3. Isabelle

Chapter 3

Isabelle

I can hardly think with Mr. Emerson looming behind me. I'm painfully aware of how short my skirt is. My bare thighs stuck to his oversized leather chair, and now, as I settle across from him in the smaller guest chair, the kilt rides up my thighs again, the pleats spreading at the plumpest part of my legs.

Mr. Emerson is looking at me with that unfathomably deep gaze, searching my face at first, but it doesn't take long for his eyes to drop, his attention locking on my flared kilt.

I have to force myself not to move.

He glances at my resume again, taking too long to read a resume that doesn't say very much. It can't convey how desperately I need this job or how good I would be for him.

I shift nervously while his gaze is occupied by the words on the page, scooting to the edge of the chair so my kilt can fall forward a bit.

"Tell me why you want to work at Emerson Industries." Mr. Emerson's question is quiet, a rasp in the stillness of his office, and I barely hear it over the pounding of my pulse.

"I need stability," I admit. "I want stability. And in return, I will be an eager team member here. I promise I will. I want to work."

"It sounds like you're a very studious girl." His brows pull together. "Tell me about your volunteer work at the library."

"Growing up, the library was everything to me. Passing that love of reading on to the next generation feels like the least I could do."

"Do you like children?"

"I love them," I say in a gush. "They're our future. And they're more honest than adults, usually, which I appreciate."

He nods. "I can see that. Did you ever think about becoming a librarian? Business research seems like a significant shift in focus."

"I love books! But the library doesn't hire that many people, and the only used bookstore in town shut a few years ago. I always wanted to work there." I shrug. "Besides, it's time for me to grow up and get a real job."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Is that you thinking that, or someone else?"

I hesitate.

His expression softens. "I won't tell anyone, Isabelle. I just want to fully understand what you need."

"It was brutally honest advice I received from someone." I wince. "My uncle. He was my guardian. I lived with him until I was eighteen."

"And now?" Mr. Emerson leans forward. "Where do you live now?"

"I have a room on the other side of town. If I got this job, I could afford to get my own apartment."

"We have apartments for new hires who come in from out of town. You can stay there." He presses a button on his phone. "Welcome to the company, Ms. Bright."

I gape at him for a moment, stunned. "Are you serious?"

"I'm always serious." His expression backs that up, although it is also faintly amused. But at least he doesn't look offended.

I clap my hands together and kick my feet. "Oh my God, thank you, sir. You won't regret this. I'll be the best research assistant you've ever had."

"I have no doubt." He smiles softly.

I smile back, then look down at my hands. Up at his desk. Anything but holding that eye contact that feels complicated.

Probably for the best that it's so foreign to me, I can't label it. I wouldn't want to blurt it out in my first week on the job.

"I'll do my best to be a good boss to you, as well," he adds after a bit. "That's not been my forte in the past, to be honest."

His admission sounds raw.

My attention flies to his face, and I realize with a flush that I'd been looking at his body. He's a magnificent presence behind his desk, big and burly, his tailored suit barely containing his overwhelming essence.

But part of being a good assistant is going to be ignoring how hot my boss is, so I'm starting that right now.

"Honesty is a virtue," I remind him. "Someone very powerful recently told me that."

He laughs, but then his phone rings, and he answers it the same way he does everything else: gruffly. He listens for a minute, then says, "As quick as you can, then."

After he sets the handset down, he explains the person who will complete my intake with HR is currently in another meeting.

"I need to make a phone call," he adds.

I twist and look at the door. "Would you like to me to wait out there?"

He makes a choking sound, and when I turn back, his gaze is locked on the hem of my kilt. "No, you can wait here. It would be good if you…for you to…"

"Familiarize myself with your business?" I prompt.

He nods curtly. "Exactly."

Heat spools low in my belly as he begins his call. His voice is confident, a rich burr I could listen to all day.

And I'll get to. I have to pinch myself. This doesn't feel real yet.

I smooth my hands over the pleats of my skirt, adjusting the hem as we wait, as he talks, as I listen.

Over and over and over again, every time I touch the hem of my skirt, his eyes drop there, his glance feeling like a swipe of his thumb against my skin.

I should stop , I think.

But I don't want to stop. I like the way he looks at me. It's warm and cozy.

Before I know it, there's a knock at the door. Whoever it is doesn't enter on their own.

Mr. Emerson and I share a glance that makes me feel hot and bubbly on the inside.

He covers the handset with his palm. "That's HR for you."

"I'll be back soon," I promise.

A shadow passes behind his gaze. "If I'm not here when you get back, you'll be able to email me."

"Oh." I nod. "Got it."

"Let me know if there is anything else you will need."

I want to tell him that he's done more than enough, that all I needed was this job. But those words die on my lips, because deep down, I also need something else.

Hunger rears up inside me, makes me feel restless. The fact I can't name this need is the only thing that keeps me from confessing it.

Now his gaze is pinned on my mouth, as if he can see inside me. "Isabelle, you can ask me for anything and I will give it to you. Whatever it is that you need."

There's another knock. "I…"

"Go." He smiles tightly. "I'll see you soon."

But after I'm whisked away to Human Resources, and I get a new permanent employee pass to replace the visitor's badge, I return to the forty-third floor and find Mr. Emerson's office empty.

A computer has been set up on my new desk. When I follow the log-in instructions, I find an email inbox full of tasks.

From: Mack Emerson

To: Isabelle Bright

Subject: Familiarize yourself with these briefs

From: Mack Emerson

To: Isabelle Bright

Subject: DUE: initial report to me this Friday

From: Mack Emerson

To: Isabelle Bright

Subject: Two more files for you

I click on the first one and begin reading. By the time I finish, there's one more email to read.

From: Mack Emerson

To: Isabelle Bright

Subject: Out of the office until Friday, available by email 24/7

A funny, hollow feeling pulses in my mid-section. I click into it and see an itinerary. He's not simply out of the office, but out of the country for three days.

Oh.

It's so, so silly that my first reaction is, I'm going to miss him . I only met the man briefly, really. A whirlwind encounter that's still hard to believe truly happened, even as I sit in the anteroom adjacent to his office. The CEO of the company, the man whose name is on this building, plucked me from the lobby and deposited me here. Right next to his inner sanctum.

But then he left, because he has more important things to do than be my personal supervisor in my new job.

It's not like I'm not used to being alone. I've been alone for years now, relying only on myself.

This job is going to be more of the same. And that's okay. Mr. Emerson has given me a chance, and I'm not going to ruin it with fanciful dreams of impossible things.