Terms and Conditions Apply

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• Everett •

***

She’s bold. Too bold. Threatening me over the phone. Who does that? This is why I dislike people, especially ones who feel the world revolve around them after they have tasted a little success and forgotten who held the door open.

I had given her the chance because she looked one rejection away from a bathroom breakdown. But now? The raw fear that was once present in her face is no longer there, it vanished like magic.

It didn’t stop there.

Her chin tilted up as soon as she noticed I was staring, her lips pursed into something that certainly wasn’t polite.

I stepped out, totally dazed.

She even dipped her head slightly as if mocking the idea of bowing before walking into the elevator panel.

Interesting.

I took a long view of her through the glass. Blonde hair, not bleached within an inch of its life, lips—full, slightly glossy, pressed together as she adjusted the strap of her bag, then she lifted a hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear avoiding my eyes.

Andrea looked like a doll. A real life doll with accessories and attitude included.

The elevator descended, but I stood there longer than necessary, my subconscious still processing what just happened.

A low breath escaped my throat as I adjusted my cuffs. I reminded myself why I was on this floor - I wasn't here because of Miss Thompson. I was here to see Mr. Bradley. Regardless of whatever attitude she had exhibited, I'd proceed. Afterall, I had issued my card to her.

I turned down the corridor toward Mr. Bradley’s office, my shoes making a sound as I stepped against the carpeted hall. I stopped at the door, knocked once to show courtesy, and walked in without waiting.

“Mr. Langston,” Bradley said, straightening immediately as he rose from his chair. “I didn’t realize you were still in the building.”

“I wasn’t planning to be,” I replied mildly. “The interview ran longer than expected.”

He gestured to the seat across from him. I ignored it.

Bradley cleared his throat, fingers tapping his tablet. “I wanted to ask how you felt about the candidates. Overall.”

“Efficient,” I said. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” His brows pinched. “One stood out for the wrong reasons. Andrea Thompson. She arrived late. You know punctuality is a non-negotiable rule.”

“I’m aware,” I said calmly.

“She also…” He hesitated. “Didn’t seem particularly deferential.”

I cleared my throat.

“I’m not hiring assistants, Bradley. An employee should at least have some sense of decorum.” I said, resting a hand on the desk. Almost mocking myself for wanting to say this.

“Andrea should be enrolled as a staff along with the selected candidates.” I added

Bradley blinked. “Sir, our policy—”

“Doesn’t apply to clients funding the expansion wing,” I said lightly. “Or to people the founder asked to sit in. True?"

Bradley froze.

“You’re serious,” he said quietly.

“I rarely joke about investments.”

“So?" Bradley exhaled slowly. “You’re recommending her?"

“I am selecting her.”

His mouth opened, but he shut it at once. “I’ll ensure the final list reflects that.”

“Good.” I replied.

As I turned to leave, his PA looked up from her desk far too brightly. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Langston?”

“No.”

I stepped out of the office into the buzzing reception area. Two junior associates stopped whispering when I passed them. Someone dropped a file, and another pretended to be intensely interested in her workstation.

All eyes were drawn to me. They made it feel like a look from me could end their careers. I never corrected the impression. I liked the power it gave me.

The garage was cool and lined with cars, engines humming in the distance. I smirked. My favorite place in the company.

I've always been a lover of cars, and one glance at my McLaren 720S waiting exactly where it should, made me feel like I owned the world. And honestly? That’s exactly how cars are supposed to make you feel.

I slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with a solid thud. For a moment, I leaned back into the headrest, hands gripping the wheel, engine's still off.

I missed my driver.

Driving myself was a nuisance. A necessary one, but still a nuisance.

If Max was here, I would sit back, reviewing documents of real estate and pretending I wasn’t constantly irritated by New York traffic.

I started the engine and pulled out, city lights streaking past as my favorite trap music filled the cabin.

I nod along, my mind annoyingly drifting back to Andrea - bowing without bowing, her lips pouting without intent. I almost smiled, but I was quick to restrain myself.

Most people got nervous around me and, unsurprisingly, the ladies usually melted but Andrea chose composure instead. Her expression screamed she didn’t need saving.

It should have gotten under my skin, but it didn't. Instead, it felt like a challenge. A dangerously fascinating one. Now I’m hooked, wondering just how far she’s willing to go and trust me, I’m game.

Home came into view not long after. My titanium gates opened automatically, and I brought my car to a halt.

My staff were all out, ready to respond to my arrival like I was royalty returning from war.

“Good evening, sir,” Miriam said from the foyer, immaculate as always.

“Evening.”

James took my coat before I could refuse. “Welcome back, sir. Dinner will be ready in—”

“No dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pat ran the kitchen, but James took all the glory in announcing it. I didn't quite understand the two of them.

From the hallway, she stood, offering a warm smile. “Long day?”

I glanced at her once. “It was manageable, Patricia.”

They all retreated, the house turning quiet as I made my way forward. It was always this way, my evening formula - work done, spend hours in the study, eat if I want to, shower and retire for the day.

My study smelled like leather and old books. I had made sure the designer structured the wine cellar adjacent to it.

I loosened my tie as I moved toward the cellar, my eyes dancing across the collection. I needed something a little strong, so I went straight for Barolo and a glass worthy of it.

Swiveling in my chair, I picked up Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche—still unfinished. I took a gulp, shutting my eyes as the warmth burned. I had barely set the glass down when my phone rang.

Donald. Again.

The last time we spoke on call on the company rooftop, he had laughed like a hyena the entire time I aired my frustrations concerning the interview, claiming I was difficult to impress. Coming from a roguish founder who was flirting in Paris, someone I had actually helped his sorry ass.

Such an ungrateful cousin!.

I answered with a sigh. “What did you do now?”

His laughter burst through the line, bright and unapologetic. “Nice to hear you missed me too.”

“Get on with it.”

“Diane called,” he began, “She says you’ve ignored several of her calls. Why, if I may ask?”

My mind reeled back to the cluster of missed calls I had noticed two days earlier.

“She’s perfect for you, Everett.”

I closed my eyes, feeling a light headache already. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

“No one's perfect." I maintained.

“She’s kind. Patient. She’s known us since college. She’s watched us grow from clueless boys into men who still pretend they’ve got it all figured out.”

I was beginning to get bored.

“I didn't beg you to remind me of my life story” I said.

“And she’s stuck around!” Donald ignored. “She gets you. She doesn’t push. She’s cool, genuinely cool.”

I took a sip. “You’re romanticizing.”

“I’m being realistic. You can’t keep deflecting with business interviews forever.”

“I’m not deflecting,” I said calmly. “I was busy, still busy.”

He hummed knowingly. “Sure. Busy being a VIP client.”

I smiled despite myself. “Exactly.”

Donald chuckled. “One day you’ll stop hiding behind that.”

“Not today.”

“Fine,” he said lightly. “But when Diane gives up, I’m telling her you’re emotionally unavailable by design.”

"Go on. If that helps you sleep, I don’t care.” I said evenly.

Donald lets out a long defeated sigh. I causally flip a page, my eyes catching a paragraph that seemed too interesting to miss.

“Five things you won’t find in a real man’s stomach: mussels, tofu, bean curd, broccoli, cr…”

Ping! The call went dead.

So Donald.

Always too sensitive about things that had nothing to do with him.

Then a sharp crash sounded from the kitchen, making my stomach drop. Followed by a startled breath, and a soft curse that was definitely not part of my staff’s vocabulary.

I froze, standing up sharply. My body already reacting before my brain had the courtesy to catch up.