Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I can almost see the calculation in her head—weighing defiance against self-preservation, pride against necessity. She’s learning the first rule already: adaptation is survival.
She hates this.
She hates me.
It makes me irrationally pleased.
I move to the kitchen counter, retrieving a manila folder I prepared last night. It’s thick with invoices from the restaurant’s shell companies—meaningless busywork that looks important. Perfect for establishing the hierarchy between us.
“Alphabetize these,” I say, extending the folder like I’m doing her a favor.
There must be a thousand invoices in there. All different sizes, each one unique and filled with data only an accountant can appreciate. Receipts for wine deliveries, produce orders, linen services—all printed on different paper stock, some crisp and new, others creased from handling. The kind of mind-numbing busywork designed to establish who’s in charge and who takes orders. I can almost taste her frustration.
The folder almost slips from her grasp when I hand it over. Her fingers scramble against the manila surface, catching it at the last moment. The red heels click awkwardly against my polished wood floors as she shifts her weight to compensate.
“By company name or contact?” she asks, voice admirably steady despite the precarious balance she’s fighting to maintain and the chaos of paper in front of her.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I watch her open the folder, those delicate fingers sorting through the first few pages. The slight tremble in her hands is visible only because I’m looking for it.
“Company name,” I finally reply, moving to stand behind her.
She tenses, sensing my proximity without turning. Her shoulders hitch slightly higher—a defensive posture.
Interesting.
Someone’s trained her to expect danger from behind.
She turns her head just enough to side-eye me. “I’ll need somewhere to sort them.”
I gesture to the room. “Use all the space you require, Miss Take. Consider the entire apartment your office.”
I step back, giving her space to work while maintaining my position of power. “I have emails to return. Continue this task until it’s complete.”
Little Miss Take doesn’t look at me, already arranging the invoices in preliminary piles across the desk surface. Her focus is absolute, eyes scanning each document efficiently. The shoes force her to shift constantly, subtly swaying as she works to keep her balance.
That flirty fucking skirt kills me each time it flutters against her pale thighs. It’s a deliberate distraction, dancing just at the edge of professional, teasing the boundary between modest and maddening. Every slight movement sends the fabric whispering across her skin, drawing my attention when I should be focused on anything else.
I find myself tracking the hem like a predator, waiting for the next innocent shift that will reveal another half-inch of those legs she’s trying so hard to downplay.
She shoots me another side-eye. This time it’s menacing. Am I going to watch her all morning?
Yes, Emmaleen. Yes, I am.
I sprawl across the couch, phone in hand, pretending to scroll through emails I’ve already answered. The real entertainment is across the room, struggling with Louboutins and loose papers.
Little Miss Take has created a system—a chaotic one, but a system, nonetheless. Piles grow across her desk, each labeled with a sticky note from the pack she pulled from her purse.
“Fuck,” she mutters as an invoice slips from her fingers, floating to the floor like a surrender flag.
She freezes, eyes darting my way to check if I noticed. I keep my face blank, gaze fixed on my phone. Let her think she’s unobserved. The best intel comes when people believe no one’s watching.
She crouches carefully, one hand braced against the desk for balance. The red soles flash as she wobbles, and her skirt rides up, revealing the curve of her ass and a flash of pale thigh. I don’t look away. Why would I? The view is spectacular, and I’m not a saint.
If Dom had brought this one back from Pittsburgh, I’d have put Ricky through a wall just for looking at her. And if he’d touched her—
I shift on the couch, redirecting my thoughts. This isn’t the time to imagine her on her knees in front of me, those green eyes looking up. Not while she’s still in the room. Not while I need to maintain control.
She snatches the paper from the floor, hands trembling slightly, a flush spreading across her cheeks. The vulnerability is unexpected. It creates a momentary crack in my armor, an unwelcome warmth I immediately suppress.
Rising slowly, she finds her balance again and returns to sorting, lips moving as she reads labels under her breath.
“A through D... E through H...”
Her organization system evolves by the minute. The piles multiply and spread—across her desk, onto the floor, the coffee table.
I stand and move to the kitchen, pouring the Kopi Luwak down the drain and putting the carafe in the dishwasher.
That little trick landed hard. First time I’ve ever done that. It was perfect.