Chapter 4

Back at my desk, I absent-mindedly twist my pen in my fingers, giving me a massive surge of anger… at myself. Stilling the pen sharply, I lay it down with a smack and scowl at it as though it’s the cause; it’s another habit from childhood that I’m permanently trying to overcome, and just one of the subtle tells that I’m not who I pretend to be. It’s the only flaw in the perfect demeanor I hold so tightly to.

I fidget.

And that’s so at odds with the persona I’ve created for myself since my teens and getting away from the life I once knew, a stark reminder of how far I’ve come from my childhood in Chicago and a habit that annoys me on a deep level. Not only because it betrays the confidence I strive to emit but also because it seems juvenile. My fidgeting occurs on many levels; for the most part, I’ve mastered it, but with my raw nerves this morning, I’m betraying myself.

I still my hands and focus on typing the documents Margo has given me to adjust, reminding myself to take steadying breaths to stay calm while waiting for my new boss to appear. It’s agony.

Margo sweeps into the foyer in a graceful cloud of Chanel No. 9 and passes me at my desk near the entrance to our offices, indicating Mr. Carrero’s arrival. She smiles my way fondly and quickly as she passes and gives me an encouraging wink as though I am about to meet royalty. My heart stops.

Maybe I am.

Oh hell! Swallow. Deep breath. Relax.

As they approach, I hear her as she runs through his itinerary with him out in the hall. I know she’s been emailing him back and forth, but verbally being brought up to speed is something she told me he prefers as a recap. I’ll need to remember this, as it will be my role soon enough.

I stay seated and keep my eyes on my keyboard, willing my nerves to remain under wraps.

I catch him speaking to her, and, despite seeing interviews online, I’m surprised by the natural sound of his voice. It is deep and husky with a boyishness that I’d never noticed in his interviews, the kind of voice you would recognize anywhere, even across a crowded room, and it draws you in. It’s so crazily familiar and comforting. He sounds at ease with her, and something is alluring in it, like an enveloping warmth, completely throwing me.

I pause my typing as he laughs at something she says. It’s unexpected, and I flinch, shocked that it causes butterflies in my stomach.

I don’t react like this to men!

Fumbling fingers on keys betray me, and I’m glad no one is paying me any attention.

I need to get hold of myself. Get a grip, Emma!

My cheeks instantly begin to warm, and I take my practiced, steadying breath to curb my blush. There’s gibberish on my screen, and I quickly hit the back button to remove it, hiding the evidence of my stumble while cursing the inability of my clumsy fingers, cursing that childish part of me that I’m forever pushing down and trying to gag into silence.

Stop it, Emma, stop. You are more capable than this.

An entourage walks with him through the central area of our airy office toward Margo’s desk, which is behind me in a separate room. Margo, near the group, conceals him from view, but I catch a glimpse.

He’s taller than she is, despite her four-inch heels. There are two men with him; one in a black suit and looking serious has some wire in his ear, indicating he’s most likely security. The other is casually dressed in a tan jacket and chinos and strolls behind leisurely.

I realize this is Arrick Carrero, the younger brother. He’s not in the papers as much, but I recognize him. He hasn’t inherited the same masculine beauty or presence as his brother, although he is only late teens, and he seems rather publicity-shy. I note that he’s also only about five-foot-nine, yet still muscular, and has tawny hair like his father’s, along with that weird nose profile that Jacob Carrero does not have. Jacob seems to have a perfect nose to match his ideal… well, everything. I wonder how Arrick feels being the less attractive Carrero son and living in his brother’s shadow.

Within a moment, all of them are past Margo’s inner door, which is closed in his office. Now that I have no visual distractions, I take a deep breath of relief and try again to type this document out, meeting my usual success, swift skill with a keyboard.

It seems like an eternity has passed when my switchboard lights up, and the distant voice of Margo interrupts my concentration. Unaware I’d been semi-holding my breath until that second. I give myself another stern inner shake.

“Emma, please come into Mr. Carrero’s office. Thank you.” Her voice sounds distant and tinny on the remarkably high-tech machine.

“Yes, Mrs. Drake.” I cringe at using her formal name, knowing she asked me to call her Margo. I mentally scold myself not to repeat the mistake.

I don’t make mistakes. Ever.

I stand, smooth down my clothes, and put my jacket back on quickly. Buttoning it up nervously, I walk the short distance to her door, which blocks the entrance to his.

I need all my willpower to walk into the office and all my acting ability, dredged up from somewhere deep, to pull off the undaunted, calm demeanor that I try to present at all times. My stomach turns somersault, and my throat dries up. I don’t know why I’m having so much trouble today.

“Ah, Emma, here you are.” Margo meets me as I pull open the heavy wooden door and slide in, suddenly conscious of how short I am next to her swan-like body, even in my spike heels. She is tall for a woman, and I’m around five-foot-four.

“Jake, this is Emma Anderson. She’s your new assistant in training, your new number two.” She smiles fondly at me and gestures for me to come to her. I move beside her and get the gentle, familiar pat on my shoulder as she tries to put me at ease.

I blink a few times, pausing at the use of the name Jake.

Am I missing something here?

My brain is clicking with memories from my research, and it dawns on me he prefers the name Jake. He corrected many interviewers, and I remember he likes informality, so he encourages using his nickname.

All my thoughts slip away to nothing, and I’m held captive to the floor, unable to speak as the object of my nerves gets out of his seat. This is what I’ve been afraid of, my reaction when faced with someone I find attractive, and it is entirely new to me.

I don’t even notice the others in the room as he effortlessly glides toward me. It’s mesmerizing in a way but also disconcerting. He has the walk of someone who’s never doubted his own confidence or abilities, who knew early in life that he was devastatingly attractive and had the best reaction from all women.

He towers above me as he approaches, easily putting him over the six-foot mark. Wearing all black, a suit minus tie, and a shirt with top buttons open, the overall effect makes me breathless. He’s beyond underwear-model hot; he’s like some female fantasy come to life.

Jeeze.