Olivia Hayle

"So you want to quit," he says.

"No,” I say. “I mean, I might in the future. This has been a terrific job, truly. But I think I've learned all I can in this position. So I’m thinking of finding another job, one more challenging, so I can continue to grow. But that’s in the future.”

“Right. Well, that’s excellent."

I stare at him for a long moment, my heart pounding like I’ve run a marathon. His words don’t make sense. "It's… excellent, sir?"

"Yes. I have a new job proposal for you."

"You do?" He has never expressed anything but disdain or a complete lack of interest in me. Had I managed to impress him? I do everything he asks of me and a lot more he doesn’t.

"Yes. It's unorthodox."

“Unorthodox?”

“It’s ridiculous," he says. "But as it so happens, I've decided to do it."

"To get married, sir? To whom?”

“I’m glad you asked, Miss Myers," he says. There’s a hint of humor in the ice blue of his eyes. "To you."

“You want me to marry you?”

Victor meets my gaze. I've never looked at him for this long before. It's terrifying. "You want a new job.”

"Not as your wife."

“Marrying me would get you out of this office."

"Yes, but not away from you."

St. Clair blinks once and then his usual scowl breaks, lips curving. Something glitters in his eyes and damned if it doesn't make me more afraid. "I always knew you wouldn't last a year.”

“You’re really doing this. You’re buying a wife.”

He snorts. “If I was trying to buy a wife, I’d go online. Plenty of people in the market for a green card. No, I want a contract. I want someone I know, someone I can trust to follow orders, who is organized and reliable. Someone who understands exactly what this is.”

“So you thought of me.”

“Where do I live?”

“From the fifteenth onward, you’ll be living on 5th Avenue. With me.”

I’m halfway through my second gin and tonic when she shows up, weaving her way through the tables with flushed cheeks.

Her hair is down.

For an entire year, I don’t think it ever has been. It falls in curly sheets of mahogany around her face, framing pink cheeks and a soft mouth. She’s wearing makeup, too. Has to be. Because she hadn’t looked like this in the office.

I would have noticed.

She’d worn leggings. They’d clung to shapely legs, ending just above bare ankles and sneaker socks.

I don’t know why the image is burned into my mind. Miss Myers with her hair in a messy ponytail, her skin makeup free and cheeks flushed from her exercise. But it is.

And I can’t seem to get it out.

“We’re not strangers, Cecilia.”

“I don’t know where you grew up,” she counters. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” I say, thinking of all the little things I’d noticed in the last couple of weeks. Her running habits, her sleeping patterns. The sweet chai tea she liked to drink in the evenings, the book she’d accidentally left on the kitchen counter when I came down one morning.

The curve of her waist. The silky sheath of her hair.

I know her better than probably anyone currently in my life.

“It won’t kill you,” I whisper. “Look happy.”

He smiles, a small but true smile that sends a shiver down my spine. His arm comes around my waist. “Bossy.”

“Are you ready?” Victor asks. He has my coat in hand and I take it from him, sliding my arms through the sleeves. The hallway tilts when I flip my hair back.

“Woah,” I murmur.

In a move that mimics Anthony, Victor wraps his arm around my waist. That’s the second time tonight.