Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
I towel-dry my hair, then blast it with Trevor’s Dyson for a few minutes. It comes out fluffy, a little wild, but that’s okay. I pull on a t-shirt (one of Trevor’s, because it smells like cedar and power and him) and a denim skirt that comes to the knee. No bra, because my nipples are too sore and I like the way the fabric rubs against them when I move. I slip on a pair of ankle socks and stare at myself in the mirror one last time.
Fresh-faced, a little flushed, hair wild, body still humming from the bath. Not the look of a professional personal assistant, but it’s fine. It’s just a broker.
I walk to the kitchen and lean against the marble, waiting for the knock.
It’s strange how fast a body can shift from one reality to another. Last night, I was a sex doll. This morning, a spoiled pet. Now, I am the lady of the house, responsible for nothing but being seen.
I hear the elevator chime, the slow tick of footsteps in the hallway, and I run my hand over my hip, feeling the faint ache of the bruise as if it’s a keepsake.
The knock comes, sharp and official, and for a moment I think about not answering. I could pretend I’m not home. But I don’t want to disappoint Trevor. Besides, he said he wanted to sell to buy something more family-oriented, and a smile wreathes my face as I remember the words. Maybe with me. Maybe a bigger house with a garden for our shared children.
That does it. I square my shoulders, take a breath, and open the door with a practiced smile.
To my shock, it’s Evan Fine, the handsome bachelor from the auction.
“Hey,” I stammer, utterly stumped. “What are you doing here?”
He looks just as surprised.
Kayleigh?” he asks. “I’m here for a preliminary assessment for a client. What are you doing here?”
I stammer again, blushing.
“Well, I mean…well, I live here.”
He’s stunned.
“You live here? But this is Trevor Cahill’s penthouse, is it not?” he asks, checking his notes.
My cheeks flame.
“Yes, and I’m his personal assistant,” I babble. “Mr. Cahill hired me after the auction as his assistant. The kind that lives in-home. In a different bedroom,” I stammer. “He’s not home right now, so he asked me to give you a tour.”
Evan shoots me a long, assessing look. He’s just as I remember: tan, athletic, white-blonde hair just starting to grow in after a close cut, blue eyes that register everything, and a smile that goes all the way up into the small lines at the corners of his eyes. He wears a charcoal suit tailored sharp as glass, a portfolio tucked under one arm, and a pair of black Oxfords that are actually shined. Oh my god, he’s so professional and handsome, and I look the exact opposite. I literally see his gaze skim my make-up free face, sliding to the hem of my denim skirt, then drifting down to my socked feet on the marble. I’m the opposite of put-together, and I feel my cheeks go instantly hot. Still, Evan’s too polite to say anything.
“Of course,” he murmurs. “You’re Mr. Cahill’s assistant. I’m looking forward to the tour.”
I hesitate just long enough to betray my nerves, then smile—too wide, all teeth. “Great, great. Please, come in.”
He steps inside, the scent of aftershave and fresh paper preceding him by a half-second. He takes in the foyer with a sweep of his head, then looks back at me, expression polite.
“So how are you, Kayleigh?” he asks, letting his eyes linger a half-second too long. “It’s been a while.”
Oh my god, is this man flirting? Or fishing? Or maybe, he’s just naturally inclined to cause trouble wherever he goes.
“Ha ha, yes, I’ve been really busy. I was hired as Mr. Cahill’s assistant shortly after the auction,” I say, trying for a laugh and landing somewhere closer to a hiccup. “I live here for convenience. Scheduling. Sometimes dog-walking.” I’m fibbing like crazy because there’s not a single animal in this apartment besides me.
Evan grins, but there’s something sharp behind it, a quick calculation in the way his mouth never quite relaxes. “Good gig, if you can get it,” he says. Then: “So. The penthouse.”
He lets me lead him through the living room, the hush of the carpet swallowing our footsteps. I’m hyper-aware of every detail—the too-clean counters, the barely-used sofa, the evidence of my new existence scattered across the space. My coffee mug, half-full and already cold. The pink post-it note on the fridge reminding me to “pick up Trevor’s dry cleaning.” There’s an orchid by the window that Angela from The Fig Leaf gave me as a goodbye present, and the petals are already starting to drop, one by one, onto the glass shelf below.
I know it looks like I’m more than an assistant. I know that Evan knows too, even if he doesn’t comment. The blonde man drifts through the room like a ghost, pausing to glance at the view, the bar cart, the wine fridge. He runs his finger along the marble of the kitchen island, then looks back at me.