Chapter One
Nate
I hear the cuckoo clock in the living room go off seven times, and my whole body starts to tighten, like a dog that just knows it’s playtime.
The security monitor beeps on my phone, causing my heart to skip a beat. That’ll be Evie, walking into my Malibu home. Since she started as my assistant nine months ago, she’s never missed a day of work or been late even once. I exit the bathroom, nothing but a towel around my hips as she comes into my bedroom.
She’s tied her wavy golden hair loosely today, and I love the reddish color of her lipstick because her mouth looks so delectably delicious in that shade. Her pink dress flatters the soft swell of her breasts and the beautiful lines of her waist and hips. There isn’t even a hint of anything inappropriate or flirty about the outfit—alas. I’m parading around practically naked in front of her, but her gorgeous cornflower-blue eyes never stray below my chin.
A lesser man would be crushed.
But I’m Nate Fucking Sterling. And dammit, I know I look good. Women fawn over me. They think they’re so subtle, but they always cop a feel. Or at least a look.
Not Evie though. She’s immune. Don’t know why. She’s not blind, or a lesbian. I haven’t done anything to repulse her as far as I can tell. I’ve been working my ass off in the gym to gain more muscle around my biceps and chest and put more definition on my abs. But even with everything on full display, I don’t think she’s noticed.
“Good morning,” she says, walking into my gigantic closet.
“Morning.” I sit down at the edge of my bed to watch. Just because she doesn’t check me out doesn’t mean I can’t check her out. Her ass looks amazing in that dress. Actually, her ass looks amazing in anything. It would look amazing in a potato sack four sizes too large.
“You have a visit at the Sterling Medical Center this morning on your way to the office, so how about something conservative?” She picks out a charcoal bespoke suit and a slim silver-blue tie, along with a pair of polished loafers.
“Yes, that’ll do nicely.” She has great taste. I wouldn’t let her pick my outfits otherwise, no matter how hot she was.
“Glad you approve, Mr. Sterling.”
Mr. Sterling. We’ve been working together closely for the best part of a year, and she still refuses to call me Nate. So I started to call her Ms. Parker, just to show her how silly it is to be so formal. Which turned out to be a huge tactical error, because she seems to actually enjoy being called Ms. Parker.
Okay, so she’s from the Midwest. It’s probably more traditional than here in L.A., but people there must call each other by their first names. Why else would you give them to your kids?
And she calls other people by their first names, even around the office. It’s just me who gets the Mister treatment. Do I look like I have a giant pole up my ass? I know I was born to money, but I try not to be a stuck-up douchewad. And based on how people treat me, I thought I was doing pretty well…until now.
But it’s too late to ask for an explanation without sounding weird. I’ve gone through a hundred different scenarios I could use to broach the topic, and they all sound stupid.
“I’ll get your breakfast started while you get dressed,” she says, walking out.
My bedroom feels empty and sort of sad without her in it. But apparently prepping my breakfast is also her job, even though I didn’t ask her to do it.
Honestly, I don’t need this much help in the morning. None of my assistants ever did this before. But when I first interviewed Evie, she acted like she’d do anything to work for me, and I decided to test her. Mainly because I’d had a string of shitty assistants who acted like they’d do anything required for the job, but then couldn’t even locate a paper bag to find their way out of.
So now her job includes coordinating my outfits in the morning and getting me breakfast.
When I’m done putting on the clothes she picked out, I go downstairs. The open floor plan
gives it an airy feel, with glass walls facing the Pacific and its waves. And there’s one of those contemporary waterfalls in the sunken living room. But the most spectacular thing is Evie, standing in my ultra-modern kitchen, bright light around her like an angel’s halo. I even hear a faint strain of heavenly chorus.
She looks at me over her shoulder, a small smile on her lips. Air sticks hard in my throat, and my brain goes blank, mesmerized by her mere presence.
“I made you your favorite—a kale and protein smoothie with fresh berries.”
The moment’s shattered as she offers up a tall glass of frosted purple-green concoction from hell. But I’m a gentleman, so I give her a grateful smile as I take the vile shit. “Mmm, berries!”
I’d rather die in my eighties with carcinogenically grilled dead cow floating in my veins than live to be a robust hundred with this antioxidant goo keeping me young and wrinkle-free. But she honestly believes I love this crap—it’s a long story—so I down it with a huge grin that hurts my face even as the shake violates my palate like Atilla the Hun violated Europe. This should show her my appreciation—and ensure she returns to my place every morning.
And if I walk around topless long enough, maybe she’ll notice I’m not just her boss, but a man, too.
Maybe you should accidentally drop your towel tomorrow morning. She’ll definitely notice that.
Oh, please. That’s so clichéd. I don’t do clichés.
Because parading around in a towel isn’t a cliché.
Doesn’t count. That was an accident. I got up late one morning, and she came into the room just as I stepped out of bathroom. Maybe I should buy a transparent towel. Surely something like that is available somewhere on this vast planet.
While I’m guzzling down the supposedly life-recharging breakfast of champion rabbits, Evie rattles the day’s agenda off her tablet. A meeting to be rearranged at the other party’s request.
“Some people have no respect for my time or schedule,” I say, mildly annoyed because it’s the second time they’ve asked to reschedule.
“Or maybe they know you can afford to be flexible.”
“Still kind of presumptuous. You didn’t say yes, did you?”
“Not yet.”
That’s my girl. Always clear on where to draw the line. “Good. I hate it when people act like I enjoy being flexible or changing my mind. Once I make up my mind, I don’t change.”
“Of course not, Mr. Sterling.”
When I’m finished with the veggie desecration, she hands me my coffee. Finally. I take as big of a gulp as possible to erase the lingering taste of kale. I should convince my brother Justin to buy up every kale farm on the planet, burn the shit to the ground and salt the soil.
Carrying the travel mug, I start to go out to the car that’ll be waiting.
“Other way,” Evie says.
“What?”
“Miguel’s not here today,”
“He’s not?”
“You gave him the week off.”