The cat answered with a deep purr and wove itself around my legs, but there was only irritated silence from Macalister.
I ran a hand along the cat’s back and was startled to see the uneven patches of fur on its hind legs. Was the cat sick? I straightened and gazed at Macalister, who was still wearing the same suit and tie from the office today.
“What’s wrong with your cat?”
“That’s Royce’s cat,” he clarified.
I couldn’t picture Royce as a cat person either, plus . . . “Didn’t they move out? He left his cat behind?”
Macalister closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The animal had issues, so Marist brought it back. It’s temporary.”
Interesting. “Does the ‘animal’ have a name?”
He sighed. “Lucifer.”
A smile warmed my cheeks, and I bent once more to pet the purring cat. My tone was sugary-sweet. “Are you a little devil? You don’t look like a devil.”
In response, Lucifer flopped down on his side and stared up at me with his bright green eyes.
Meanwhile, Macalister’s frustration with me climbed toward the ceiling, and I savored the taste of it. I’d officially been his assistant for ten days, and I’d begun testing my boundaries with him like a child did with a parent.
I was a little surprised he hadn’t fired me yet.
“Focus, Sophia,” he ordered in a dark voice. It sent exciting shivers down my spine. So far, his bark had been much worse than his bite, and I enjoyed getting him worked up. I wondered if secretly he did too.
I turned my attention back to the sophisticated security system as Macalister synced it with my phone so I could come and go from the house in case he ever needed me to fetch him something from home.
And when that was done, he gave me an abbreviated tour. I’d been in his house plenty of times before, but that had been for Royce’s parties during high school, or the Hale-Northcott wedding nearly three years ago. This tour took me into the study, and he showed me where copies of important documents could be easily found in case of an emergency.
More importantly, his tour took me up the stairs, down the hall, and into Macalister’s most personal space. His bedroom.
The ceiling was tall, the walls were painted a dark gray, and the high king-sized bed was covered in oatmeal colored linens. The room reflected its master. It was masculine, impressive, and impersonal. The sitting area was set to one side, and two green chairs were gathered around a low table.
I wanted to be a professional, but it grew increasingly difficult as he walked me toward his closet and explained his system for rotating suits, shirts, and ties so he didn’t wear the same combinations too often. I kept busy making notes on my phone to avoid thinking about him getting undressed here later tonight.
“Have you eaten?” he asked me abruptly.
“Like, recently?”
His displeased look was rapidly becoming my favorite.
“No, I haven’t,” I answered.
He pulled out his phone and thumbed out a message. “I’ll tell my staff to prepare dinner for two.”
It came out before I thought better of it. “You want to have dinner with me?”
Macalister went still. “I’m hungry, and it would be rude for me to eat without offering you something as well.”
“Oh.”
It was an afterthought for him. “Am I interrupting plans?”
I stared at the pattern in his tie, avoiding his gaze. “No.”
“Excellent. We can continue our work over dinner.”
We were served dinner in the kitchen, which felt only slightly less formal than the dinning room. Macalister’s chef was an older gentleman, and the man explained the meal to us with a French accent that was so thick, I probably would have understood more if it had been in French. It was chicken, that much I knew. But it smelled amazing and tasted even better.
We went over Macalister’s schedule for next week, and although we were working, I had the strange feeling that it was an excuse so he didn’t have to eat all alone in this big house.
“You’ll wear dresses or skirts from now on at the office,” he decreed as he speared a roasted potato with his fork. “If you need to purchase some items for your wardrobe, I’ll provide a stipend.”
I froze. “Um . . . what?”
His phone was laying face-up on the table, and as he spoke, he tapped the screen and began to scroll. “I prefer my staff to look a certain way. You may call it sexist, but I’m traditional. You’re a beautiful woman, and you should dress to reflect that.” He picked up his phone and displayed the screen to me. “Tomorrow, you will wear this.”
It was a selfie I’d posted to Instagram before I went to an art showing for my friend Penelope. The sleeveless teal dress was fitted and pleated on one side, with a long pencil skirt that ended just below my knees.
That art exhibit had been months ago.
“Okay, wow.” I didn’t know where to focus first. He was telling me what to wear, but he’d called me beautiful, and . . . he’d gone digging deep through my Instagram feed? “Are you following me?”
He looked at me plainly, telling me I’d asked a stupid question. “You’re my employee, so yes. Tomorrow, I have a meeting with analytics that will be quite dry. When you come in wearing that dress to check if we need anything, it’ll wake the men back up.”
“Again, wow.” I’d never experienced such polarizing feelings. On one hand, it was kind of flattering, but on the other, hadn’t he just, like, broken the law? In my mind, he wasn’t really my boss, but in the eyes of the law he was, and he’d objectified me sexually.
“Does what I said bother you?” His blue eyes sharpened as they evaluated my surprise.
Well, well, well.
I wasn’t the only one testing boundaries, and if he wanted to use me like that, did I really care? I picked up my knife and cut another piece of my chicken. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”
I liked his displeased look the best, but his pleased one? It was a close second.
“Good,” he said. “Have you made any progress with Mrs. Gabbard?”
I swallowed my bite and leaned forward, whispering it like a closely guarded secret. “I passed her your note before recess and—good news—she checked the box for yes!”
Macalister’s jaw clenched in irritation, accentuating his high cheekbones. “Excuse me?”
I dropped the schoolgirl charade. “I had lunch with Evangeline this afternoon. She was receptive to your offer, so I’ve booked you a table at Marquee for tomorrow night. She’ll meet you there at eight.”
“Good,” he answered.
In the quiet that followed, the atmosphere in the room began to shift, and an unnatural tension took hold in his shoulders.
I hesitated. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” He tried to ignore whatever was bothering him but failed terribly. Macalister didn’t give an inch or show weakness if he could help it, but he sighed. “I’m remembering how tedious dating can be. I do not enjoy making small talk.”
Was this his way of telling me he sucked at it? Because that wasn’t news to me. “Yeah, I’m going to suggest you don’t try to make small talk.” There was far too much in his life that was a minefield. “Keep the conversation focused on her. Evangeline does a lot of charity work and sits on a bunch of boards. Talk about that.” I gave him a bright, wide smile. “I mean, a man who listens and doesn’t talk about himself non-stop? Careful. She might just fall in love with you.”