T he HR rules are even more stringent for you, because you are a representation of me. Therefore, I expect you to wear clothing that reflects that status. If you are in need of an advance to fund this, we can provide one .

My face burns with embarrassment and irritation as I reread for the tenth time the email Bentley sent right before the end of the work day. I didn’t check my new work email address until after dinner, so I didn’t see the message until about a half hour ago .

But that isn’t the end of his demands. I scan more of the email .

You are not to take personal calls at work. You may mingle with your fellow employees, but matters discussed in my office or pertaining to my work are off-limits as topics of discussion .

What, does he think I’m a total idiot? Like I’m going to gossip about sensitive materials. My cheeks burn in frustration. I try to remind myself that he doesn’t know me, and maybe his previous secretary screwed those things up, so he has to be strict to ensure that doesn’t happen again .

I’ll prove myself. I have to. After sitting down with HR today and discussing my salary, there’s no way I can afford to walk away from this job. The money and benefits are ridiculous, way more than I would have dreamed possible. Way more than someone who hasn’t even finished college yet should be earning .

But with that money comes high expectations .

I review over his list of appropriate wardrobe—including colors—and mentally scroll through what I have in my closet. I’m definitely going to need to go shopping. But I’ll be damned if I take any of his money to do so .

I’ll go tomorrow after work and see what I can get from an outlet store, at least until my first check comes in and I can buy more clothing. In the meantime, I’ll make due with staples. A couple of black skirts and pants. Simple white blouses. Practical flats. It’ll be fine, I tell myself .

After all, I sort of had a dress code at the bar, too. Only, it was to dress as sleazy as I could to encourage male patrons to linger and drink more. Hence why most of my clothes aren’t quite appropriate for an office environment .

I get up from my laptop and sigh, moving to my tiny room. The other bedroom is closed, indicating my roommate Callie is in there with her girlfriend. I can hear their soft murmurings as they talk. A pang of loneliness hits me again .

When I came to New York City a year ago, I thought I was sure to make a lot of friends in a city this size. Instead, I feel more alone than ever. More aware that I’m an outsider. I want to belong, to find a place where I fit in. With people who give a damn about me .

My room is little bigger than a closet with a mattress. I plop down on the bed and stare at the water-stained ceiling. Fold my hands across my stomach and feel my breaths go in and out .

I miss college. I miss having a purpose, taking steps to fulfilling my dreams. I’ve been treading water since I got here, and I’m tired of it. This job might challenge me, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to quit. I’ll be able to save up a lot of cash. Then I can finish my last year of college and graduate. Go on and start my life for real, not just fumble around and hope things come together magically somehow .

Because life doesn’t work that way. I learned my lesson after my run-in with Warren Archer. My literature professor .

Thinking about Professor Archer makes my stomach cramp. I roll over onto my side and curl my legs up .

Doctor Archer, as he liked to be called. He wasn’t attractive, not physically at least. He was fifteen years older than me, too. But in his class, as he lectured on the nuances of interpreting Shakespearean prose, I felt like he was talking right to me. Like he saw me. I was special, or at least I thought so .

He was intelligent and seemed interested in my mind, in my opinions. As a girl who was a math major, a sexually inexperienced nerd, I couldn’t help but be drawn to him. He made me feel like there was more to me to be unearthed. Like he saw beneath the surface and could evoke that sensual, feminine side that I’d never experienced .

Thank God we never slept together. Not that he didn’t try. There was a lot of groping and touching and kissing. But I could never quite bring myself to do it with him. Some part of me always pulled back from the edge .

I slip off my pants and remain in my tank top and panties. Slide under my sheets and click off the light. The room is flooded with darkness. But it can’t shield me from the shame I feel, that I let myself get caught up in him .

I knew being with my professor was wrong. But he seemed sophisticated and intelligent, and the fact that he showed interest in me was magnetic. Compelling .

At least, until I found out I wasn’t the only one .

I squeeze my eyelids shut and will myself to stop thinking about Dr. Archer. He doesn’t matter now. That’s in the past . I’ll just keep chanting that to myself again and again. And maybe one day, I’ll believe it .

Until then, I’ll be haunted by the shame I feel over what I did—how I ran away. The look on my parents’ faces when I revealed why I left school .

No, I can’t afford to lose this job. It’s my best chance to get my life back on track, and I’m gonna make sure I succeed so Bentley won’t regret taking me on. It’s clear to see he’s demanding, just from those emails. But I won’t let it rattle me. I’ll stay professional. I’ll rise to the challenge .

I have to .

* * *

“G o print that out and have it on my desk by noon,” Bentley says as he shifts his attention toward various papers on his desk. “Not a minute later .”

I keep my breathing steady so as not to reveal the frustration welling in me. I’m so tempted to give him a snarky “yes, sir,” but I can only imagine how he’d react to that. So instead, I just rise from the chair and leave his office, clicking the door behind me. Settle into my desk right outside, drawing in steadying breaths .

The past week of working for Bentley has been…difficult, to say the least. He’s not just demanding. He’s ruthless, hell-bent on controlling everything he can around him. Including me. I hate it .

Well… kind of .

There’s something insanely sexy about the way he takes control. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. He gives me one look, and I know that I’m going to be typing that letter for the fifth time just to get it right and please him .

I think I hate that response Bentley brings out in me .

I hate that it vaguely reminds me of the yearning I felt for my old professor—that strange power dynamic. Wanting to be noticed .

And yet this is a million times worse, because Bentley is fucking hot .

It feels like the only way I can elicit some kind of emotion out of him, the only way to get him to see me as a human and not just a faceless employee, is to be perfect in every task he assigns .

He’s cold, colder than anyone I’ve ever met in my life. Emotionless. Empty. At the top of a mountain alone, where he wants to be .

Bentley never socializes with anyone. Ever. I watch people come in and out of his office all day, and I never hear any laughter from behind his door. He’s untouchable, and I think he likes it like that .

Prefers it that way , even .

Well, it’s probably for the best. Even as cold as he is, the man radiates a sexuality that makes me ache to be around him. I’m far more attracted to him than I should be. But he’s my boss—an older man in a position of authority. No way in hell am I making that mistake again .

I’ll get over this strange compulsion, the one that makes me want to pry beneath the surface and see why he is the way he is. Why the man in control every day was so different the first night I met him .

If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed that was him in the bar. It’s like that person never existed. And Bentley doesn’t bring it up at all. Now that I work for him, he’s in complete boss mode .

I finish the work he asked me to do, print it out and rap on his door. Smooth my skirt a bit. His scrutiny can get intense—he always looks directly at me. Hard. Like he can see everything about me. It makes me uncomfortable, vulnerable .

“Come in,” his smooth voice says from the other side of the door .

I enter and school my face into a neutral expression. Put the paper on the corner of his desk—Bentley likes it there; he sorts through things on his own timeline .

Except not today. No, he picks up the paper and grabs a pen. Scans through it and makes a few marks .

My throat tightens, and I try to fight off the surge of disappointment. God, no wonder his previous assistant quit. He probably drove her insane with being so nitpicky. I bet she’s doing something mindless and fun now, wearing whatever the hell she wants and not missing this place for a minute .

If I weren’t making so much money, I’d be tempted to walk out of her right now .

But I’d be hoping he might come after me …

“This looks fine,” Bentley murmurs as he hands the paper back to me. “These aren’t corrections, just further additions I’d like in there. Please email this to the board. Well done .”

A compliment. So rare, it makes my cheeks flush in pleasure. I nod and take the paper back. “ Thank you .”

When Bentley finally looks at me, there’s something in his eyes that makes me stand in place. His sexy mouth is slightly parted, and he seems kind of relaxed—a rare occurrence from what I’ve seen .

“Um.” I bite my lip. “Would you like me to order lunch? Your usual, or something different?” I’m having this sudden impulse to draw him into conversation. We’ve not talked about anything other than work-related topics since I started here .

“You can choose. You’ll be eating lunch with me today,” he says. “We need to go over some figures before this afternoon’s meeting, and I don’t have any free time before then .”

I shift from foot to foot. “Thai?” I haven’t seen him eat Thai food—I’m shamelessly trying to find a tidbit of info on him. What he likes, dislikes .

And he knows it. Bentley quirks his brow. “Are you asking or telling me?” His voice rolls over me like warm water .

I lift my chin. “Well, I like Thai, so I’m getting it for me. If you don’t want it, tell me what you do want .”

His eyelids lower, and he stares at me. I can’t read the expression on his face, but it looks like he wants to say something. God, I wish he would. The tension between us has been building every damn day. What does he want from me? Is the sexual thing only on my side? It feels like it .

That first night I met him, I would have sworn he was coming on to me. But ever since then, he’s been distant, different .

“Chicken Pad Thai, extra sauce,” he finally says and gives me a dismissive nod .

I leave his office and make the corrections, then send the email. Go freshen up my cup of coffee. What just happened in there? What did that mean ?

Probably nothing, I chide myself. I’m so hyperaware of him that I’m reading into everything he says and does. Seeing things that aren’t there. Bentley hired me to work for him, that’s all. Because he got me canned from my old job and he felt bad, probably also felt guilty for losing control, drinking and fighting .

He didn’t hire me because he actually wanted to see more of me, even if that’s what I hope and fantasize about constantly .

I have to stop thinking anything more. And that’s for the best, because it’s easier, cleaner this way. No messy entanglements. Nothing dangerous .

Just work and focusing on my goals. Making enough money to get back to school, where I fit. Where things make sense .

I pour a fresh mug of coffee in the break room. A couple of editors are lingering by the fridge, holding donuts and laughing. I offer them a smile, and they give me a polite one back, though I see curiosity on their faces. I came out of nowhere—didn’t even get interviewed, was just brought on as the assistant to the owner of the company. Something I didn’t think about when I took the job .

How others might view me .

I pour powdered creamer in my mug and a packet of sugar and stir .

“There are donuts in the fridge,” the black-haired woman says to me. “Help yourself .”

My heart swells at the small but welcome gesture. “Thanks!” I grab a powdered donut and take a big bite, grimacing when small white sugar flakes fall on my black dress top. “Ugh. I’ll never get this out .”

The other woman, a brunette, laughs. “Better not let Boss Man see .”

So she knows how much of a perfectionist Bentley is. Part of me wants to talk about it, to help continue the conversation and possibly make friends, but the other part knows he’d frown on being a source of discussion. I choose to remain prudent and skirt the topic. “I’ll wear lighter clothing on the next donut day .”

The two women slip back into conversation with each other, and I grab a damp paper towel and wipe my top down, then blot it dry as best as I can. It’ll be fine by the time I bring his lunch in to him .

I continue with my morning tasks, emailing Kim as questions crop up on how to handle one thing or another. She’s always kind and never gives me flack about asking too many questions, which I appreciate. In thanks, I ask her if she wants anything from the nearby Thai restaurant for lunch, but she declines .

There’s a sense of anticipation in the air for me—sharing lunch with Bentley. It’s the first time this has happened. What does it mean? Is it just work as he says? Is it more? Am I being weird and overthinking it? Yes, of course I am .

And the lunch hour proves it .

Bentley barely even looks over at me, much less eats his meal. Which means I don’t get much of a chance to eat, either. I try not to glance longingly at my food, growing colder by the minute, as I take furious notes for him. When the hour is over, he dismisses me .

I eat my cold Pad Thai at my desk and type more emails .

And try to ignore the fact that I’m treading uneven waters when it comes to Bentley and what I’m feeling toward him .

* * *

“I n short, it’s weird,” I declare to Janelle. “I mean, it’s a great opportunity for me, but…my life has taken such a strange turn. And he’s impossible to read.” I sip on my glass of wine and settle into the cracked leather booth .

Janelle randomly texted me after I got off work to see what I was up to, and we decided to go have drinks together and catch up. Honestly? I was so surprised she was even thinking of me that I couldn’t help but say yes .

She smirks and takes a drag from her beer bottle. “Who woulda thought that quiet guy from the bar turned out to be a gazillionaire?” Her laugh echoes in the space between us, and a couple of guys peer over to find the source of the light sound. When she sees them, she winks. Ever the flirt. I can’t help but feel better around her. Having her attention is magnetic, even as a friend .

“Yeah, color me surprised .”

“So I’m guessing he hasn’t hit on you yet,” Janelle muses. “I wonder what’s taking him so long? He was totally into you from what I could tell .”

I blink. “What do you mean ?”

She laughs. “Oh, honey. You didn’t see the way he was staring at you that night? Like he was in a dark tunnel and you were a star leading him out .”

“That’s beautifully dramatic,” I say in a droll tone. “And inaccurate. That man had eyes for nothing but his whiskey .”

Janelle snorts. “Right. If you say so. I guess I must be blind .”

“But…” A slow burn crawls up my throat and over my cheeks. “Even if he did act that way, it was probably just because of alcohol. He’s been frosty to me ever since .”

With a sigh, she leans forward and pats my hand. “Sweetness. I guarantee you, if you throw the goods his way, he’s gonna take ‘em. No man looks at a woman like that unless he wants a taste. He’s probably just trying to be on his best behavior.” She eyes me. “That is what you want, right? For there to be no crossed lines ?”

“Yes, of course,” I murmur, admitting the truth. Because it is. “I mean… Okay, admittedly it would be nice to know I wasn’t the only one who felt the attraction, even if we don’t act on it. Which is for the best, of course, but…” Shit. This wine is making me far chattier than I thought I’d be .

Her triumphant smile indicates she’s picked up on my emotions. She leans back and says, “You just gotta know how to flirt the right way. Subtle enough that you send off signals without being overt. Then you’ll know for sure. Hell, I’ll teach you how to do it. And I bet you five dollars that he ends up boning you on his office floor .”

My eyes fly open. “Janelle!” But I have to admit, the thought is tempting. Nothing will happen, of course, not really. A man like him has his pick of the most beautiful, sophisticated and sexy women on earth .

My friend smirks. “It’s not even difficult. Men are easy .”

“If you were to show me how to do it…you promise he wouldn’t know ?”

She cackles. “Girl, trust me. You’ll have your answers and your plausible deniability .”

It’s probably the wine talking, but I say, “Okay. Agreed. But now, let’s talk about something else. What’s going on at work ?”

Her wide grimace makes me laugh. “Ugh, Chet is even more irritable than ever. And with his broken nose, he’s looking busted as fuck .”

We spend a few minutes talking about her work, about how Janelle is working there as a single mom to support her son. I didn’t know she had a kid—she’s only a few years older than me, and she never brought him up at work. But given how awful Chet is, I guess I don’t blame her. When I ask her to show pics, I see her proud-mama face beaming as she scrolls through her phone with glee .

“He’s my life,” she says as she shows off her adorable son, who looks to be around four or five. “I’d do anything for him .”

“He looks just like you. Gonna be a heartbreaker .”

Rolling her eyes, she says, “God, I hope not. That shit got me knocked up in the first place. I’m gonna give him a condom when he hits third grade.” At my shocked gasp, she laughs. “I’m kidding. But seriously, he’s not gonna be like me. Stuck in a dead-end job with a lecherous boss. I’m saving up and getting the hell out of there .”

“What are you going to do when you are out ?”

Her eyes soften. “I want to design clothing. There’s a small school where I could start next fall. Clay will be in elementary school by then, so I may be able to afford it .”

“I really hope you can,” I tell her warmly. “I wanna go back to school too .”

“Let’s make a pact,” she says. “Hold each other to it .”

I stick out my hand. “It’s a deal .”

She shakes it, then swigs her beer. “Okay, so it’s time to come up with a plan. Let’s see if the billionaire is really as strong and cool as he pretends he is .”