then realize he can’t see me. “Understood.”
“Security protocols are non-negotiable,” he continues as we pass another reinforced door with a fingerprint scanner beside it. “All exterior doors lock automatically at sunset. The system requires authentication to enter any room except your own. Cameras monitor all common areas. Privacy mode is available in your suite only.”
My fingers fidget with the strap of my bag. It’s embarrassingly light. The agency had been clear the position islive-in and that if Mr. Asher offered me the role that I would be expected to move in immediately. So I packed everything I had, which took about four minutes and made me want to sit on the floor and rethink every decision that led me here. I wonder if Franklin notices. He seems like the type who notices everything and comments on nothing.
“Does Mr. Asher always live with this much... security?” I ask.
Franklin pauses. His expression gives nothing away, but something flickers behind his eyes.
“Mr. Asher values his privacy.”
Not really an answer. I file that away, another puzzle piece about the man with the scar and the eyes that seem to see right through me.
We reach another door at the end of a corridor lined with windows overlooking dense pine forest. Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks still capped with snow despite the May warmth. It’s beautiful and isolating all at once. Thirty minutes to town, Mr. Asher had said. Thirty minutes between here and the nearest human who isn’t him or Franklin. I should feel trapped by that thought, but instead, something inside me relaxes.
No one to answer to. No one’s couch to sleep on. No sympathetic but increasingly impatient friends wondering when I’ll get back on my feet.
