Chapter 7 You
The door swings shut behind him with a quiet, decisive click. I flinch slightly at the sound before I can stop myself....Great start.
Bastian doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t comment. He just walks in like he owns the room. Which, judging by the size of this place and the fact his name is apparently attached to half the internet articles I just skimmed, he does.
He tucks his hands into his pockets, gaze pinned on me. And then he just... looks.
Neither of us says anything. The silence stretches. His eyes drag over me slowly, the same way they did in the club last night, but this time there’s nothing restrained about it. No crowd. No dim lights. No polite distance. Just a long, intentional once-over. From my face, down my chest.... lower, then back up again.
There’s something in it.
Heat. Focus. A kind of quiet intensity that makes my pulse spike in a way I’m not entirely thrilled about. Part of me wants to step back. The other part...Well. The other part wants to lean forward just to see what happens. I stay exactly where I am, rooted to the spot.
“You,” I say finally, eyes narrowing slightly.
His mouth curves faintly at the corner, like he’s amused by the understatement. He takes a step forward. Then another. Slow and unhurried. Until he stops right in front of me, close enough that there’s only a small step separating us.
“Me,” he agrees easily.
His voice is low, smooth and infuriatingly calm. Those blue eyes flick over my face again before settling there.
“What’s with the shocked look?” he asks. “I thought you were very committed to expanding your professional network....making new connections.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, something playful slipping beneath the surface.
“Or is that networking spirit reserved for people whose drinks don’t claim to be life-changing experiences?”
I rub the back of my neck, my mind scrambling backward through every word that came out of my mouth last night.
Shit.
For a split second I try to remember if I actually trashed the whiskey or if my brain is just doing that thing where it replays every conversation you’ve ever had and makes it sound worse.
“I—” I clear my throat. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He says nothing. Those blue eyes stay fixed on me.
“It’s good whiskey,” I add quickly. “Really good. I just...uh...tend to say whatever pops into my head before my brain catches up sometimes. I was just being a critic."
Still nothing.
I glance around the office, trying to recover some dignity before I completely dissolve into a puddle of professional regret. Then something clicks....I look back at him, eyes narrowing slightly.
“You planned this.”
One dark eyebrow lifts.
“Planned what?”
I gesture vaguely around the room. The office. The building. The whole intimidating empire of polished glass and expensive wood. “The job,” I say. “The contract. The whole ‘come in on short notice’ thing.” I pause. “You were behind it.”
He doesn't deny it, just shrugs. The movement is slow, careless. Like the answer barely matters. Then he steps closer.
One step.
Two.
Until suddenly he’s right there, close enough that my brain stops working properly. My breath catches before I can stop it. He smells good. Not just good, expensive and dark. Something warm and smoky threaded through it that hits the back of my lungs and makes my pulse trip over itself. Maybe it’s because of last night. Maybe it’s because my body already remembers that scent. But the second I inhale it, my heartbeat kicks up hard in my chest.
He studies me for another moment. Then he starts moving again, not away....around me. Slow and measured. Like he’s assessing a piece of art he’s considering buying. Or a weapon he’s deciding whether it’s worth picking up. I stay rooted to the spot, my neck prickling, his presence a heavy weight behind my shoulder blades.
His voice comes from somewhere just behind my shoulder. Low and resonant, vibrating right through my spine
"I’m a businessman, Kaden. I’m always on the lookout for... fresh talent. For something that has a certain 'grip' to it."
I can feel the heat of his body, though he hasn't touched me yet. He leans in, his breath ghosting over the nape of my neck, sending a violent shiver straight down my legs.
"I needed someone who knows how to handle a heavy workload without choking under the pressure," he murmurs, the words make my skin flush hot. "Someone with a high capacity for strenuous positions...someone who looks just as good when they’re being pushed to their absolute limit as they do when they’re in control."
He pauses, and I can practically hear the smirk in his tone. "I have a feeling you’ll fill the role perfectly."
I frown and swallow hard, my throat feeling like it’s filled with sand. It sounds professional, but the way his voice dropped tells me he isn't thinking about a camera. The weight of his words settling like a physical pressure against my skin. There’s a sharp edge to his "professionalism" that makes my pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.
Before I can formulate a comeback, he rounds my shoulder and stops at my side, close enough that I can feel the static of his suit against my arm. I turn my head, and I’m immediately met with those blue eyes....ice-cold, piercing, and positioned exactly where they can see every flicker of doubt crossing my face. Like they’re peeling through layers of me I didn’t even know were visible. I nod, forcing my shoulders to relax.
“Well... thanks,” I say, a little awkwardly. “I’ll do my best.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
“I don’t doubt it.” There’s a beat. “I’m sure we’ll find plenty of opportunities to put your talents to good use.”
His tone does absolutely nothing to clarify which talents he’s referring to. So I do the mature thing, I pivot, gesturing vaguely at the floor-to-ceiling glass and the sprawling estate beyond. "It’s a hell of a property. Really nice. The drive up was scenic. Very peaceful."
He shifts, stepping back in front of me to cut off my view of the window, reclaiming my entire field of vision.
"Thank you," he says, his voice dropping into a smooth, predatory purr. "I suppose I have a bit of a compulsive habit...collecting rare, exquisite things that look best when they’re exactly where I want them."
I nod slowly again, my brain scrambling to process the flirtatious bite in his tone. I try not to overthink it, but it’s hard when the man looks like that. The club lighting last night hadn't done him justice.... in the harsh, unforgiving light of day, he’s devastating. But that kind of beauty coupled with the wealth usually comes with a skyscraper-sized stack of red flags, and the discomfort I feel around him is a living thing, squirming under my ribs.
I need air. I need fucking distance.
I turn and walk back toward the heavy mahogany desk, pretending to be interested in the placement of a fountain pen just to put six feet of space between us. When I finally find the nerve to glance back over my shoulder, he's still standing there.
Just watching me, a very subtle, very dark smile playing on his lips, as if he’s enjoying how uncomfortable I look.