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“I’m here to finish your interview,” he stated casually as he sat down in the chair Maria had vacated. He appeared completely unperturbed by my wrath.

Is this guy for real?

His hair was slightly damp like he had just taken a shower. He smelled of soap and sweat with a hint of musky cologne. The very masculine combination wreaked havoc on my senses.

“Please, Mr. Stone. Take a seat,” I replied.

“Sarcasm is not becoming on you, Krystina.”

“Don’t call me Krystina,” I snapped.

“Would you prefer to be addressed as Miss Cole?” he asked calmly, a curious expression on his beautiful face.

“Everyone calls me Krys, and that’s what I prefer.”

“Krys is a boy’s name,” he retorted.

“Well, it’s my name all the same. And once again, it’s the name I would like to be called,” I said, my irritation reaching an all-time high.

“I’m not going to have this debate with you. Your name is Krystina, and that’s what I’m going to call you.”

He waited a second or two as if gauging my reaction.

When I didn’t respond, a satisfied smile slowly formed on his face. I refused to waste my breath on an argument with him, so I bit my tongue instead of blurting out the many profanities I was thinking.

I turned back to my laptop and pretended to be searching for a job. It was either that or continue to stare at Alexander Stone like some nitwit. If I did the latter, then I’d have to acknowledge how incredible he looked or that he still made my insides turn to mush every time he flashed one of those to-die-for smiles.

I could feel his scrutiny, and I tried not to react him. But after several minutes, his careful watch won out, and I looked up.

His face was amused like he had been assessing how long I would be able to ignore him.

Oh, no. I’m not playing your silly mind games today.

“What do you want from me, Mr. Stone?” I asked impatiently.

“I already told you. I’d like to continue your interview. Since you didn’t show up today, I thought I would bring the interview to you.”

I glanced at the clock on my computer screen. It was half-past two o’clock.

“Are you really arrogant enough to believe I’d show up for the two o’clock appointment?”

“It’s not arrogance. It’s simply finalizing business,” he said with a shrug, acting as if nothing was amiss. “As I recall, we left a few things unfinished.”

The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface bubbled over, and I let him have it.

“That’s certainly not how I would describe the turn of events. As I recall, you discarded me for your ten o’clock, and then you hijacked my cellphone!” He looked confused for a moment, but I didn’t pause in my quiet rant. “What’s the matter? The tall girl with black hair didn’t fulfill your needs at Turning Stone Advertising? Oh, wait—I forgot. You prefer redheads, right? That must be why you’re here. The black-haired bimbo didn’t work out. For that matter, I can’t begin to figure out why you would even interview me! I didn’t think mousy brown hair did it for you. I’m not stupid, Stone. That was no job interview.”

He didn’t say anything, and the silence stretched on for what seemed like eons. I just continued to glare at him. He, on the other hand, wore a look of mild disinterest, exacerbating my anger even more.

“Are you finished now, Krystina?” he asked, still ever so reserved and calm. I was taken aback.

Yeah—I’m finished, all right.

I closed my laptop and stood up to leave.

“Sit down,” he barked. I scowled at him. But then, to my surprise, his expression changed. He seemed almost frustrated and looked as though he were having some sort of internal battle with himself. He ran a hand through his hair, all of his careful control seeming to evaporate. Finally, he took a deep breath and, in a resigned voice, said, “Please, Krystina. Sit down.”

Could it be? Alexander Stone, the man who defines the meaning of measured confidence, seems unsure of himself.