His Good Girl

1

Winter

Breathe, Winter. Just breathe. You’ve got this. It’s just your future on the line.

Hauling in a deep breath, I swept my gaze around the upscale reception area that I sat in. The room was filled with metal-framed furnishings and painted a cool, neutral shade of gray. Colorful abstract paintings hung on the walls. Everything here was sharp, sleek, and modern, which of course, made me feel just a little more out of place.

I mean, sure I was dressed as professionally as I could manage—in a black pencil skirt and emerald green ruffle blouse—but just about everything that I wore was used and worn. I’d gotten my top at a thrift store fill-your-bag-for-10-dollars event and the skirt belonged to my roommate. Since Khloe was much thinner than me, the garment was snug around my ass, but nothing in my own closet seemed classy enough for this place. Even the high heels that I’d stuffed my feet into were secondhand and scuffed.

I’d tried to fix them up with black nail polish, but I was sure Ms. Priss behind the reception desk had spotted every single flaw the second I walked through the door.

Patting my hand against my hair to smooth back any dark blonde strands that might have escaped my bun, I darted my eyes to the receptionist guarding the entrance to the offices of Maslow Architecture. She was elegantly dressed, with dark-rimmed designer glasses and her long red hair loose and flowing around her slim shoulders. She ignored me, her focus on the computer screen in front of her as well as the phone that seemed to be ringing nonstop.

“Thank you for calling Maslow Architecture. This is Fiona, how may I direct your call?”

I mouthed the woman’s greeting silently as she spoke the exact same words for about the tenth time in the twenty-minutes I’d been waiting. Anxiously. Because every second that went by, the ball of dread in the pit of my stomach tightened a little more.

Releasing a shaky sigh, I peeked down at the papers clutched in my hands. Even though I had already submitted my resume and cover letter, I brought copies along with me just in case. I couldn’t and wouldn’t let anything catch me by surprise today. With everything that was on the line, I had probably over-prepared for this interview.

But I had to get this job.

The phone rang again, but when Fiona answered, she didn’t use her usual spiel. Instead, her spine stiffened. “Hello?” Her eyes flicked toward me before dropping back to her computer as she obediently bobbed her head. “Yes. Yes, sir, understood. I’ll send her back right now.”

I scooted to the edge of my seat as she hung up the phone and looked at me with a polite but disinterested expression.

“You can go back now. All the way to the end of the hall.” She nodded in that direction.

“O-okay. Thank you.” I stood, gathering my papers and slinging my leather satchel over my shoulder. I hurried past her desk, casting a shaky smile, but she turned her attention back to the ringing phone.

“Thank you for calling Maslow Architecture. This is Fiona, how may I direct you call?”

Her voice faded into the background as I moved further down the hall. I passed multiple glass-walled offices and conference rooms. There were people in most of them, busy with whatever it was that an architecture firm did in the day-to-day grind. No one paid the least bit of attention to me as I hurried by, which I was grateful for.

Because if they did, I might just lose all my nerve.

Reaching the end of the hall, I stopped in front of two large black metal doors. There were floor-to-ceiling windows on either side, but they were fogged over so that I couldn’t see into the office beyond. A small desk sat empty to the right of the doors, and I assumed that would be where Mr. Maslow’s PA would eventually take up residence.

Where I will take up residence, I corrected myself, my inner voice brimming with false strength and optimism. I will get this job!

On large brass plates in the middle of both doors was engraved Dmitry Maslow, CEO.

Okay. Here we go. Don’t fuck this up.

I glanced to the left and right, shifted my papers into one arm, then reached out to knock on one of the doors. I held my breath as I waited for a response.

“Come in,” a deep, gravelly voice called out, and a shiver raced down my back.

What the hell was that?

Giving myself a little shake, I reached out and opened the door. Head high and shoulders back, I strutted inside with five times more confidence than I actually felt. The office was large, as I’d expected of the firm’s CEO, and decorated in the same sleek, modern style as the waiting room. There were a few personal touches here and there, however. Several shiny awards sat displayed on floating shelves on my left. The wall to my right was all windows overlooking downtown Boston, and in front of me sat a huge desk made of wood and metal.

Behind the desk sat who I assumed was Mr. Maslow. His chair was turned away from me, and he was reading some thick document. I couldn’t see his face, but his hair was jet black and wavy, and I could tell he was a big man.

Coming to a stop in front of the desk, I cleared my throat to get his attention.

“Just one moment, Ms. Rivers,” he murmured without turning around. “Please, have a seat.”

Once again, I trembled at the sound of his voice. It was gruff and rich, and I detected just a hint of what I assumed was a Russian accent. It was a voice made for the bedroom. For commanding and coaxing dirty deeds in the dark.

Well, hell. That went filthy fast.

I quickly pushed the inappropriate thought from my mind. I needed to be on my game and couldn’t let myself be distracted by a sinful voice.

Mr. Maslow lowered his papers the next moment and swiveled his chair around to face me.

And I lost my breath.

2

Winter