Chapter 6

TRICIA

"Sit down," he said again, and this time I sat.

Carefully. Like the chair might also be in on the joke.

He kept looking at me. That same slow, dangerous smile from earlier, like he was savouring something and refusing to rush it.

"So," he said. "You want the job."

"I..." I cleared my throat. "Yes. I do."

"You're qualified. Overqualified, actually. Top of your class, three years of experience, the panel downstairs is already in love with you." He leaned back. "I read the notes."

"Oh." That was good. That was very good. "Thank you, I..."

"There's a condition."

I blinked. "A condition?"

"I have a family dinner tonight." He said it like it was the most casual thing in the world, picking up a pen and turning it over in his fingers. "My father is... particular. About a few things. One of those things is whether his sons are settled. Bringing someone home."

"Okay," I said slowly, not understanding where this was going but already feeling my stomach do something uneasy.

"You'll come with me. As my girlfriend." He looked up. "For tonight. That's the condition."

I stared at him.

"I'm sorry —what?"

"You heard me."

"You want me to ... to pretend to be your..." I couldn't even finish it. "Christopher, we hate each other."

"We don't hate each other," he said mildly. "You hate that I'm right most of the time. It's different."

"That's not..." I pressed my fingers to my temple. "This is insane. This is an insane request. I came here for a job interview."

"And I'm offering you the job." He shrugged, infuriatingly calm. "With one small addition to tonight's schedule."

"Small," I repeated.

"Dinner. It's a few hours. You smile, I smile, my father stops asking me when I'm going to 'grow up,' and tomorrow you start as my PA with a signed contract and full benefits."

I opened my mouth to say absolutely not.

What came out was nothing, because my brain had very helpfully reminded me, at that exact moment, that I had paid this month's rent late, that I had three job applications still pending with no replies, and that this ... sitting right in front of me was the best offer I'd had in months. Possibly ever.

I closed my mouth.

Opened it again.

"This doesn't make sense," I said weakly. "You barely know me."

"I know enough."

"You know that I called you a spoilt brat and stole your marshmallows."

"Exactly my point."

I groaned and put my face in my hands. "If I do this," I said, voice muffled, "it's one dinner. That's it. After that, I am your PA and nothing else, and you are my boss and nothing else, and we never speak of this again."

"Understood."

I lifted my head. "I mean it, Christopher."

"I heard you the first time, Tricia."

I looked at him. He looked back. Steady and patiently. Like he had all the time in the world and was perfectly happy to sit there until I said it.

"Fine," I said. "Fine. I'll do it."

He didn't say anything.

He just looked at me. For a long moment. Longer than was comfortable. His eyes moved over my face slowly, like he was reading something written there in very small print, and I felt my skin go warm under it in a way I did not appreciate or consent to.

"What?" I said, shifting in my seat. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He didn't answer right away.

"Christopher."

"Hm." He blinked, like he was coming back from somewhere. Then, simply: "You're hired."

I blinked. "I .... sorry, what?"

"You're hired."

"That's it?" I sat up straighter. "You're not going to ... I don't know, ask me actual interview questions? About spreadsheets, or scheduling, or anything related to the job?"

"I don't need to."

"You don't need to?" My voice climbed slightly. "Christopher, sorry Sir, this is a professional position..."

"You walked into the wrong apartment, realised your mistake, and recovered enough to hold a two-hour conversation without missing a beat," he said, counting off on his fingers like he'd rehearsed this.

"You diagnosed my coffee table's price within thirty seconds of sitting on it. You spotted the last container of a niche marshmallow brand from three aisles away, and when I challenged you for it, you didn't argue ...you ran. Those actions of yours were strategic and decisive. No hesitation."

"That's not a qualification—"

"And this morning," he continued, ignoring me completely, "you walked into my office, said something I will not be repeating in front of HR, walked back out, had a full conversation with yourself through a closed door, talked yourself back into the room, and sat down anyway." He spread his hands. "Tricia. That's not just qualified. That's exceptional."

I stared at him.

"You're hiring me," I said slowly, "because I steal marshmallows and swear in doorways."

"I'm hiring you," he said, "because you're sharp, and fast, and you don't fall apart under pressure ... you just regroup and come back swinging. That's everything I need in a PA."

I didn't have a response to that. Which was rare, for me, and slightly alarming, because he was so damn observant of things I hadn't taken notice of.

He stood, came around the desk, and held out his hand ... the same unhurried, steady handshake from that very first night, except this time I knew exactly who he was.

"So," he said. "Do we have a deal, Ms. Teesha?"

I looked at his hand. Then at him. At the smile that wasn't quite a smile, the one that lived permanently at the corner of his mouth like it owned the place.

The i took his h

and.

"Deal," I said. "Dear boyfriend."

His smile widened ....just slightly and somewhere in my chest, something that absolutely should not have reacted, reacted anyway.