“You could have told me that Owen owns North & Co.”

Poppy looks up from the bowl of chocolate ice cream she’s inhaling and frowns. “I thought you knew. Everyone knows that. And besides, the North bit in that didn’t give it away?”

“You know I’m not everyone, Pop, and no, the North didn’t click for me. Geez, I spent the night of your wedding trapped in a toilet cubicle with the man and then today I call him an asshole and—”

“Wait! Why’d you call him an asshole?”

“Well, I didn’t really call him an asshole so much as I told him that whoever owned the place was an asshole.” I still can’t believe I didn’t put it together that Owen owns that company. I mean, I follow companies and shares religiously. I just don’t take much notice of the people behind the companies. I’m more interested in the actual shares.

Her eyes widen in understanding. “So I’m guessing you didn’t get the job?”

After Owen was dragged off by some woman this morning, I hadn’t stuck around. I mean, there was no point. I wasn’t qualified for the job, I’d told his staff member off, and I’d called him an asshole. Plus I’d told him I didn’t want to work for his company. So yeah, no point hanging around. I couldn’t even imagine what else he might want to discuss with me.

It’s now just after 6:00 p.m. and I’ve spent the afternoon trying to figure out how I’m going to pay my bills. I don’t have enough cash in the bank to cover them and my rent, let alone food, so it’s going to take some creative shuffling to get through the next little while. I’ve got money coming in from random jobs I’ve done—house cleaning, gardening, and dog walking—but what I really need is a regular cash injection in the form of a stable job.

A real job.

Something I haven’t ever really had.

“I didn’t get the job,” I confirm. “And at this point I only have one other interview lined up for this week.”

Poppy and I are sitting on my couch—a hand-me-down from her after she moved in with Dougall—with our favourite show, Elementary, playing in the background. She arrived about ten minutes ago and went straight to my fridge for ice cream. Dougall doesn’t allow ice cream in their house. Actually, he doesn’t allow any kind of sweet food. I don’t know how Poppy has managed to stay with him for three years. I would have been out of there the day he said no to ice cream.

Her attention is drawn to the television for a moment. Pointing at it, she almost jumps in her seat. Well, she would jump if she wasn’t sitting. It’s more of an excited bounce. “He’s the killer! Watson was totally right about that.” Glancing back at me, she says, “You wanna come do my gardens? I’ll make sure Dougall pays you way more than he pays anyone else.”

I pull a face. “We both know there’s no way he’d pay me more than anyone else. Your husband is a tight-ass.”

She grins. “Yeah, but we’re leaving for our honeymoon tomorrow, and he’ll be in a sex coma for two weeks while I fuck him all over Europe. He’ll agree to anything while I’m putting out like that.”

The fact that he refused to leave for their honeymoon until he’d finalised a few deals he was working on would have pissed me off if he were my husband, but Poppy wasn’t at all put out by it. “More deals means more money, which means more shoes,” she’d said with a shrug. I love my cousin, but there are days where I wonder how we are even related.

My doorbell sounds and Poppy lifts a brow. “Is that Dylan?”

I shake my head. “No, he’s working tonight.”

When I don’t make a move to get up and answer it, she says, “You want me to check or are you still anti door-answering?”

“Don’t you dare. It’s dinner time for most people. No one should be knocking on doors during dinner time.”

She rolls her eyes. “You and your extreme hate for door-to-door salespeople. What if it’s one of your neighbours needing help with someone?” She waves her arm in the air excitedly as if she has the perfect answer to a riddle. “Like that hot guy two doors down with the Labrador. Maybe his dog has gone missing and he wants you to help find it. Or it could be Muriel. She might have a medical emergency. She’s near death you know.”

“I’ve lived here for two years, and besides Muriel, I’ve spoken to my neighbours a grand total of like ten times. It’s not my neighbours, and it’s definitely not Muriel. She rings me if she needs me, and for your information, she is not near death’s door. That woman has more life in her than a teenager. Do not answer that door or I will confiscate all the ice cream from my house and you’ll never be able to eat it again.”

Her eyes bulge. “You would never!”

“I so would.”

The person at my door knocks louder, and I fight the urge to yell out something about them clearly not knowing it’s dinner time. And then a deep voice calls out, “Charlize, are you home?”

I freeze.

It’s Owen.

And I’m nowhere near dressed enough for him to see me.

“Well shit, maybe you do have the job after all,” Poppy says as she stands.

My heart races, and I grab her hand as she tries to walk past me. Yanking her back down to the couch, I whisper-yell, “Where are you going? Do not answer that door!”

“Oh, I have no intention of answering that door. A girl’s gotta have somewhere to come for ice cream. But I’ma need more ice cream so I can sit back and eat it while watching you deal with Owen North.”

“I am not answering that door.” I glance down at the ripped denim shorts and old tank top I’m wearing. The one that says “I’m Here For The Gang Bang.” And then I look around my messy home. It’s clean but really messy. I’ve dumped laundry to be folded on my other couch, bills are strewn across my table where I sat today trying to figure out a payment schedule, and nearly all the Tupperware I own is on the kitchen counter because I had the brilliant idea at 1:00 a.m. last night to tidy my cupboards. None of these things are fit for Owen’s eyes.

“Charlize, your car is in the driveway, so I’m guessing you’re home,” Owen calls out. “I really want to speak with you.”

Damn. It’s not my car. I smack Poppy’s arm. “You should have parked your car around the damn corner!”

“Just let him in already. You know you want to.”

I want to see him again. I just don’t want to see him right now. But when he continues to knock on the door, I give in and decide to just let him in and get this over with.

“You sure know how to make a man work for it,” he says when I yank the door open.

“You don’t know the half of it!” Poppy calls out.

His gaze drops to my shirt, and I know he’s read the gang bang slogan when his lips curl up at the ends.

“What are you doing here, Owen? Did I leave something behind this morning?”

“I came to finish our conversation that you walked out on.”

“I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“I’ll be quick.”

Goodness, he just doesn’t give up.

“Fine,” I mutter and motion for him to enter. “Come in.”

I lead him to the kitchen table and hastily pile all my bills and other paperwork at one end of the table. Owen does not need to see that I am incapable of running my financial life. It’s true that I’m good at analysing and predicting the share market, but sticking to a budget is not my forte in life. Not when there are so many pretties to be bought.

“Was everything okay with that woman this morning?” I ask as we sit after he says hi to Poppy who is on the couch looking extremely pleased with the current turn of events. “She seemed super stressed.”

“That was Tahlia, my assistant. She had a family drama that came up. We worked it out, so all good there.” He leans forward. “You were in the middle of telling me about your experience with trading.”

I like that he helped his assistant with her family drama. And that he didn’t just make out that it was a trivial thing. Most of the men I know would wave it away like it wasn’t worth a moment of their time.

“Ah no, I was in the middle of telling you that I’m not qualified.” Why is he still going on about this? Discussing my failure to finish my degree isn’t something I am keen to do. God knows I’ve had to do that more times than I care with my mother.

“See that’s what I’m curious about, Charlize. What do you put on your resume to get jobs?”

I fiddle with a pen that’s in front of me as I contemplate what I’m about to tell him. He’s watching me with such extreme interest that it’s making me nervous. “I’ve done some work for George Donaldson. That’s the only job on my resume in this field.” And it wasn’t really a job, but I’m feeling weird about owning up to that. George has no problems with me telling prospective employers it was a paid job, but for some reason, lying to Owen isn’t something I want to do.

He whistles low. “That’s some accomplishment. It’s hard to get George to even schedule an appointment, let alone hire you. How did you achieve that without any qualifications?”

I drop the pen, irritated that he just won’t let this go. Mostly, though, I’m annoyed at the pickle I always seem to get myself into where work is concerned. Maybe my mother was right. Maybe my life would have been a whole lot easier if I’d just followed the traditional path of getting a degree and then a respectable job.

“Good God, has anyone ever told you that you’re like a dog with a frigging bone? So I never had a real job with the man. I just gave him some advice about his shares. My father introduced me to him at a party years ago.”

Owen takes that in and reclines in his seat.

He’s about to say something when Poppy chimes in. “She might not have worked for the old coot, but she sure as hell made him some money. And he’d be the first one to recommend her if you were thinking of hiring her. Just in case you were wondering.”

“What trades did you advise him on?” Owen is still watching me with the same level of interest. It appears that he doesn’t care whether my work with George was paid or not.

Poppy doesn’t give me a chance to answer him before she calls out, “You remember how he made all those millions by selling his Armor shares right before they crashed? Charles was responsible for that. She predicted that crash when no one else had it on their radar. And the Continental shares, too. She told him to buy them right before they skyrocketed, and he made a fortune when she said it was time to let them go.”

Owen’s eyes lock with mine as he listens to Poppy. If I weren’t sitting, I’d likely sway under the intensity of his gaze. I’d felt like that the night I met him, too. Sitting here, in his suit with the top few buttons of his shirt undone, watching me the way he is… Owen North is all kinds of sexy, and I can barely form a cohesive sentence in my head, let alone speak one. So, I sit in silence and wait for him to speak. In my experience, it’s always best not to speak first, anyway. I usually say something inappropriate.

“That’s impressive,” he says softly, his eyes flashing with more of the intensity that has unleashed a swarm of butterflies in my tummy. Leaning towards me again, he says, “Come work with me.”

Whoa.

I didn’t see that coming.

“Umm,” I mumble, showing him just how put together I really am. All my confidence of this morning is gone. If it were anyone else asking me to come work for them, I’d jump at the chance. Working for Owen might not be the best idea in the world. I can’t think straight around the man.

He stands, buttoning his suit jacket, drawing my gaze to his hands. They look like very strong, capable hands. The kind of hands that could steal my attention for long periods of time. Yes, I have a thing for eyes and hands. “I’ll be at the office by eight tomorrow morning. Come in then, and I’ll get you set up.”

I jump up, anxious to correct his assumption that I want the job. He’s already halfway to the front door. “Wait, Owen… I can’t work for you.”

He stops and turns to me. “You applied for the job this morning.”

“Yes, but I didn’t realise then it was you I’d be working for.”

“You don’t want to work with me?”

“Well,” I mumble, switching my weight from one foot to the other. Jesus, this is a mess. “I’m just not sure it would work out so well.”

His eyes burn with intensity again. “It’ll work out just fine.”

God.

I’m a near-thirty-year-old woman, yet I feel like a bloody teenager. He’s got me all flustered, which honestly I don’t have the time for. My landlord is looking for any reason to evict me, my phone is about to be cut off, as is my electricity, and without a job, I’ll be eating rice for dinner every night next week.

So I pull myself together, stand tall and fake it ‘til I make it. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll be there at eight tomorrow morning.” I’ll psych myself up tonight so that by tomorrow morning, the only way I’m looking at Owen North is as my boss. Not as the man I currently want to do filthy things to.

Fuck my life.