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And Caleb Sterling gets in.
I press the DOWN button and find myself grinning into the glass, ice-palace doors. Sterling Cross, my employer. I’m going to be working in this building. I’m going to be collecting a salary, bringing real money in, and maybe now, my troubles will be over.
“Ms. Nichols,” he says, and I swear that low voice ignites something deep inside me.
Oh God.
I stand there beside him as the doors slide shut and we start to descend, but I can’t stay silent any longer. I turn to him, and my words come out in a rush. “I’m sorry. About what happened…” I trail off.
“And what’s that?” Caleb asks, a glint in his eye like he’s toying with me. “Your disrespectful attitude in your interview, or… Something else?”
I grit my teeth. If he’s trying to make me flustered, I don’t want him to know it’s working. “In the restroom,” I say tactfully. “That shouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have, if I’d known who you were… Well, I just want you to know that I plan on being a lot more professional next time.”
I expect he’ll nod curtly, and wish me a good evening. Put the whole thing behind us, and go back to pretending like it never happened. That’s what CEOs do.
Instead, he takes a step closer and gives me a slow, assessing look. Head to toe, his gaze sliding over my body like molasses—bringing a shiver to my skin all over again.
I catch my breath, aware of his presence. His heat.
“Next time, hmmm?” he murmurs, leaning in to whisper in my ear.
I restrain a shudder as his breath lands, hot on my ear. “There won’t be a next time. It won’t happen again.” I insist, sounding firmer than I feel.
He grins. “We’ll see about that.”
It sounds like a sinful promise. A delicious threat. But before I can react, we reach his floor, and he gets out.
I’m thankful for the doors, sliding shut behind him. They hide the tremble of my body, and the twist of desire that clenches between my thighs, and the fact that I have absolutely no clue how to answer that question.
Am I sure it won’t happen again?
No. I am not sure about anything, at least where Caleb Sterling is concerned.
* * *
By the timeI get outside and check my phone, a dozen increasingly frantic texts have filled my inbox, demanding to know how it went.
Well?
What happened?
CALL ME.
My stomach flips as I type, On my way.
I take the subway to the Upper East Side, and then walk the long way through Central Park. My pulse is racing again, but not from lust or excitement, no, this time, it’s with the sick feeling that I’m doing something wrong.
It’s not wrong. Not really, I remind myself. Think of the greater good.
Finally, I reach a stately brick townhouse nestled between Madison and Park: one of the largest and most imposing in a zip code of obscenely expensive homes. I pause at the foot of the steps, glancing up and down the street to check that nobody is watching.
But why would they? I’m officially a nobody—which is why I even got this gig.
A dour German butler answers the door and ushers me inside. Faint strains of Chopin greet my ears as the noises of the city fade away. I’m led me through a magnificent marble foyer, to a living area the size of my Chinatown apartment, where an elegant blonde woman is playing the piano, her lithe fingers dancing over the keys. She may be my age, but that’s where our similarities end: From the luxurious gloss of her hair, to the designer clothes on her back, everything about her screams refinement. She was born into this life, and feels as comfortable here as Caleb Sterling had been in his board room.
Olivia Cross. Co-owner of Sterling Cross—and my real employer, no matter what Caleb might think.
She’s the one who told me to interview for his assistant. And she’s the one I’ll be secretly answering to, all along.
She drops her graceful, slender hands from the piano and gives me an eager smile.
“Did he buy it?”
