Temp
“Why?”
His question is cracked like a whip and my legs scoot together automatically, throwing me off, sending a lick of fire up my back. “Anger festers. It’s ugly.”
“It can be empowering, too, if you use it correctly.”
Years of therapy and no one has ever spoken to me like this. In concrete facts. In personal opinions that actually sound like he knows what’s going on inside of me. Instead of just being paid to pretend. “Do you?” I murmur, wetting my lips. “Use your anger correctly?”
His sculpted mouth ticks up at one corner. “All the time.”
“Oh.” I inhale and exhale, terrified of the increasingly damp sensation on my panties. Is he leaning closer? Why am I reacting to him like this? “Maybe it works for you because you’re probably angry with someone else and not yourself. It’s probably easier to manage when it isn’t wrapped up in your own personal expectations. Maybe you can control anger better when it’s directed outward.”
The humor on his face is gone. “Why are you mad at yourself?”
“Is that a standard interview question?”
“I think we both knew when you walked in that this wouldn’t be a standard interview.”
I nod. He’s compelling the honesty out of me. This man is dangerous. And powerful. I should get out of here now because I’m way, way out of my depth. When he looks at me like this, like he’s trying to translate my thoughts, I forget that I’m Sarah Grimm. I’m just Kaylee Hale and I’m in awe, whether I want to be or not.
“Why is this not a standard interview?” I whisper.
A muscle pops in his cheek. “You’re not what I was expecting. Not entirely.”
“You’re not what I was expecting, either.”
His arched eyebrow betrays his surprise. “What did you expect?”
“An egomaniac who would drone on and on about his company’s accomplishments. All it would take from me is some ego stroking to get the job.”
He’s amused. “And instead?”
“Instead you’re an egomaniac who doesn’t talk about himself. You must have taken a wrong turn on the conveyor belt at the narcissist factory.”
A laugh leaves him in a huff of breath. “She’s good.”
“I’m sorry?”
His eyes shutter, as if he said something out loud he didn’t mean to say. That I’m good? I want to explore that statement more, because it’s definitely setting off alarm bells, but when he leans closer and captures my attention, my worries turn fleeting and scatter like ashes in the wind. He’s looking at my mouth. No, not looking. He’s memorizing it. He’s planning. “Why are you angry with yourself, Ms. Grimm?”
Dangerous territory. How did we get here? How did he read me so well? I need to dig up a lie, but I can’t. Not when he’s looking right into my head. I can hear every breath I take and somehow, I know he’s counting them, too. What is happening here? I’m never going to pull off this ruse. I’m incapable of pretending to be someone else around a man this shrewd. This smart. When I walked in here, my objective was to do this deceitful thing to win the affection of my parents. Now I don’t think I can. I didn’t expect this man to lay me bare with a few words and I’m reeling from the impact. After five minutes. Can I really expect to do this day to day?
“I’m angry with myself because I’m…not impressive. I’m average.” I pick up my resume and stuff it back into my leather folder. “So it’s probably better if you don’t hire me. I’ll go back to the temp agency and they’ll find something more suitable. This is—”
“Sarah.” When I start to rise, he stands with me, capturing my elbow and lowering me back down. He’s the picture of calm, but in the depths of his blue eyes, I can see that…yes, I think I’ve flustered him by trying to leave. I’ve thrown him off. “Ms. Grimm. You are the furthest thing from average. And this is my interview. I’ll decide whether or not this job is suitable for you.”
Chapter 3
Matthew
My God, I can’t seem to concentrate. I don’t understand the odd click that happened inside of me when she walked into this office. Like…my soul was expecting her. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. We’re not supposed to have things in common. This anger we share, left behind almost certainly by our parents, our upbringing, it’s binding us tighter by the second. I have a clear mission here—seduce the brat and send her back to McGraw-Hale crying. After everything her father has done to my family, I shouldn’t be hesitating now.
She’s attracted to me. I can push a little, overwhelm her.
Unfortunately, I’m not so sure I won’t overwhelm myself in the process.
My dick is stiff, palms perspiring. She’s wearing a white skirt and it’s just north of too short for a job interview. Instead of pushing it up and sliding my fingers down the front of her panties…I have the most insane urge to lecture her.