Page 23 of Sexting the Billionaire

"Bold assessment," I say, leaning forward slightly. "Most candidates praise our current strategy."

"Most candidates tell you what they think you want to hear," she counters, her voice steady but her pulse visibly racing at her throat. "I'm telling you what Lumière needs."

I feel my lips curving into an involuntary smile before I can stop them. This woman is either going to be the salvation of Lumière or the death of my professional detachment. Possibly both.

"Honesty is refreshing," I say deliberately, watching for her reaction to the word from our text exchange. "Especially in an industry built on carefully calculated images."

There it is—that flash of recognition, quickly smothered beneath professional composure. She knows. I'm certain of it now.

I continue the interview, asking standard questions while wondering how this impossible situation will play out. Part of me—the responsible CEO part—knows I should recuse myself from this hiring decision immediately. There's a clear conflict of interest when I've exchanged explicit messages with a job candidate, even accidentally.

But another part—the part that's been bored to the point of numbness with the predictable, calculated interactions that make up my daily life—is selfishly intrigued by the chaos this woman has inadvertently introduced.

"One final question, Ms. Monroe," I say after exhausting my standard interview protocol. "Why should I hire you over candidates with more experience?"

She takes a deep breath, and I watch with fascination as she visibly chooses courage over caution.

"Because I see Lumière for what it could be, not just what it was or what it is now. And because I'm not afraid to fight for that vision, even if it means telling the CEO his brand has lost its way."

I almost laugh out loud at her audacity. Instead, I stand, signaling the end of our interview. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Monroe. HR will be in touch soon."

She rises with surprising grace for someone who must be internally freaking out. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Kade."

I extend my hand, and there's a moment's hesitation before she takes it.

The moment our skin connects, electricity shoots through me with shocking intensity. Her palm slides against mine, cool at first but warming instantly at the contact. My grip tightens involuntarily, and I see her pupils dilate, her lips parting slightly on an indrawn breath.

I've shaken thousands of hands in my career. None of them have ever made my blood rush south with such immediate, primal response.

Our eyes meet, and heat surges between us—visceral, undeniable. The connection is so intense I nearly pull her closer, professionalism be damned. Instead, I allow myself one small acknowledgment—a slight quirk of my eyebrow that saysYes, I know exactly who you are, and I remember every word you wrote.

Her cheeks flush with color, the pink spreading down her throat toward the neckline of her blouse. I'm suddenly desperate to know how far that blush extends.

"I look forward to hearing your decision," she says, withdrawing her hand perhaps a touch too quickly, though her fingertips trail across my palm in a way that could be accidental but feels deliciously intentional.

"As do I," I reply, allowing myself the ghost of a smile.

She leaves my office with her dignity remarkably intact for someone who just interviewed with the accidental recipient of her sexual fantasies.

I wait until the door closes behind her before I sink back into my chair, adjusting myself subtly as I process what just happened.

I haven't had such an immediate physical reaction to a woman since college. Certainly not from a simple handshake. And definitely not during a job interview.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

The professional answer is clear: recuse myself from the hiring process and allow HR to make the decision based on qualifications alone.

That's what Roman Kade, responsible CEO, would do.

But fuck that.

I built this company from the ground up. I've always followed my gut, which is precisely why Elysian dominates its market. And right now, my gut is telling me that Cassandra Monroe is exactly what Lumière needs—her vision, her honesty, her refusal to play it safe.

The fact that she's also the woman who accidentally sent me the most arousing text I've ever received? Who stirred something in me with a simple handshake? That's a complication, certainly, but not one I'm willing to run from.

I never run from complications. I solve them. Usually on my terms.

I pull out my phone and stare at our text conversation from Tuesday. The explicit words, the photo in that emerald dress. The woman who just left my office wrote these things. Who unknowingly revealed her deepest desires to me—her future boss.

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