The Redemption (Filthy Rich Americans 4)

“What’s wrong with your cat?”

“That’s Royce’s cat,” he clarified.

I couldn’t picture Royce as a cat person either, plus . . . “Didn’t they move out? He left his cat behind?”

Macalister closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The animal had issues, so Marist brought it back. It’s temporary.”

Interesting. “Does the ‘animal’ have a name?”

He sighed. “Lucifer.”

A smile warmed my cheeks, and I bent once more to pet the purring cat. My tone was sugary-sweet. “Are you a little devil? You don’t look like a devil.”

In response, Lucifer flopped down on his side and stared up at me with his bright green eyes.

Meanwhile, Macalister’s frustration with me climbed toward the ceiling, and I savored the taste of it. I’d officially been his assistant for ten days, and I’d begun testing my boundaries with him like a child did with a parent.

I was a little surprised he hadn’t fired me yet.

“Focus, Sophia,” he ordered in a dark voice. It sent exciting shivers down my spine. So far, his bark had been much worse than his bite, and I enjoyed getting him worked up. I wondered if secretly he did too.

I turned my attention back to the sophisticated security system as Macalister synced it with my phone so I could come and go from the house in case he ever needed me to fetch him something from home.

And when that was done, he gave me an abbreviated tour. I’d been in his house plenty of times before, but that had been for Royce’s parties during high school, or the Hale-Northcott wedding nearly three years ago. This tour took me into the study, and he showed me where copies of important documents could be easily found in case of an emergency.

More importantly, his tour took me up the stairs, down the hall, and into Macalister’s most personal space. His bedroom.

The ceiling was tall, the walls were painted a dark gray, and the high king-sized bed was covered in oatmeal colored linens. The room reflected its master. It was masculine, impressive, and impersonal. The sitting area was set to one side, and two green chairs were gathered around a low table.

I wanted to be a professional, but it grew increasingly difficult as he walked me toward his closet and explained his system for rotating suits, shirts, and ties so he didn’t wear the same combinations too often. I kept busy making notes on my phone to avoid thinking about him getting undressed here later tonight.

“Have you eaten?” he asked me abruptly.

“Like, recently?”

His displeased look was rapidly becoming my favorite.

“No, I haven’t,” I answered.

He pulled out his phone and thumbed out a message. “I’ll tell my staff to prepare dinner for two.”

It came out before I thought better of it. “You want to have dinner with me?”

Macalister went still. “I’m hungry, and it would be rude for me to eat without offering you something as well.”

“Oh.”

It was an afterthought for him. “Am I interrupting plans?”

I stared at the pattern in his tie, avoiding his gaze. “No.”

“Excellent. We can continue our work over dinner.”

We were served dinner in the kitchen, which felt only slightly less formal than the dinning room. Macalister’s chef was an older gentleman, and the man explained the meal to us with a French accent that was so thick, I probably would have understood more if it had been in French. It was chicken, that much I knew. But it smelled amazing and tasted even better.

We went over Macalister’s schedule for next week, and although we were working, I had the strange feeling that it was an excuse so he didn’t have to eat all alone in this big house.

“You’ll wear dresses or skirts from now on at the office,” he decreed as he speared a roasted potato with his fork. “If you need to purchase some items for your wardrobe, I’ll provide a stipend.”

I froze. “Um . . . what?”

His phone was laying face-up on the table, and as he spoke, he tapped the screen and began to scroll. “I prefer my staff to look a certain way. You may call it sexist, but I’m traditional. You’re a beautiful woman, and you should dress to reflect that.” He picked up his phone and displayed the screen to me. “Tomorrow, you will wear this.”

It was a selfie I’d posted to Instagram before I went to an art showing for my friend Penelope. The sleeveless teal dress was fitted and pleated on one side, with a long pencil skirt that ended just below my knees.

That art exhibit had been months ago.

“Okay, wow.” I didn’t know where to focus first. He was telling me what to wear, but he’d called me beautiful, and . . . he’d gone digging deep through my Instagram feed? “Are you following me?”

He looked at me plainly, telling me I’d asked a stupid question. “You’re my employee, so yes. Tomorrow, I have a meeting with analytics that will be quite dry. When you come in wearing that dress to check if we need anything, it’ll wake the men back up.”