"Good. I'll draw up the contract and send it to you by the end of the day."
We hang up and I stare at the inbox on my screen. Organized and sorted, and near empty. Miss Myers handles most of my communication. My correspondence. My schedule.
She has since the first day I stepped into Exciteur to take over for Tristan. The bleeding hearted fool stepped down, all because he was dating one of the company interns.
Wasn't even an HR violation.
"To make her more comfortable," he'd told us partners. "I want it all to be legitimate."
His loss. Exciteur was at a position of near global dominance in the consulting world and if he didn't want to be at the helm of that ship, there were plenty of people willing to fill it. Like me.
Miss Myers had come with the position, just like the decor of his office. A mousy young woman who'd never had her hair out of place, who dressed like she wanted to be invisible, to blend in.
And now my wife to be.
I run a hand over my face. Sleeping had been hell for the past week, as it is when the memories are at their worst. Not to mention the ticking time bomb. Months had passed since the reading of my grandfather's will.
I wish I could let it go.
That I could buzz Miss Myers in and tell her she's off the hook, she doesn't have to marry me, go ahead and quit and live her life crocheting, reorganizing her bookshelves or whatever else she did for fun.
But I can't.
Because then the damn, fucking house will pass to Charlotte, with her garish colors and talk of flipping houses. She'll strip the place. Tear down Grandfather's office and throw out all of his books. Install a pool in the rose garden.
There'd been a time I wanted to burn the place to the ground.
And now I'm willing to marry my own assistant to get it. If Grandfather could see me now, I don't know if he'd laugh or curse me out for finding a loophole in his will.
He'd probably do both.
My mind runs through the list of women I'd been on dates with over the past six months. More than I'd ever dated before. More than I ever wanted to date again.
It had been moronic conversations about moronic subjects with women who barely knew me. Socialites and business-women and even a few models, all of whom agreed to dates after they heard my name. But pretending to be interested in anything long-term was beyond me.
So.
Miss Myers. Cecilia. With her prim blouses and her smart efficiency. Who had talked back when I made her the offer. Who had come into this office and negotiated with me, standing her ground, even if I suspected she'd fold like a house of cards if I'd pushed.
She'd found a backbone beneath all that pale silk.
Far more annoying was the fact that I'd need to hire a new assistant, one who'd need training. Which meant I'd be operating without a limb for a few months.
A soft ding on my computer announces new events added to my schedule.
Wedding. 1 p. m. Office of the City Clerk. Attendees: Cecilia Myers (confirmed), Victor St. Clair (pending).
I tick the box to confirm my attendance. RSVPing to my own nuptials. It almost makes me smile.
Then my calendar pings again.
Pre-wedding dinner. 7 pm. Salt. Attendees: Cecilia Myers (confirmed), Victor St. Clair (pending).
I lift my phone and press the single digit that connects me to my assistant.
"Yes?"
"Come in here," I say.
The office door opens moments later and Miss Myers walks in. Her hair is in a low ponytail today. Gray pants and matching blazer. She looks like an assistant.
My fiancée, ladies and gentlemen.
"What do you need?"
"You scheduled a pre-wedding dinner," I say.
Her hands twist in front of her, but she meets my eyes. "We need to talk."
"About what? There's no agenda attached to this meeting."
"Not about business. About us. We're practically strangers."
I frown. "We're not."
"What's my first name?"
"Cecilia," I say. It feels odd on my tongue.
"Where do I live?"
"From the fifteenth onward, you'll be living on 5th Avenue. With me."
She shakes her head, and there's a fire in her eyes. It's the same one she'd showed when she negotiated with me. "I'm not marrying you like this. We need to sit down. Talk about the year ahead. About expectations and, and… rules. Limits. You can afford to take one night off work."
I lean back in my chair. Perhaps I can, if she'll show me more of this side of her. "Fine."
"Fine," she echoes. "There's nothing else?"
"No."
She nods and turns, and my eyes do something they've never done before. They trace the lines of her body and imagine it beneath the fabric. Does she have dimples at the base of her spine? Her pants are loose, but they stretch over a firm ass as she walks.
The door closes behind her and I stare at it for a few seconds. Miss Myers.
I must be losing my mind.
Salt is my standard restaurant for business meetings. The kind that are better had outside of office environments, where a glass of wine or four butters up clients, suppliers and everything in between.