Finally, I lean forward against the table. My cheeks are on fire, and my palms are sweaty.
“So, what you’re saying is …” But I can’t get the words out. It still feels too unbelievable.
“I’ll help.” He leans against the table too. I think he’s teasing me by mirroring my posture, but I’m not sure. “Do you remember my name?”
“Oliver Mason.” I’ve only thought about it a dozen times since yesterday.
“Good. Now, did you happen to see the words printed on large, copper-colored letters on the arch above the entrance when you arrived here today?”
I nod. Slowly. “Mason Limited.” I suck in a breath. “So that would make you …”
“CEO.” He considers this. “Co-CEO. My brother Holt and I share the position. But I’m much better at it than he is.”
“Oh, good God.”
He laughs.
I sit back again, needing a bit of space. “You’re telling me that I just happened to show up to a job interview at a company that you own on the day after I hit you with my car?”
He sits back too and shrugs. “Seems like it.”
“How is that possible?”
“Crazier things have happened,” he says, the words slightly defensive.
“Okay. Like what?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but he seems to take it as a challenge. His brows pull together, and a smile ghosts his lips. He looks entirely too comfortable.
“Well, Pepsi had the sixth biggest army in the world for a hot minute,” he says easily as if he has this kind of information poised and ready to go.
“Pepsi? The soda company?”
He nods.
“Huh,” I say, mostly because I didn’t expect him to start giving me examples.
“A woman survived the sinking of the Titanic and both of its sister ships,” he says, the words a breeze. “Think about those odds.”
I don’t think about anything. I just look at him.
“Franz Ferdinand escaped one assassination attempt,” he tells me. “Then his driver took a wrong turn, and they wound up in front of a random assassin who killed him.”
I cock my head to the side and try to orient myself to this conversation. “I … that’s some bad luck.” That’s all I can come up with. I still haven’t gotten past the fact he’s here.
“For all of us. That started World War I.” He watches me closely. “With all that being said, the fact that you showed up today isn’t all that preposterous, is it?”
I frown. He makes it hard to think with his face and his body and apparently his brain now too.
“Toni tells me that you’re highly qualified to be my assistant,” he says and then runs his tongue around the inside of his cheek.
“Your assistant?”
He nods. I wait for him to laugh or chuckle—for someone to pop through the door and yell, “Gotcha!”—but none of that happens. He just strums his fingertips against his knee and watches me like a CEO.
I take a deep breath. Slowly, my heartbeat returns to its natural rhythm. I imagine coming to work and dealing with him all day. True, there are worse ways to spend a solid eight to ten hours a day, but I’m not sure I’m equipped to deal with it—with him.
“Should we talk salary?” he asks.
The room begins to spin—or maybe it’s the walls that seem to close in on us, I’m not sure. I grab the sides of my chair.
I redirect my attention toward a painting to the right of Oliver’s head. It’s some abstract art piece with streaks of paint dotting the canvas as though someone took a paint brush and flicked them in that direction. It’s not nearly as interesting as I make it out to be.
“What kind of position are you looking for?” he asks, changing tactics.
“Something stable.” I gather my courage and let my gaze find his again. I can almost feel my brain cells misfire. “Something challenging.”
So far, so good.
Oliver slides the paper from Genevieve toward me. “Have you had time to look at this?”
I nod.
“Is this in your wheelhouse?” he asks.
I scan the list of job duties again. “Of course. I’ve done all of that before. None of it would be a problem.”
“That’s great. I think you seem like a good fit for us.”
I raise my hand to my lips, touching them briefly, before dropping it back to my lap.
“You’ve asked me one question—two, maybe,” I point out. “Excuse me for saying this, but how do you know I’d be a good fit here?”
“First instincts.” His features remain perfectly calm. “I’ve been in business long enough—had enough assistants and co-workers—to know when I have chemistry with someone and when I don’t. It’s imperative that exists between two people who will work as closely together as I will work with my assistant.”
Fair enough.
“And I think you and I will work together very well,” he says, his voice growing deeper.
His gaze sears into me. It’s so heavy, so hot, that I have to look away.
He’s right, of course. There is a definite connection between us. It’s a ripple of energy present every time we’re together. And while I’m sure chemistry is necessary in the executive office, I’m not sure it should feel like this.
A job interview shouldn’t borderline feel like a date. It shouldn’t feel like we’re about to walk outside, get in his car, and go to dinner. And it sure as hell shouldn’t feel like we’re one errant look—one misfire of the energy between us—away from being naked and sweaty on this conference room table.
I take a deep breath. Oliver’s attention sits squarely on me. It’s perfectly professional on the surface, but the heat that lies just beneath the exterior crackles. He wants me here. Or does he just want me?
Can I do this?
I can’t do this.
I need a real, bill-paying job again. My savings are depleted, all extra expenditures have been cut, and the piddly life insurance from Luca has been gone for a while. I’m up shit creek without a paddle, but is this the paddle I’ve been looking for?
As I look at Oliver sitting across from me and feel a tingle in my belly, I’m not sure that Mason Limited is the right answer.
I have to be honest with myself. I’m very attracted to him. It would be so much easier if I wasn’t.
Oliver takes a pen out of the container on the table and scribbles on the back of the job description. Then he slides the paper toward me again. The number written is exactly in the middle of the salary window—an amazing offer. Not at all where I thought it would be.
He raises a brow. “That’s our offer. Start time would be as soon as you’re able.”
I blow out a breath. “That’s very generous.”
“Of course, we will reassess it on your first review,” he says. “We need great people to be able to do great things. We pay for our employees fairly.”
My smile wobbles. “Mr. Mason,” I begin, unsure about what to call him now, “I appreciate your faith in me. But I’ll need a bit of time to think about it.”
He wasn’t expecting this. His lips press together, his brows tug into a mass in the middle of his forehead.