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She’d do.

“Come on in,” I said, moving aside to let her pass. “I’ll give you the tour.”

“Go ahead and get dressed first,” she told me briskly. “I don’t mind waiting.”

My brows shot up in intrigued surprise. I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had asked, no ordered, me to put my clothes on.

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “The essentials are covered.” I started moving, motioning for her to follow me. “Right this way.”

I led her straight to my office. The back wall was lined with my book covers. I explained this to her.

“Yes, I can see that,” she said wryly. “Red Twin is my favorite, but Red House is a close second.”

“You’ve read my books?” I tried to recall if any of my former assistants had ever read my books.

No.

I tried to recall if any of my former assistants could read.

Who knew?

She raised a vaguely insulted brow at me. “Well, yes. Of course I did,” she said. “I’ve read them all. I’m looking at this job as a mentorship. I want to enter into the field myself at some point.”

“You want to be an author?” I asked with no surprise.

Everyone thought they wanted to be an author until they realized how fucking hard it was to write an entire book without hating it, the world, and yourself by the end.

“Yes. And an illustrator, though I know that’s not in your wheel house.”

My brow furrowed, “An illustrator? What genre are you interested in?”

“All of them. I read everything.”

“No. I mean, which genre are you going to write in?”

“Guess,” she said with no expression.

So she was playful, with a dry sense of humor. I liked that. “Fiction?”

“Yes, but I’m not impressed by your guessing skills. Don’t you think you can narrow it down?”

I studied her. “Perhaps some sort of graphic novel? Manga? I’m trying to get a feel for how the illustrating ties in. Nothing in the horror category. You’re not crazy enough.”

“You don’t know me that well.”

“True. But I’m still eliminating it.”

“That’s fair,” she said blandly.

Damn, she had a good poker face. “Not romance. No offense, but you don’t look like you have a romantic bone in your body.”

“Fair enough,” she agreed.

“Not erotica. No one could write good sex and dress that way. No offense.”

“Offense taken,” she shot back, looking not at all offended.

Oh, God. So she was sarcastic and good at it. I really liked that.