Page 9 of His to Command

"This is..." She struggles for words.

"Home," I supply, watching her face. "For now."

I lead her to the dining room where dinner waits. Her step falters when she sees the elaborate spread, the bottle of wine already open and breathing, the candles.

"This isn't a business dinner," she says, a slight tremor in her voice.

"Everything I do is business." I hold out her chair. "Sit."

She hesitates, and I see the calculation in her eyes—weighing professionalism against self-preservation. Professionalism wins. She sits, allowing me to push in her chair, trapping her at my table.

I pour wine into her glass, then mine, taking the seat adjacent to her rather than opposite. Close enough that our knees could touch if I shifted slightly.

"To new arrangements," I say, raising my glass.

She lifts hers reluctantly, takes the barest sip. "Mr. Roth?—"

"Hudson."

"Hudson." She places her glass down carefully. "I appreciate the dinner, but I'm confused about my role here. If you wanted an executive assistant, there are people with far more experience?—"

"I didn't want an executive assistant," I cut her off. "I have those. What I wanted was you."

The bluntness of my statement silences her. A flush crawls up her neck, disappearing beneath her buttoned collar. I imagine following it with my fingers, my mouth.

"Try the sea bass," I say instead, nodding to her plate. "It's excellent."

Dinner proceeds with surface-level conversation. I ask strategic questions about her background, her education atNYU, her career aspirations. Each answer reveals another piece of the puzzle that is Robin Hastings. Each revelation makes me want more.

"Why marketing?" I ask as we finish the main course.

She twirls her wine glass, looking thoughtful. "I like understanding what makes people want things. What convinces them to make choices."

"And what do you want, Robin?"

Her eyes dart to mine, then away. "Professional success. Security."

"Lies," I say softly. "You're too intelligent for such generic answers."

The flush deepens on her cheeks. "I'm not sure what you're looking for, Mr. Roth."

"Honesty." I lean closer. "And I told you to call me Hudson."

I stand, collecting our plates in a domestic gesture that visibly confuses her. "We'll have coffee in my office while we review the proposal."

She follows me to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway as I rinse dishes—a task my housekeeper would normally handle, but I've ensured we're completely alone tonight.

"I can help," she offers.

"No." I don't turn around. "Watch."

I feel her eyes on me as I move efficiently around the kitchen, preparing coffee, placing cookies from a local bakery on a small plate. Every movement calculated to seem casual while reminding her that she's in my domain, subject to my rules.

We move to my home office—another meticulously designed space with a desk big enough for two to work side by side. The Westfield documents are arranged precisely as I want them, requiring us to sit close, to lean in together, to occasionally touch.

"These projections don't match the market research," she notes, frowning at a spreadsheet. She's kicked off her heels, tucked one leg beneath her on the chair. Getting comfortable despite herself.

"Show me," I say, rolling my chair closer until our shoulders touch.

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