3

I’m absent-mindedly twisting my pen in my fingers back at my desk, and it gives me a huge surge of anger—at myself. Stilling the pen sharply and laying it down with a smack and scowling at it as though it’s the cause. Another habit from childhood that I’m permanently trying to overcome, and just one of the subtle tells that I’m not who I perceive to be. The only flaw in my perfect demeanor that I grasp so tightly onto.

I fidget.

And it’s so at odds with the persona I’ve managed to create for myself since my teen years, getting away from the life I once knew. A stark reminder of how far I’ve come from my childhood in Chicago, and a habit that annoys me on a serious level. Not only because it betrays the confidence I seem to emit, but also because it’s juvenile. My fidgeting occurs on many levels. For the most part, I’ve mastered it, but with my raw nerves this morning; I’m betraying myself.

I still my hands and focus on typing the documents Margo has given me to adjust, reminding myself to take steadying breaths as I do so. To stay calm while waiting for my new boss to appear. It’s agony.

Margo sweeps out into the foyer in a graceful cloud of Chanel No. 9, passes me at my glass desk near the entrance to our offices, indicating his arrival. My heart stops. She smiles my way fondly and quickly as she passes and gives me an encouraging wink as though I am about to meet royalty.

Maybe I am.

Oh hell! Swallow. Deep breath. Relax.

I can hear her running through his itinerary out in the hall as they approach. I know she’s been emailing him back and forth, but this verbal being brought up to speed is something she told me he prefers, to recap. Something I need to remember as it will be my role soon enough.

I stay seated and keep my eyes on my keyboard, willing my nerves to stay under wraps.

I catch him speak to her and despite seeing interviews online, I’m taken by surprise by the natural sound of his voice. It’s deep and husky and has a boyishness to it that I never noticed in his interviews. The kind of voice you would recognize anywhere, even across a crowded room, and it draws you in. So crazily familiar and comforting. He sounds at ease with her and there’s something alluring in it. Like a warmth sliding over you, completely throwing me.

I pause my typing as he laughs at something she says. It’s unexpected and I flinch, shocked that it causes butterflies in my stomach.

I don’t react like this to men!

Fumbling fingers on keys betray me, and I’m glad no one is paying me any attention.

I need to get hold of myself. Get a grip, Emma!

My cheeks instantly begin to warm, and I take my practiced steadying breath to curb my blush. There’s gibberish on my screen and I quickly hit the back button to remove it, hiding the evidence of my stumble. Cursing the inability of my clumsy fingers, cursing that childish part of me that I’m forever pushing down and trying to gag into silence.

Stop it, Emma … Just stop. You are more capable than this.

There’s a group of them walking through the main area of our airy office toward Margo’s desk, which is behind me in a separate room. Margo is nearest, concealing him fully from view, but I catch a glimpse.

He’s still standing taller than her, despite her four-inch heels. There’s two men with him; one in all black, suited and looking serious—he has some sort of wire in his ear, indicating he’s most likely security. The other is dressed more casually, in a tan jacket and chinos and strolling along behind leisurely.

I realize this is Arrick Carrero, his younger brother. He’s not in the papers as much, but I recognize him. He hasn’t really inherited the same masculine beauty or presence as his brother, and he seems rather publicity-shy, although he is only late teens. I note that he’s also only about five-foot nine, yet still muscular and has tawny hair much like his father’s. That same weird nose profile too that Jacob Carrero does not have. Jacob seems to have a perfect nose, to match his perfect—well, everything. I wonder how Arrick feels, being the less attractive Carrero son, living in his brother’s shadow.

Within a moment all of them are in his office, past Margo’s inner door, and it’s closed. I take a deep breath of relief and try again to type this document out, meeting with my usual success. Quick and swift skill with a keyboard now that I have no visual distractions.

It seems like an eternity has passed when my switchboard lights up, and the distant voice of Margot interrupts my concentration. I was unaware I’d been semi holding my breath until that second and give myself another stern inner shake.

“Emma, please come into Mr. Carrero’s office. Thank you.” The voice sounds distant and tinny on the remarkably high-tech machine.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake.” I flinch at my use of her full name, knowing she asked me to call her Margo. I mentally scold myself to not repeat the mistake.

I don’t make mistakes. Ever.

I slide up, smoothing down my clothes and putting my jacket back on quickly. Buttoning it up nervously as I walk the small distance to her door which blocks entrance to his.

It takes all my willpower to walk into the office, and all of my acting ability, dredged up from somewhere deep, to pull off the undaunted calm demeanor that I try to present at all times. My stomach-turning somersaults, and my throat drying up. I don’t know why I’m having so much trouble with it today.

“Ah, Emma, here you are.” Margo meets me as I pull open the heavy wooden door and slide in. Suddenly conscious of how short I am, even in my spike heels, next to her swan like body. She stands tall for a woman and I stand at around five feet four.

“Jake, this is Emma Anderson. She’s your new assistant in training. Your new number two.” She smiles fondly at me and gestures me to come to her. I move beside her and get the gentle familiar pat on my shoulder as she tries to put me at ease.

I blink a few times, pausing at the use of the name Jake.

Am I missing something here?

It dawns on me he prefers the name Jake. Brain clicking with memories from my research. He corrected many interviewers and I remember he likes the informality and encourages using his first name; shortened first name.

All my thoughts slip away to nothing and I’m held captive to the floor, unable to speak as the object of my nerves gets out of his seat. This is what I’ve been afraid of! My reaction when faced with someone I find attractive, and it’s completely new to me.

I don’t even notice the others in the room as he effortlessly glides up and toward me. He has the walk of someone who’s never doubted his own confidence or abilities. Someone who knew from early in life that he was devastatingly attractive and has the best kind of reaction from all women. It’s mesmerizing in a way, but also disconcerting.

He towers above me as he approaches, putting him over the six-foot mark easily. Wearing all black; shirt and suit, minus a tie and top buttons open. The overall effect makes me breathless. He’s beyond underwear model hot, he’s like some female fantasy come to life.

Jeeze.

“Miss. Anderson.” He extends an arm, and all I can do is reach out and shake the neatly manicured, yet oddly masculine, hand. I’m painfully aware of the way my heart quickens, and my breath is slightly labored at the tingling sensation of his skin on mine. I immediately feel betrayed by my own body.

I push it down, abhorred that I should react this way. It’s alien to me and has me shifting on my own axis. I don’t like being forced out of my comfort zone and into new experiences.

“Mr Car—” my voice is feeble. I’m so pathetic and obvious.

“Jake! Please,” he cuts in; those green eyes taking me in, leaving me no clue to anything going on behind them.

“Margo informs me she’s happy with you so far and will be training you a little more extensively in time, to step in fully when she retires. I guess that means we should get better acquainted on a first name basis.” He throws me a charming, soft smile, and I’m not immune to the effect. It’s a gesture that hints that he knows exactly what he’s doing with it though.

So, this is how you win over women is it, Carrero? Melting them with seductive smiles. Ughhh.

My insides lurch unexpectedly. His hand is smooth and inhumanely warm in mine, and I’m starting to feel clammy. Anxious Emma peeking her head out, only to be pushed back down with a firm shove.

Be still, Emma … Stay cool. Stop drooling.

“I’m really grateful for the opportunity.” I sound normal enough, only a slight waver in my voice this time and I’m relieved. If anything, my years of poise are saving me from myself right now. Pulling off the pretense.

He subtly looks me over. There’s nothing in it, which surprises me. Just an interested appraisal as he tries to measure me up. I guess he’s used to women going all weak-kneed and pie-eyed at his presence and it interests him that I don’t appear to be. I’m glad he can’t see my internal reactions, as they are behaving disgustingly right about now.

I’m unnerved that this close he’s just as handsome, if not more than his internet pictures, and his ruggedness is intimidating. The sheer power of his shoulders and toned body, straining behind the expensive clothing. I know from photographs he prefers more casual attire than suits and ties most of the time. He’s sexually intimidating and so far out of my league in every way and now, in the flesh, it’s so much more obvious. I swallow hard.

“Can I get you a drink, Emma? You look flushed.” His voice pours over me like honey, and my mouth dries up fully. I’m blushing, heat emanating from my roots and scowl at my inner-adolescent self. He removes his hand and walks away from me to his desk with a confident swagger.

I’m uneasy and try to regain my equilibrium, swallowing several times to get the moisture back into my parched mouth and keep my eyes off his ass. A drink would be good right now, if only to release my throat.

“Thank you.” I catch Margot watching me with a strange look in her eye, and I realize it’s a touch of uncertainty. Mr. Carrero moves off to a bar at the rear of the room, to the side of his desk, with his back to us to fix me a drink.

Shit!