Page 72 of The Accident

“Hey,” I stammer, utterly stumped. “What are you doing here?”

He looks just as surprised.

Kayleigh?” he asks. “I’m here for a preliminary assessment for a client. What are you doing here?”

I stammer again, blushing.

“Well, I mean…well, I live here.”

He’s stunned.

“You live here? But this is Trevor Cahill’s penthouse, is it not?” he asks, checking his notes.

My cheeks flame.

“Yes, and I’m his personal assistant,” I babble. “Mr. Cahill hired me after the auction as his assistant. The kind that lives in-home. In a different bedroom,” I stammer. “He’s not home right now, so he asked me to give you a tour.”

Evan shoots me a long, assessing look. He’s just as I remember: tan, athletic, white-blonde hair just starting to grow in after a close cut, blue eyes that register everything, and a smile that goes all the way up into the small lines at the corners of his eyes. He wears a charcoal suit tailored sharp as glass, a portfolio tucked under one arm, and a pair of black Oxfords that are actually shined. Oh my god, he’s so professional and handsome, and I look the exact opposite. I literally see his gaze skim my make-up free face, sliding to the hem of my denim skirt, then drifting down to my socked feet on the marble. I’m the opposite of put-together, and I feel my cheeks go instantly hot. Still, Evan’s too polite to say anything.

“Of course,” he murmurs. “You’re Mr. Cahill’s assistant. I’m looking forward to the tour.”

I hesitate just long enough to betray my nerves, then smile—too wide, all teeth. “Great, great. Please, come in.”

He steps inside, the scent of aftershave and fresh paper preceding him by a half-second. He takes in the foyer with a sweep of his head, then looks back at me, expression polite.

“So how are you, Kayleigh?” he asks, letting his eyes linger a half-second too long. “It’s been a while.”

Oh my god, is this man flirting? Or fishing? Or maybe, he’s just naturally inclined to cause trouble wherever he goes.

“Ha ha, yes, I’ve been really busy. I was hired as Mr. Cahill’s assistant shortly after the auction,” I say, trying for a laugh and landing somewhere closer to a hiccup. “I live here for convenience. Scheduling. Sometimes dog-walking.” I’m fibbing like crazy because there’s not a single animal in this apartment besides me.

Evan grins, but there’s something sharp behind it, a quick calculation in the way his mouth never quite relaxes. “Good gig, if you can get it,” he says. Then: “So. The penthouse.”

He lets me lead him through the living room, the hush of the carpet swallowing our footsteps. I’m hyper-aware of every detail—the too-clean counters, the barely-used sofa, the evidence of my new existence scattered across the space. My coffee mug, half-full and already cold. The pink post-it note on the fridge reminding me to “pick up Trevor’s dry cleaning.” There’s an orchid by the window that Angela from The Fig Leaf gave me as a goodbye present, and the petals are already starting to drop, one by one, onto the glass shelf below.

I know it looks like I’m more than an assistant. I know that Evan knows too, even if he doesn’t comment. The blonde man drifts through the room like a ghost, pausing to glance at the view, the bar cart, the wine fridge. He runs his finger along the marble of the kitchen island, then looks back at me.

“This is a hell of a place,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s admiration or appraisal. Maybe both. “Does he ever cook?”

I shake my head. “There’s a chef that comes three nights a week. The rest of the time, it’s takeout or microwave meals. I’m the only one who uses the stove.”

He nods, making a note on his phone. “And the art?” he says, gesturing to a wall of monochrome prints.

“Mr. Cahill picked it out himself, as far as I know,” I say. “He likes the stark look.”

“Makes sense.” Evan’s voice is softer now, more thoughtful. “He’s a pretty stark guy, from what I’ve heard.”

I want to ask what he’s heard, but I bite my tongue. There’s a rhythm to this conversation that I don’t quite understand, a game he’s playing where I’m not sure if I’m the pawn or the queen. I lead him down the hallway to the master suite, which is even cleaner than the living room and twice as sterile. Thank god the cleaners already finished here. The bed is made perfectly, not a wrinkle in sight. The nightstand has a single book on it—Zero to One, the Peter Thiel autobiography, which Trevor hardly ever reads, seeing that he’s busy fucking me these days.

Evan walks around the room, pausing to look at the bathroom. He doesn’t step in, but he gives the shower a long, appraising look.

“He must do well for himself,” Evan says, and this time his tone is pure wolf, the kind of voice that expects you to drop your guard and confess everything.

I keep my hands at my sides. “He does. Counterpoint AI will be going public soon. There’s a rumor he might buy a company in Europe to expand its reach.”

Evan’s mouth quirks again, but this time it’s a real smile. “Ambitious. I guess that explains the square footage.”

He looks back at me, and for a second, there’s nothing at all in his expression—just a blank, unreadable openness. Then, with a shift of the jaw, he’s back to business.