Is he serious?
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to determine if he is messing with me. Honestly, I wouldn't put it past him.
For a brief moment, panic flickers through me.
Maybe he does remember me.
Maybe this is some twisted cat-and-mouse game he's playing.
Internally, I curl my fingers into a tight fist. Choosing to believe that he is messing with me.
Just like the asshole to toy with his prey, in this case—
Me.
Does he think I will shy away if he throws me into an awkward moment?
Well, let's find out if this is just a game with him.
I study his face carefully, doing my best to ignore his staggering good looks.
He patiently endures my scrutiny, looking as if he enjoys my gaze on him, and that alone nearly made me look away; the last thing I want to do is do anything that pleases him.
And yet I kept looking, hoping to decipher the mystery behind his offer, while he waited for me to make a choice.
What is his endgame?
Since I can't figure out the reason behind his curiosity, I decided to play on his looks. In the past, he had shown me how much he enjoys his effect on women.
And I am going to use that.
"I was thinking about how handsome you look," I answered in a matter-of-fact voice. I tried to sound like I don't give a fuck about his looks. That it doesn't matter to me if he looks like Mario Cimarro or Michele Morrone, but it does. Even though I tried to keep my voice steady, it shook at the end.
Damn his fucking good looks.
Why God would waste such a face on an arsehole like him beats me. Some bad people in this world have no right to look good, and he is a prime example.
If he noticed the falter in my voice, he didn't indicate it.
He doesn't react to my words—no air of arrogance. No gloating. No smirk, no smug male peacock behavior.
Just a calm acceptance of my answer. Like he expected it.
That to me came off as arrogant, a different kind, a more dangerous one. The kind that you can't help but find sexy, even as you are hating on it.
What the hell am I thinking?
Seriously, Lyra, get it together!
Finding him more attractive isn't why I am here, for heaven's sake.
And then he speaks again, startling me with his words.
"Are you jealous because I am more attractive?"
Again, there are no emotions attached to his words, just innocent curiosity, as if the word innocent can be used to describe a man like him.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
What the fuck is he yapping about?
I stare at him in disbelief, like he asked if I want to purchase a goat. The question amounts to the same ridiculousness as what he just asked me.
But then my mouth speaks before my brain can catch up.
"What makes you believe you are more attractive?"I quirk a brow at him. As soon as the words leave my lips, I scold myself internally. I am supposed to be hating him, not flirting with him like we are in some bizarre romantic comedy.
Honestly, this interview has taken a severely questionable turn.
He suddenly stands from his seat.
My brain barely processes the movement before he walks around his table, says, "Come with me."
Then he heads for the door.
He doesn't check to see if I would follow.
Of course, he doesn't.
He's clearly a man used to being obeyed, and he expects the same from me.
For a hot second, I was tempted to dig my heel in, like a stubborn mule. To let him know in capital letters that I am not a dog, but I am looking to be his personal assistant, which means I would be at his beck and call.
So, I'd better get used to it.
If this is how it is going to be, then working for him is going to be fun.
Good thing this gig is not permanent. Once I get what I came for, I will disappear and then watch him burn from the shadows.
Together, we leave the interview room and walk into the main office floor of the Blackwell company building, with me trailing behind him like a damn puppy.
He has such a long stride that my short legs are struggling to keep up. And the heels aren't doing me any favours.
And I have no freaking idea where we are going.
I am practically speed walking to keep up with him.
Will you slow the fuck down!
As if he heard my thoughts, he suddenly stops and faces me.
I had to react quickly to stop myself from running into him, causing me to stumble.
He reaches out to steady me, but I flinch away from him, nearly losing my footing in the process. "I am fine," I mumble, not looking at him.
His sharp gaze sweeps over me, slowly, then drops to my feet.
"That wouldn't do," he shakes his head in disapproval.
My face heats instantly. "What is wrong with my shoes?" I question defensively. I had dressed elegantly and corporate to impress him, but it seems I wasted my efforts.
"Don't get me wrong, I love my women in heels, and these Louis Vuiton look sexy on you. They bring out your toned legs, but I am not sure how practical they are for a personal assistant."
"My personal assistant," he adds after a deliberate pause, which causes my heart to race as he stares at me with a look that makes my insides burn with a very familiar feeling.
Hold on—
Did he just call me his woman?
And how the fuck does he know the brand of heels I have on?
He fucking keeps surprising me at every turn. Nothing he does is as expected.
"Um— it is not a problem. I am okay wearing this." I tell him, feeling slightly uncomfortable to have his attention on me like this.
"I am not asking," he says, with a note of finality in his voice.
He takes out his phone and makes a call.
"Yes. Bring a pair of flat shoes to the executive corridor. Size seven."
What the hell is he doing?
I look at him with my brows furrowed, wondering if he is insane.
When he hung up, I couldn't hold my tongue.
"What are you doing?"
"Buying you a new pair of shoes," he answers casually, as if it is absolutely normal to buy shoes for an interviewer.
What the fuck!
The last thing I want is him doing me any favours.
"Please don't bother. I am honestly fine wearing this." I try to dissuade him, hopping around on my feet. "See. Fully functional."
He watches me bounce on my feet like an over-caffeinated squirrel, then says calmly. "I am buying you new shoes, and nothing will change my mind."
I feel a spark of irritation at his insistence. His overbearing attitude and refusal to take no for an answer reminded me of the past.
Seven years ago, he also refused to take no for an answer.
Angrily, I lash out at him, fueled by the rage of the past. "Do you always force yourself on others?!"
I intentionally used these specific choices of words to provoke a reaction from him, and it seems the underlying meaning of my words wasn't lost on him.
The hallways go quiet.
Like someone just hit a giant pause button.
A few nearby employees freeze mid-step, horrified.
They have never seen anyone talk to their boss in such a tone before.
One man carrying a stack of files nearly drops them.
His eyes flashed with irritation, taking on a glow that made his cerulean orbs look eerie.
"Not in the way you are implying," he answers through clenched teeth. Even though he looked pissed, he didn't raise his voice.
His reaction leaves me perplexed. He clearly doesn't remember me, or he would know why I used these specific words.
Yes, he understood the hidden meaning, but he didn't look guilty of any crime or like he was hiding anything. He honestly seems angered by my implied accusation, which doesn't make sense.
I know it was him seven years ago. Those icy blue eyes are ones I will never be able to forget until the day I take my last breath.
So why then does he act ignorant?
Is he pretending?
If he is, then working for him might be dangerous.
"Ah!" An unladylike squeal escapes my lips when he suddenly lifts me off my feet into his arms like I weigh nothing.
"What are you doing?" I whisper-hiss, my face flushed so red that I can feel heat radiating off it.
People are staring at us, probably wondering what the hell is going on.
I, too, am wondering.
He smirks at me, and my whole body shivers in reaction.
Fuck! He is so gorgeous.
" I don't want you stressing yourself out to keep up with me," he says, and begins walking with me in his arms.