“Pop. You must’ve read that report at least five times.” I look across the desk at him, anxious to get him out of my office.

“It pays to be meticulous. The devil is in the details,” he says calmly.

“I know. That’s all you ever say. That’s why I have a bunch of professionals to check and re-check everything.”

He waves his hand dismissively and adjusts his reading glasses. He looks almost like an old, harmless librarian when he does that.

I take a deep breath and try to ignore him, distracting myself by reading the news on my phone.

I can’t afford to give him any clues about just how restless I am. Of course he has to choose today to visit the office, of all days. I should’ve expected this.

You’d think I’m a slacker, the way the old man’s acting. But I’m far from it.

My employees think I’m a micro-manager, but they only say that because they have never worked directly with Robert Foster. Even in supposed retirement, he sticks a finger in every damn pie.

This is the shitty thing about a family business, no matter the size. Normal people worry about their work bleeding into personal or family life. I have family digging into my work all the time, scrutinizing and criticizing every little thing.

I take a deep breath.

Patience. Remember, there wouldn’t be a Foster Hotels in the first place without Robert Foster.

Hospitality isn’t a cheap business to get into, and my father gave me the resources I needed to start. I have access to the best brains on his team and of course some of his money as well.

I do remember and appreciate his support now that Foster Hotels is thriving. But I also wish he’d give me less of that same support.

I’ll admit that things have improved compared to three years ago when I first founded Foster Hotels. Back then, he probably spent as much time in my office as I did. And I had to suffer through an interrogation session every time I went home for family dinner.

Compared to those days, he’s practically letting me run the company on my own now, but the old man doesn’t seem to be able to completely let go just yet.

Now he only comes into the office for a weekly update. That’s as close to a vote of confidence as I’ve gotten.

I suppose I should take that as a compliment from a man like Robert Foster, who requires everyone, even his sons, to earn his trust.

“I only have high expectations of you because I believe in you,” he’d say often.

But I’ve been bending over backward to meet his demands and still he maintains a tight grip over my business. I’m starting to think I would’ve fared better if I had just taken out a business loan or sought investor funding to start the company myself instead of leaning on him.

Honestly, I was already looking into it when I decided to just accept my father’s help. Caine works with him and is pretty much free to do what he wants, I thought back then. But I failed to take into account the fact that I’m not my brother.

I hold my phone up with one hand and ball my other hand into a fist, afraid I’m going to start fidgeting in front of my father. If he gets a sniff of my anxiety and finds out it’s because I’m about to have a meeting, he’d insist on staying. And that wouldn’t do. Not today.

“Okay.” My father takes off his reading glasses. “Everything seems fine. How’s the plan for expansion to Seattle?”

“The initial report is being prepared, and I’m planning to go there again in a few months. We’ll have a better idea of what to do after that.” I try to keep my voice calm and steady, pacing my words so they don’t tumble out all at once in my haste.

There’s still time. There’s still enough time.

“Good,” he says, putting on his suit jacket and standing up. “I’ll see you next week. Probably on Thursday or Friday.”

“Okay, Pop. See you then.”

He nods, then unceremoniously walks out the office door. Chatty, as usual.

The door slams shut and I let out a big sigh a relief, slumping into my leather chair.

I check the time again.

Everything should be fine.

* * *

Emily Webb.

That name, which sounds so familiar in my head, now looks out of place on the computer screen. The work computer screen.

After making a few mistakes in the beginning, I now keep my personal life strictly separate from my work, which is why I’m not completely comfortable with what I’m about to do. But I don’t see a better option.

“Cole.” My personal assistant’s voice filters through the phone speaker, breaking the silence.

As I pick up the receiver, I notice my hands are shaking. I’ll have to get my act together.

“Yes, Lily.”

“Emily Webb is here to see you,” she says.

“Send her in,” I say, taking a deep breath.

I’m as ready as I can be.

“Okay,” Lily says. I can hear the first syllable of what she says to Emily before she hangs up and the line dies with a click.

I’m sure Lily is confused about why I’m doing the interview for the junior marketing position myself. When I told her to put this in my schedule, she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion for a second. Luckily, one perk of being the boss is not having to explain my actions.

The truth is, I already know all about Emily Webb, and I already know I’m going to hire her. It’s just not something I can tell HR. It would seem too strange.

Stranger than the CEO interviewing a nobody for an entry level position?

Okay, it still doesn’t look one-hundred percent normal. But at least this way, no asshole from HR can reject her job application and I can see for myself that she gets hired today.

Steffi, the marketing director, is extremely picky when it comes to hiring people for her department. I can’t risk her meddling in this. This is too important.

I take a deep breath, and then another, deeper breath.

I hear soft knocking on the door and my heart jumps out of my chest. I clear my throat.

“Come in,” I say. I hope I sound normal.

The door swings open, and there she is.

Emily Webb.

In my office.

As beautiful as ever.

Well, these days she’s thinner and she doesn’t get dolled up as much as she used to, but she’s still beautiful. She has put her hair up today, which makes her look more serious.

But she has the same sparkling blue eyes, shiny blonde hair, and full lips. The same long legs are hidden underneath the unflattering black skirt she’s wearing, which shows just the slightest hint of the feminine flare of her hips.

“Good morning, Mr. Foster,” she says as she approaches my desk, her hips swaying, hypnotizing. Her voice is loud and clear. Confident. Practiced.

“Good morning.” I’ve done hundreds of interviews and I know what to say by heart. I can do this if I just switch to autopilot mode. I smile, stand up, and extend a steady hand. “Please, call me Cole.”

“Emily,” she says. Her hand feels small and delicate. They’re a little cold too, now that it’s fall. I fight the urge to hold it a little longer, maybe grasp it between both my hands to warm her up.

“Nice to meet you, Emily,” I say, as if I haven’t memorized every single detail about her, as if she hasn’t tortured my thoughts every night. I gesture at the chair across the desk from me. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you, Cole,” she says, my name sliding smoothly out of her mouth. I think about how, for a moment, she holds something of me on her tongue, between her lips. I ache for more. More of anything from her.

Get ahold of yourself, damn it. It’s just a name.

“So, Emily,” I say, leaning back in my leather swivel chair. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Well, I worked in customer service for eight years. I started working as soon as I turned sixteen. I’m highly motivated and driven. I enjoy connecting with people and building relationships with them. I find that’s the key to customer retention and sales,” she says without hesitation.

Clearly, she has prepared and memorized her script before this interview. Hell, she probably has said the exact same thing to dozens of other interviewers before.

“Customer service,” I say, pretending this is just another interview to me, too. “Would you say that is your strength?”

“Yes. And I know marketing is different, but really it’s about customers too, only at a more macro level.”

She continues her perfect delivery of her rehearsed lines, so I take her cue and play my part as well.

She looks determined. There’s a flame burning in her eyes. With that kind of obvious hunger for success, I’d probably hire her even if she wasn’t Emily Webb.

Her bare lips look a little dry. I watch them as she talks. More than anything, I want to grab her and run my tongue along the surface, feel the texture and memorize it with my own lips.

I hate myself for thinking these thoughts, but I can’t help it when she looks so fucking edible.

Irrationally, my heart clenches at the thought of her other interviews. Those men (and women — but let’s face it, there were probably more men than women) spent time alone with her, sitting in positions of power relative to her.

Are you really getting jealous, asshole? You have no right.

I take a deep breath. This charade has gone on long enough. It’s time to just end this interview.

“Okay,” I say as soon as she finishes saying her answer to my previous interview question. “I think we’ve covered everything.”

She gives me a polite smile. She looks nervous with her fidgeting fingers, but she’s meeting my gaze. Hope smolders in her sapphire blue eyes.

“Can you start on Monday?” I say.

I can almost pinpoint the exact moment she realizes she’s getting the job. Anxiety seems to evaporate from her body and relief takes its place.

“Of course!” A wide grin spreads across her face, but there’s more joy simmering just under the surface. If she weren’t stuck in an office with her future boss, she’d probably clap or jump or both.

“Good,” I say, returning her grin. It’s contagious. Just looking at her right now makes me want to grab her hand, put on some music, and dance.

But that would be completely inappropriate. Instead, I say, “Monday, 9 a.m., report to Steffi from marketing. She’ll know what to do.”

“Thank you, Cole,” she says, and my heart jumps again at the mention of my name. “You won’t regret this.”

“You’re welcome, Emily.” I look forward to happy little interactions with her, even if she just sees me as a boss and keeps me at arm’s length. “See you on Monday, then.”

“See you on Monday,” she says, nodding with the wide grin still plastered on her face as she gets up from her chair. “Thanks again. Thank you so much.”

I watch as she turns around and makes her way toward the door. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to grab those hips and pull her luscious ass back against the bulge in my pants so she can feel for herself exactly what she’s doing to me.

“Have a good day, Cole.” She looks back and smiles at the door.

“You too, Emily.”

The door closes with a thud as it hits the jamb. I hear a soft click when the latch springs into place. Suddenly, the office feels empty. Silent.

I turn my chair around and look out through the glass wall at the city that’s sprawling out in all directions. She’s walking out of this building soon, and then she can be anywhere in this big city, and I won’t know where she is.

But I know where she’ll be on Monday morning, and the morning after that, and the one after that. She’ll be spending a lot of time right outside my office door.

I haven’t decided yet if that will be a good thing or a bad thing.

Before this interview, I tried to convince myself that I was only doing this to help her.

But I realize now that maybe it has all been for my own benefit. Maybe I insisted on doing this interview myself just so I could talk to her, have her to myself for a few fleeting moments.