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I had imagined someone a bit older, not a woman with sharp curves or such wide stormy eyes hidden behind glasses.
However, it’s not just her looks that have me thinking about her.
It’s the way she marched into my office, indignation written all over her face. It’s the pride in her set shoulders as she appeared ready to draw blood, a soldier—no, a commander—going into battle.
She knew she could lose her job over defying me.
Yet, she had risked it to protect the livelihoods of employees she knew nothing about, but simply because she felt a responsibility to them.
I admire the dedication, no matter how misplaced.
I admire loyalty.
It had been curiosity that made me check whether she was still in the building. Staying in the penthouse with all those memories is suffocating, so I’ve taken to finding excuses to spend the night in my office. The private bathroom accorded to me is pretty useful.
Miss Hill’s card hadn’t been swiped when I paid a visit to her office.
And the way she had been so casually curled on the couch, her delicate features in an adorable scowl, had stirred my blood.
When was the last time I had looked at a woman with any sort of awareness?
It felt like my interest in the opposite sex had died with Nyla. I’d dived headfirst into work to distract myself from the current pain—and any future pain the opposite sex offered.
After the first few months of speculation over whether I had murdered my wife, after the rumors had died down, the society women greedily started eyeing me and my wealth. I hated it.
My family name, my background, it requires me to attend certain events, rub elbows with the right people, but there was always a part of me which stayed detached, an idle observer to how I smiled coldly at the people who greeted me, offered sympathies, and tossed out coy remarks.
That’s why I had been so quick to take Caleb Starr’s offer.
The man hadn’t offered any condolences when he’d met me for the first time. He’d rescued me from a rather inebriated woman who had been insistent I escort her home.
My thoughts return to the dark-haired woman who so openly dislikes me and views me as the enemy.
Impulsive.
Hot-headed.
The words spring to mind as I open my eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
She tries to hide it so well, but it’s easy to see the way she vibrates with barely contained energy she hides under her civilized clothing, a sense of justice surrounding her.
She would make a horrible lawyer, I muse with a scoff. She doesn’t have the right kind of level-headedness needed for tha
t.
And yet, she seems to thrive at this job.
Maybe I’m wrong.
“Oliver Thornton knows jack shit,” I repeat aloud, my shoulders shaking with barely repressed laughter.
That was completely unprofessional.
So childish, I find myself thinking fondly. And yet, it suits her.
I spin my chair around to stare at the dark city, the gleaming lights serving as a reminder that there is life out there in the silence.
I should go back to the penthouse.
