The scowl that crossed his face was unexpected, but no more than his response. “No.”
I pulled up short, stunned. I’d issued an order, and although I was no longer his chairman, I still owned the company where he sat on the board. How dare he refuse? “Excuse me?”
“As fun as it was to watch you do it,” he said, “I have zero desire to be beaten by a girl who competed in the Olympics.”
My heart thudded erratically as his statement hit me, and my accusatory gaze flew to the blonde standing beside me.
Sophia shrugged as if this revelation wasn’t important. “That was a while ago.” She tried to continue her blasé attitude, but it came out forced. “I didn’t qualify for Tokyo.”
I heard every ounce of ache buried in her words. She hadn’t qualified, but she’d wanted to badly. Her unachieved desire was . . . relatable. My life’s ambition had been to chair the Federal Reserve. Now, it was a goal I would never attain.
“Which Olympics?” I demanded. She hadn’t medaled. If she had, Damon would have said so, and moreover, I would have known about it. It was stunning I’d overlooked this detail, but perhaps I was destined to miss more than just targets today.
“London,” she said.
There was a vague, familiar feeling like I’d known this once, but everyone’s children in Cape Hill were exceptional. They were landing full scholarships to Ivy Leagues, or winning equestrian competitions, or becoming Rhodes scholars. I hadn’t begun using her father as my wealth manager until 2014, either.
“She was also an alternate for Rio,” Marist said, her gaze focused on the blonde.
How fitting. My daughter-in-law was fascinated with Greek mythology, occasionally comparing our family to the gods on Mount Olympus, but her friend Sophia was an actual Olympian.
“Well, I suppose I don’t feel as bad losing to you now,” I lied.
Her red lips peeled back into brilliant smile.
She didn’t believe a word of it.
FOUR
SOPHIA
MACALISTER HALE WAS JUST A MAN, I reminded myself for the third time this morning as I stood in the hallway outside his door at HBHC headquarters. He needed food, and water, and sleep just like the rest of us humans. If I cut him, he’d bleed the same red as I would.
But he was a legend in Cape Hill, and two years of prison hadn’t changed that. If anything, his absence had made the idea of him grow larger in my mind. When he walked into a room, heads turned like a goddamn king had just entered.
And now the king was my boss.
His office door was only halfway closed, but I banged my knuckles on it and waited for an invitation anyway.
“Yes?” a very male, very irritated voice came from inside.
“It’s Sophia Alby.”
He sounded annoyed that he had to say it. “Come in.”
The office was large, and the view of the harbor out the floor-to-ceiling window was impressive, but the space inside was barren. The shelves in the bookcase behind the desk were empty, as were the walls. There was a sitting area to the right with two gray couches and chairs gathered around a low table, but the neutral colors only added to the vacant feel.
Although the office hadn’t been used recently, I wouldn’t call it unoccupied. Macalister’s larger-than-life presence filled every square inch. He gazed at my black Chanel suit, and a scowl twisted on his lips.
“You’re late.”
I glanced at my Apple watch. “You said eight, right?”
It was eight a.m. exactly.
“Yes,” he said. “Which means you’re late. To be early is to be on time.”
I pressed my lips together at his lecturing tone and reminded myself I’d signed up for this. I tried to sound remorseful. “It won’t happen again.”
That seemed to satisfy him, because he pointed to one of the couches. “Sit down.”
As I did, Macalister grabbed a leather portfolio off the desk and made his way to join me. He moved with confidence and ease, looking far more comfortable today in his office and a three-piece suit than he had at home wearing a sweater and slacks.
He was as terrifying and exciting as he’d been before Alice Hale fell from the rooftop of this building. The only difference was his once dark hair was now deeply threaded with gray. I suspected he’d been coloring it before, and after the accident he’d decided to let it go. Or maybe he couldn’t touch up his gray when he was in prison.
Either way, the look was totally working for him. Macalister was a bona fide silver fox.
He unbuttoned his black suit coat before taking a seat on the couch across from me, put the portfolio down on the cushion beside himself, and set his gaze on me.
Christ, his eyes. They were slightly more blue than gray, and fucking intense. I’d told Marist a long time ago that Royce and his brother Vance were hot, but Macalister was the best of the Hale bunch, and it was still true today.
Of course, I’d always been into older men.
Not always.
I frowned at that unhelpful thought. I needed to focus. The first part of my plan was complete, and now it was time to roll out phase two. I laced my fingers together and set them in my lap as I crossed my legs. “Before I tell you the plan, we should talk about my salary.”
I might as well have told him I was illiterate. His broad shoulders pulled back, and he looked down his sharp nose at me. “You are getting way ahead of yourself, Sophia.” He picked up the portfolio, tossed it down on the table with a loud thump, and it slid to a stop in front of me.
“What’s this?”
“A non-disclosure agreement.” He settled back into the couch and cast an arm along one of the cushions, looking like a beautiful advertisement for men’s bespoke suits.
I opened the folder. It wasn’t unexpected he’d present me with one—well, I had assumed it’d come from someone in human resources and not him personally—but this document was surprising. It was excessively long. I paged through it and shot him a glance that read, seriously?
His ice-blue eyes narrowed a degree. “This is not negotiable. If you want to work for me, you’ll sign it.”
Was this a tactic to scare me off? It wouldn’t work. “I get it. I know things you want kept secret.”
The muscle running along his jaw flexed. Was he grinding his teeth? “Whether or not that’s true,” he said coolly, “anything we discuss or any conversations you might witness during my employ cannot be repeated.”
I nodded my understanding and went back to skimming the document. I had no intention of leaking secrets—and every intention of him doing it for me. As I read, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. He’d reached into his interior coat pocket, produced a pen, and set it on the glass table with a quiet ting.
He wasn’t subtle in the way he tried to hurry me along, but I ignored it and kept reading.
Finally, I picked up the black pen accented with gold, scribbled my name on the line, and closed the portfolio. “Salary.”
His eyebrow arched. “You told me you have plenty of money.”
“I do, but I don’t work for free.”
“I’m not ready to make you an offer.” Macalister’s hand on the back of the couch was held loosely in a fist, and he ran the pad of his thumb over his knuckles. It was distracting, and kind of . . . sexy. I forced my attention back to his lips as he spoke. “I don’t know your qualifications,” he added, “nor have I seen your résumé.”