Page 3 of Wicked Beasts
He pauses for a moment but doesn’t turn to look at me. “He’s not well.”
“Oh, is he sick? Is it term?—”
“We’re handling it,” he sharply cuts me off. “That’s why you’re here. To help.”
“Right, of course. I’ll do everything I can—” My breath catches in my throat when I see him.
He stands at the top of the stairs, a striking, muscular figure with tousled dark hair, a strong, clean-shaven jaw, and chiseled features. The glasses perched on his nose frame his deep eyes, which narrow slightly as they land on me. In a fitted sweatshirt that accentuates his broad shoulders and lean frame, he looks like a character from the pages of a romance novel, effortlessly blending intellect and allure. My heart begins to race.
Suddenly, I feel acutely aware of my disheveled appearance Kehau had pointed out moments ago. I pull at my sweater, trying to readjust it as it slips down and off my shoulder yet again.
As he descends the stairs, his confident demeanor surprisingly falters. He clears his throat, the sound a little too loud in the quiet room. A faint blush creeps up his cheeks, adding a charming contrast to his otherwise-composed appearance.
“Um…hello,” he manages to say, the word tumbling from his lips with an endearing awkwardness that makes my heart skip a beat. His hands fidget in the refuge of his pants pockets. Perhaps he wants to shake my hand, but he decides against it.
“Ah—Mr. Black,” Mortimer says with a bit more life in his voice than I thought possible. “This is Miss Amara Rose, your new personal assistant.”
Tristan’s gaze darts between me and Mortimer, apparently trying to collect his thoughts. “My—right—my—hello,” he stammers, a nervous smile breaking through his initial hesitation, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose witha strong, veiny hand. The rolled-up sleeve of his shirt clings to his thick, flexed forearm, straining as if it might rip. There is a unique vulnerability in his posture, a fleeting self-consciousness of some sort that only deepens my instant attraction.
Kehau’s anxiety was definitely unwarranted, and I’m glad there’s no Human Resources Department to witness me completely transfixed. His hazel eyes shine with an enticing light, and the curve of his mouth captivates me…
Oh crap—did he just ask me a question?
I blink. “Huh?”
“Do you need a vase?” he asks again, his voice warm and smooth. He glances down for no longer than a second before his gaze meets mine again. “For your rose?”
“Oh,right. Please.”
“I’ll have Mrs. Wong get one for you.” Tristan smiles at me, a beautiful, perfect smile, and my knees nearly give out. Maybe I’mtoo oldto feel so swoony, but perhaps this is the universe giving me the green light on my hopes for new adventures. Besides, I’ve always thought it’s unfair we only ever romanticize young people—the teens and twenty-somethings—falling in love. Most don’t fall in love so young. We spend our lives as adults who only continue to age, should we be so lucky.
Why can’t I feel the rush of attraction in my thirties?
I try to grab hold of my suitcase to steady myself, accidentally grabbing Mortimer’s hand in the process. I flinch and look down. “Oh, I’m sorry.” His fingers were so chilling to the touch, I half expected to see ice.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Amara.” Tristan dips his head in a polite but subtle bow as he backs toward the east wing and clasps his hands together. “I look forward to working with you.” I feel a magnetic pull to follow him, but my feet remain rooted where I stand.
Is he even aware of the allure he possesses, with his perfect blend of casual charm and formality? I blink, entranced, unable to tear my gaze from him, even as he disappears behind the door. There’s no way he could be so striking, so sublime, without knowing the power it holds over others. Overme.
By the time I look at Mortimer, still locked in my dreamy state, he is already staring at me with a rather judgmental look in those empty, deep-set eyes, and a rush of blood quickly floods my cheeks.
“Working with him won’t be a problem, will it?” His tone hints at condescension.
“Absolutely not,” I assure him quickly, trying to conceal my offense.
I can be professional. I don’t typically get like this over a man, so whether I can focus on my work in his presence is a dilemma for another time. For now, I desperately crave the chill of a cold shower to calm me.
I glance over my shoulder at the east wing before following Mortimer to my room.
“As we discussed on the phone,” he says, stalking like a shadow soundlessly gliding across the floor, “your room, amenities, and internet are all included. You will be paid every other Wednesday. We had many applicants—consider the first three months a probationary period.”
He stops in front of a door and hands me a key.
I find his words a bit disheartening. The idea that I could potentially be let go in three months makes my stomach knot. I want to tell him a probationary period should have been discussed earlier, but I don’t want to rack up any more strikes. Mortimer already seems annoyed at my obvious reaction to my employer.
Whatever attraction I feel toward Tristan Black, I am going to have to bury it.
My job depends on it.
