This week will be hard enough without having unexpected extras piled on my plate. No doubt Reid, my efficient eldest brother, has circulated a company-wide memo outlining why my appearance at the office and my regard for polite discourse might be a little more sporadic than usual. The benefit of being the grieving widower, the family fuck-up, is that my usual demeanour provides the perfect antidote to the trivial. Unless it’s vital, people tend to steer clear.
‘Yes?’ I yell.
The Faulkner Group has many staff who could pander to my every administrative whim, but over the last three years I’ve managed to scare everyone off. Now only the brave venture close to my perpetual scowl for my signature on something my brothers deem important to the smooth running of our six London-based hotels.
Reid strides in, his thousand-pound suit immaculate and the air of authority his senior-sibling status grants him on display as if he wears a sandwich board emblazoned with his title: Head of the Faulkner Group, oldest of three brothers, here to keep the runt of the litter in line.
That I’m even physically in the office this week should appease the control freak in him, but one look at his expression tells me he expects more.
My back tenses, lifting the hairs above my collar. He’s going to be disappointed—we Faulkners are cut from the same cloth.
‘Kit, a moment...’ It’s not a question, a fact that slides sandpaper beneath my skin and rains nails down on my already tingling scalp.
I spin my chair from my view of the city, ready to hear him out with the minimum of interaction and then remind him of tomorrow’s date.
He’s not alone.
This adds hypodermic needles to the downpour of nails. If he expects to add social interaction to my to-do list, he’ll need to come back next week.
Fucking Reid. He’s aware of my triggers. Understands how tightly I run my ship since my life turned to shit. I slide my scowl from my brother. Reid’s companion is female.
My body perks up, an unwelcome slug of testosterone to the bloodstream, a half-arsed attempt at interest in the opposite sex. I’ve trained myself well in recent years. Forced myself to notice other pretty faces, appealing figures and interesting personalities.
She’s tall. Striking. Long, dark hair and a tanned, make-up-less face. The outfit covers a lean, athletic body. High, full breasts, a tapered waist and enough generosity through the hips to scream woman—all clad in a T-shirt decorated with some Japanese Kanji symbols and a pair of black skinny jeans.
My libido stirs—she’s a beautiful woman. And noticing beautiful women, scratching a mutual itch and moving on, is what I do now. All I do. For good, bad or ugly.
Still, if Reid thinks he’s replacing my last assistant with this dressed-down beauty, he can think again. I have rules, and professional work attire is rule number one.
I raise my stare from her slender, denim-clad legs. Who wears jeans to a job interview? She’s made my dismissal easy—I don’t need an assistant. And this casually dressed stranger, however compelling, looks completely at odds with the Faulkner Group’s workplace dress code.
I drag my body from the chair and straighten to my full six feet three inches to piss Reid off, who stands an inch below me, then slide the glare levelled on my brother to my visitor, dropping the annoyance in deference to her beauty.
‘Kit, this is Mia Abbott.’ Reid introduces the woman as if I’d been expecting her unconventional company.
My lips stretch with a flicker of greeting. Yes, she’s striking, but she’s superfluous to my current workplace requirements and, this week, a definite unwanted distraction.
Then she smiles.
I double-take.
Mia’s wide smile transforms her face like floodlights switching on behind her dark eyes. I hold the air trapped in my chest and reassess the entire Mia Abbott package, my cock stirring despite my current state of mind.
She’s mid-twenties, stunning in a way she probably doesn’t know it, the sun-kissed, slightly upturned nose dotted with golden freckles. Her earthy dark eyes glow in the wake of that happy-go-lucky smile still hovering on her face, despite my less than welcoming reception, and her mouth... Fuck—full lips, naturally red, a perfect Cupid’s bow.
Promising... I reassess my staffing needs despite the constant swirl of self-directed disgust that accompanies any thought of a sexual nature. Why couldn’t Reid have introduced Mia next week, or any day after tomorrow?
Still, the timing isn’t Mia’s fault and perhaps she’s not even here for me.
I take Mia Abbott’s hand, my grasp firm and a fraction too long for polite convention. Her returning shake presses my fingers together in a strong, warm caress that’s neither intimidated nor flirtatious.
Interesting...
My eyes dart to her left hand...single.
The only flaw Mia seems to possess is her habitual fidgeting, her fingers drumming against her thigh at odds with the wide, confident smile and the assertive handshake. Sadly, she won’t be around long enough for me to find that irritating. Working for me, if she makes the grade, won’t be easy. I keep erratic hours, spend days at a time ignoring my phone and use sex to remedy the unfixable parts of my life. Of course, I’m a gentleman—no woman leaves my bed without her world completely rocked.
‘Good to meet you,’ she says, her smoky voice sexy and accented.
My eyes return to her full lips as I try to place her variation of English. ‘Where are you from? Australia?’ I could listen to her talk all day. I slide my palm from hers, disengaging from our formal greeting, and shift an inch closer. I’m rewarded with a warm wave of her scent—some sort of flowery shit, perhaps honeysuckle, and fresh air.
She laughs, an uninhibited throaty chuckle, as if I’ve said something hilarious. I freeze. It’s been a long time since a woman laughed at me. Doesn’t she understand the rules of the boss-assistant dynamic of polite deference? Or the less appropriate but honest subtle lick of those luscious lips while her amber-speckled stare dropped to the front of my trousers.
Perhaps she has no interest whatsoever in sleeping with an emotional train wreck and no unrealistic ambitions to fix me.
Well-played, Reid.
‘I’m from New Zealand.’ She shrugs. ‘Trust me, there’s a big difference.’ Despite her semi-mocking smile, her seemingly calm assessment, the fine-boned fingers resume their fidgeting.
Perhaps she’s not quite immune to the Faulkner charm after all...
But if she’s sticking around, best she understand who’s in charge from the get-go. It’s not Reid, who seems to have come over all slack about the office dress code. I have rules. Rule number two—her rockin’ body, her lively, mischievous stare and her pouty lips aside—our connection will work best with a bare minimum of communication. Especially over the next two days.
At the timely reminder of the date, my stomach rolls, sharp and unpleasant, banishing the Mia-directed kick of lust. For the thousandth time this morning I force my mind away from memories and in particular my anniversary. If only I could distract myself with the delectable Mia.
Nope.
Sex is off the table, at least until I’ve survived tomorrow.
Anyway, my libido was ahead of itself, because exotic Miss Abbott isn’t looking at me with the level of interest I’ve grown to expect from members of the opposite sex. Hell, yes, I’m arrogant, but it’s as if I had tattooed emotionally unavailable widower on my forehead three years