by Nikki Sloane
I was still off-balance from seeing Tate, and hearing how Macalister found me attractive only added to my disorientation.
I’d been a media darling during my Olympic outing and a homecoming and prom queen. I’d spent my high school and college years believing I was the prettiest girl in the room . . . although never on the inside. Just on the surface. My ego might have rivaled Macalister’s at one point, and by the time I’d graduated with my bachelor’s in communications from Columbia, I’d amassed over a million followers on Instagram.
But faceless strangers, who could say whatever the fuck they wanted without consequences, had no qualms about picking me apart. And, Christ, they were good at it. Every decision I’d made was second-guessed or shouted down, every flaw I tried to disguise was amplified in hurtful comments.
I was unwanted, either by my parents, or the boy I was hopelessly in love with, or the people who pretended to be my friends. I was no longer the prettiest girl in the room, and sometimes, on a particularly rough day, I wondered if the ugliness I felt on the inside had crept out and was starting to take over.
“I don’t know why we never dated,” I answered softly. It was the truth too.
Was it possible Macalister would understand how I felt better than anyone else?
My heart raced as I opened it up and displayed it for him. “Sometimes two people aren’t meant to be together, no matter how badly one of them wants it.” I watched my words soak in. “And I wanted it so fucking much. Like, an unhealthy amount.”
Macalister’s gaze was fixed on me like he was witnessing a disaster unfold and he couldn’t tear himself away, even when he wanted to.
The office was deathly silent, so I barely had to whisper it. “You know what that’s like, don’t you?”
I wasn’t sure how he’d react. Would he laugh off my accusation? Pick something up off his desk and hurl it aside in anger? Calmly tell me I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about?
He stood motionless, trapped inside his body. He could have belittled me or worse—he could have exploited my vulnerability as a weakness. But the gravity seemed to press him into place. The moment suspended between us, thickening until it was hard for me to breathe, and yet his shoulders rose as he took in an enormous breath.
He gently laced the word into the quiet enveloping us. “Yes.”
His simple confession, spoken in an uneven voice, nearly broke me, yet made me stronger. It was nice not to be abandoned with my lonely ache. Neither of us had to be alone.
I stared at him with my heart pumping in my chest so loudly I wondered if he could hear it, while I marveled at the sight of him in his tailored suit. He was tall and broad, in excellent shape and had a handsome face. He owned the second largest bank in the country, and at the pinnacle of his career, he’d been one of the most powerful people in the world.
But he was just a man.
One who’d lost more in love than nearly anyone.
The magnetic pull to him when we’d touched had been strong, but it didn’t compare to the awareness flooding down through my body now. This connection was a thousand times more electric, and so fierce, it stole my breath.
He felt it too because it knocked him backward a half-step.
Macalister’s expression filled with panic, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He lifted his chin and pulled his guard back in place, returning to the calm, controlled man I was more familiar with.
“You were right when you said people like to confide in you.” His hands hung at his sides, but his fingers curled into loose fists. “I did not intend to say that.”
Perhaps the connection had scared him, but it was too late to take it back. It couldn’t be undone. But I didn’t appreciate the way he peered down at me now like I’d dug this information out of him against his will.
“I wasn’t trying anything. I just wanted you to know . . .” I sighed. “I’ve been there. If you want to talk about Marist—”
His expression turned stormy. “Don’t ever bring this up again, you understand me?”
The harsh words stung like the slap of a hand. “Yes, sir.”
I’d disoriented him, and he lashed out, desperate for something familiar to cling to. “Tate is who you want me to ruin in DuBois’s book.”
Oh, hell no. My own hands tensed into fists. “I don’t want to ruin anyone, and let’s be perfectly clear. If she’s off limits?” I glared up at his beautiful and infuriating face. “Then so is Tate.”
“Fine.” Macalister snatched up his coffee and took a long sip. “Go down to Human Resources and start your employment paperwork. I’m done with you for now.”
My mouth fell open, but he sat down at his desk, opened his laptop, and I ceased to exist.
FIVE
SOPHIA
MACALISTER DIDN’T STRIKE ME AS A CAT PERSON, but there was a gorgeous black one slinking down the grand staircase when I was ushered into the Hale foyer. The cat softly meowed its greeting as it hurried my direction like I was its long-lost friend.
I bent down and wiggled my fingers, enticing it closer. “Look at you. What’s your name?”
The cat answered with a deep purr and wove itself around my legs, but there was only irritated silence from Macalister.
I ran a hand along the cat’s back and was startled to see the uneven patches of fur on its hind legs. Was the cat sick? I straightened and gazed at Macalister, who was still wearing the same suit and tie from the office today.
“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.”
“Again, wow.” I’d never experienced such polarizing feelings. On one hand, it was kind of flattering, but on the other, hadn’t he just, like, broken the law? In my mind, he wasn’t really my boss, but in the eyes of the law he was, and he’d objectified me sexually.
“Does what I said bother you?” His blue eyes sharpened as they evaluated my surprise.
Well, well, well.
I wasn’t the only one testing boundaries, and if he wanted to use me like that, did I really care? I picked up my knife and cut another piece of my chicken. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”
I liked his displeased look the best, but his pleased one? It was a close second.
“Good,” he said. “Have you made any progress with Mrs. Gabbard?”
I swallowed my bite and leaned forward, whispering it like a closely guarded secret. “I passed her your note before recess and—good news—she checked the box for yes!”
Macalister’s jaw clenched in irritation, accentuating his high cheekbones. “Excuse me?”
I dropped the schoolgirl charade. “I had lunch with Evangeline this afternoon. She was receptive to your offer, so I’ve booked you a table at Marquee for tomorrow night. She’ll meet you there at eight.”
“Good,” he answered.
In the quiet that followed, the atmosphere in the room began to shift, and an unnatural tension took hold in his shoulders.
I hesitated. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” He tried to ignore whatever was bothering him but failed terribly. Macalister didn’t give an inch or show weakness if he could help it, but he sighed. “I’m remembering how tedious dating can be. I do not enjoy making small talk.”
Was this his way of telling me he sucked at it? Because that wasn’t news to me. “Yeah, I’m going to suggest you don’t try to make small talk.” There was far too much in his life that was a minefield. “Keep the conversation focused on her. Evangeline does a lot of charity work and sits on a bunch of boards. Talk about that.” I gave him a bright, wide smile. “I mean, a man who listens and doesn’t talk about himself non-stop? Careful. She might just fall in love with you.”
Something suspiciously like sadness curled in his striking eyes but was blinked away. “I certainly hope not.”
Was he thinking about Marist? I picked up the napkin in my lap and set it on the table beside my plate, wanting to direct his focus elsewhere. “Don’t you think Evangeline is pretty?”
She wasn’t as beautiful as Alice, but Evangeline was still stunning, and Macalister’s second wife had been a snow queen. Gorgeously cold. Evangeline was warm and genuine, and in my opinion, a nice balance to Macalister’s brusque personality.
Plus, she was almost fifty yet barely looked forty. They’d make a great couple.
Jealousy pinched inside me, like a rubber band being snapped in the center of my chest. God, I was ridiculous.
“Yes,” he said, “I suppose she’s attractive.”
What a glowing endorsement. “Not young enough for you?”
Shit.
Shit! Why had I just said that? Macalister’s neck flushed, and his eyes went black. “You’re straying dangerously close to the line I asked you not to cross.”
“You’re right,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. Please forget I said that.”
“Perhaps you weren’t aware that both my wives were only a few years younger than I was when we married.”
Embarrassment drove my gaze to the tabletop. Why did I care, anyway? Half the men in this town had trophy wives. But my offhanded comment must have upset him enough that his guard temporarily went down or he felt the need to defend himself.
“Marist was an outlier,” he continued in a bitter tone. “She did not make sense, yet no amount of effort could make me see reason.”
I lifted my chin and stared at him in surprise. He’d just scolded me for hinting at her, and now he was volunteering this information? It felt like he wanted me to ask. “Have you? Seen reason?”
I wanted him to be over her, because I understood how hard it was to long for someone you could never have. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
His expression was resigned. “I’m not proud of how long it took me to see it, but yes. If I’d continued to pursue her, it would have destroyed whatever relationship I had left with my sons, and I’d made her a marked woman. If I didn’t stop, it was only a matter of time before I lost her too.”
Marked woman? I was so confused. “What?”
Macalister drew in a deep breath, and when his intense eyes filled with emotion, the world around us ceased. His voice was unsure, like it was one he’d barely used in his lifetime and didn’t trust it to work. “I’ve loved exactly three women in my life. The first two are dead, and the last nearly died twice. And I’m responsible for it all.”
My mouth dropped open, and for a long moment, words wouldn’t assemble in my brain. “You think you’re,” I took a breath, “cursed?”
He lifted his eyes toward the chandelier hanging over the kitchen table. “This conversation is preposterous.” He rubbed his fingertips across his forehead, smoothing away the crease that had formed there. “No, I don’t believe in nonsense like fate or curses or karma. I trust in math and logic, but I cannot ignore the pattern that has presented itself.”
I struggled to understand. His first wife had been killed when she was thrown from her horse and hit her head. How could he think he was responsible for that? “What pattern? That bad things happen to the women you fall in love with?”
He grimaced. “Thank you for making it sound even more ridiculous than it was in my head.”
“Wait a minute.” I straightened in my seat as I replayed what he’d said. “Twice? I know Marist almost fell off the balcony, but when was the other time she nearly died?”
He opened his mouth to answer but then tilted his head. “I thought you knew everything that happened in Cape Hill.”
Displeasure heated inside me. I couldn’t stand the idea of being kept in the dark. Never again. “I said almost everything.”
He took a moment to contemplate something. “We’ll exchange information, then. Tell me who you want named in the book.”
Instead, I pushed back from the table, grabbed my plate, and walked it across the enormous kitchen so I could deposit it in the sink. I’d done it to avoid him, but Macalister did the same, probably as an excuse to follow me. His plate clattered softly in the other side of the sink as he set it down.
“This is inevitable. You realize I won’t be able to tell DuBois this secret if you don’t tell it to me first.”
I leaned back against the counter and folded my arms across my chest. “I’d be an idiot to tell you before we know for a fact the book is happening.” And even then, the timing would be crucial. I couldn’t tell Macalister until I could trust him not to burn me. “We’ll know by Aspen.”
He repeated it like he hadn’t heard me right. “Aspen.”
“Yeah, the Food and Wine Classic in June. I’ve got a friend who works for his publisher, and she said it’s on his schedule. You used to go every year.”
“Of course. HBHC is a sponsor.”
I nodded. “I bet he’s hoping he’ll run into you there, and if not, there will be plenty of HBHC board members he can chat up.”
He looked less than thrilled at that prospect.
“It’ll be fine.” I faked a syrupy tone. “Once you two meet, he’ll only have eyes for you.”
Macalister’s expression soured further, but I did my best to ignore it and glanced at the screen of my phone. I was twenty-six, and my parents didn’t keep tabs on me, but if I didn’t text or come home soon, there was the off chance someone might worry.
