More Than Crave You Page 8

  “I’m Evan.” And I’m not at all amused. “Sit down and tell me about yourself.”

  Nia peeks her head in. “Coffee, anyone?”

  “Caffeine is, like, bad for you. Do you have any organic green tea, preferably steeped in filtered water? I don’t trust tap. Who knows what they put in there?” Brittanii shudders, then turns to me. “You know what I mean?”

  I’m aware that in a dating situation it’s probably polite to agree with her statement, about which I’m basically ambivalent. But I don’t have a fuck to give in order to acknowledge her. “I don’t need a refill, Nia.”

  “Excellent. I’ll see you when you’re finished.”

  If I didn’t think my assistant incapable of subterfuge and enjoying this farce at my expense, I would be deeply suspicious. But as she closes the door, leaving me alone with Brittanii, I’m unable to ask Nia any of the pointed questions whirling through my head.

  “So you’re looking for a wife?” my first candidate says. “What kind of arrangement are you after? I can look pretty. I can hire caterers. I mean, your ad said you were looking for those things. And sex. I’m good with that since you’re not a troll. The ad didn’t say if you were looking for something long-term.”

  Is she for real? “How long do you think a husband and wife should be married?”

  I’m not really interested in the answer, but if I’m stuck with her for the next hour, I might as well let her horrify me.

  “I don’t know. I guess until they both feel like moving on.”

  I frown. “How long was your longest relationship?”

  She pauses, obviously reflecting. “About eight months.”

  “Who usually breaks up with whom?”

  “I get bored, you know? Of course, I usually date hot guys who are often poor, so we have nothing interesting to do. I mean, even sex gets stale after a while, right? What about you?”

  “I was married for nearly eight years. We dated for two years prior to that.”

  “Wow, that’s a long time. But then you got bored? It happens.”

  “Actually, I’m single because my wife and unborn child died in a car accident.”

  “Oh.” She has the good grace to look contrite. “Well, you don’t seem like you’d be boring since you’re rich and hot. Even if you’re a snooze in bed, if there’s, like, shopping, I’ll be the best wife ever.”

  I’m done. Truthfully, I was already disinterested before she opened her mouth, but now I’m completely annoyed. I don’t deal with laziness, sponging, or idiocy well in general. And this woman seems to represent all of the above.

  “Did you go to college?”

  “Long enough to join a sorority, meet frat guys, and go to parties. Who, but nerds and losers, takes that academic stuff seriously?”

  “Me. I graduated summa cum laude in three years with a double major in business management and economics.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Summa what?”

  “Top one percent of my class.”

  “Oh. So, you’re, like, smart?”

  “I like to think so. And I value intelligence. Tell me why you think I should choose you.”

  She pauses and smirks as if the answer is obvious. “Have you looked at me?”

  I have. Not only is she vapid, she’s conceited. “I prefer substance to aesthetics.”

  “To, ah…what?”

  “After sex, looks will only engage me for so long. I need someone smart, witty, and interesting. Are you well read?”

  Brittanii hesitates. “Cosmo and Vogue. I don’t read, like, books. It takes too long, and they’re usually yawn-worthy.”

  I’m completely unsurprised. “Have you traveled?”

  “I’d like to. I thought seeing the world was part of the package.”

  “What are your hobbies?”

  “Um, well…there’s tanning. And shopping. I’m a good dancer. I get down at clubs almost every weekend. You like going out?”

  “Actually, I work somewhere around seventy hours a week. I tend to prefer quiet weekends at home.”

  “Ugh, that sounds like something my dad would say. We’d have to do something less boring or this won’t work.”

  “It won’t work, regardless, Brittanii. Thank you for your time. Let me show you to the door.”

  Wide-eyed, she huffs and rises to her feet. “You’re serious? You’re turning me down?”

  “I am.”

  “Ugh. And I gave up a nail appointment for this.”

  “Good luck finding a man who finds you perfect and charming just as you are.” If he does, he won’t be any smarter or more ambitious than she is, and they will probably suit each other perfectly…as long as he comes equipped with an endless trust fund.

  “Well, good luck finding someone better-looking than me. And when you can’t, don’t call.”

  With that lovely parting shot, she flounces to my office door, yanks it open, and storms out. She snatches up her coat with such force the rack topples over. She never looks twice at it, much less bothers to pick it up. Then she slams the ante door.

  Nia stands behind her desk, blinking in shock. Then she checks her watch. “Eighteen minutes?”

  “We didn’t suit.”

  “Sorry. At least she was every bit as pretty as her picture suggested.”

  I shrug. “That hardly matters. She’s not my type. But we have almost thirty-five minutes before my next appointment arrives. I think you and I need to have a serious conversation.”

  “I can’t.” She grimaces. “There’s an emergency with the copier, and you know I’m the only one who can finesse that silly machine. If I don’t go now, the new assistants on the third floor might melt down. Back in thirty!”

  Before I can stop her, she’s gone. I curse.

  The rest of the day doesn’t improve.

  Candidate number two is a beautiful Latina girl. Nia returns to my office with her in tow and introduces her as Camila. After we shake hands, my assistant leaves us alone with the quiet snick of the door. The woman sits in the chair opposite my big desk, crosses her slender legs, and looks everywhere but at me.

  “Hello.” I prompt. “How are you?”

  She pastes on a smile. Despite the expression being completely false, it transforms her face from pretty to stunning. I might believe she was happy if her eyes didn’t say something else entirely.

  “Fine.”

  It’s a polite lie. I don’t pry. I used the same BS line after Becca’s death when I didn’t want to answer questions or be reminded about my loss.

  “How are you?” she adds, seeming to remember that she’s here for a job interview of sorts and she should engage me.

  “I’m all right, Camila. Thanks for asking.” I don’t have any interest in marrying this woman, but she seems as if she’s sad and clinging to her composure by a thread. “Tell me why you answered my ad.”

  “I’d like to get married, and I’m not interested in romance. We have that in common.”

  A week ago, that was true. Then, she would have seemed perfect.

  Not anymore.

  “Why are you against emotional entanglements?”

  “Why are you?” she counters.

  “I’m a widower. I need companionship and assistance. I’m not ready for more.” I lean forward. “I was blunt in the ad because I didn’t want any misunderstanding.”

  “Thank you for explaining. I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll be equally honest. I was supposed to marry my high school sweetheart next month. Three days ago, I found him in bed with my sister.” She laughs bitterly. “If I hadn’t mistaken the time of my wedding dress fitting, I would never have caught them.”

  Ouch. No wonder she’s taking the nuclear option. “So, you’re looking for a husband and revenge all at once?”

  “Do you blame me?”

  “No.” But this has disaster written all over it.

  “He keeps calling and coming by, telling me how sorry he is, that he still loves me and wants to marry me. If I make t
hat impossible, he’ll go away.”

  Maybe. I don’t know this guy, but I do know this situation is too much drama for me. I don’t have the time or inclination to deal with it. Besides, Camila would eventually regret jumping into matrimony with a stranger before she’s resolved her relationship with her fiancé, and we’d wind up divorced.

  “I think that’s something the two of you need to work out before you bring a third party into the situation.”

  “So you’re rejecting me, too?”

  She looks both stunned and near tears. I doubt she cares about me, but she seems too fragile to handle more emotional upheaval now.

  Across the desk, I take her hand. It’s uncomfortable. I’m not much for extraneous touching, but she needs human contact. I’m the only other person in the room.

  I don’t know why I’m not a “hugger.” I have vague recollections of my mom holding me as a kid. But after she died, my various foster parents over the next seven years didn’t show much affection. That suited me. Even Diana, as kind and jovial as she is, isn’t terribly touchy-feely.

  Growing up, I wondered if Barclay Reed, my biological father, would have loved me. After meeting my half siblings, I gather the answer is no. Maxon especially has nothing but contempt for the man. If he’s truly guilty of bilking clients out of their money for decades, then I’m glad he wasn’t a part of my childhood. I hope he’ll get what he deserves in his upcoming trial. I’m all for making a buck, but not by stealing it.

  “I’m not rejecting you,” I say softly. “I’m preventing you from making a mistake. If I married you, I would be doing you a disservice.”

  I don’t know her personally, but I know her type. She’s the sort of woman who wants to marry for love, not as a fuck-you to her ex. It would never work.

  She’s gone less than five minutes later. This interview was even shorter than the first, and when I escort her out of my office, Nia’s desk is empty. I curse. We need to talk, damn it. I have to tell her what I’m thinking, but I’m beginning to suspect she’s dodging me.

  Stratus Solutions’ offices aren’t massive, so I go in search of her, only to discover she’s already fixed the copier and moved on. I text her. No answer.

  Grumbling, I make my way back to my office. There she is—with another candidate, a pretty redhead with a chip on her shoulder. That meeting lasts less than ten minutes—I’m getting faster at dismissing women I don’t want—but Nia is gone again. A glance at my calendar tells me that I’m finally free for lunch after the next potential wife. She turns out to be a blue-eyed brunette waif who looks too much like Becca. Strike one. She’s ten minutes late, then somehow blamed me for her tardiness. Strike two. She spent most of our seven minutes together Snapchatting with someone and barely giving me an “uh-huh,” even when I didn’t ask a yes-or-no question.

  As soon as I dismiss her, I catch sight of Nia down the hall, slipping into a conference room, and march toward her. When I approach from behind and grab her shoulders, she gasps and whirls to me with a frown.

  “I didn’t expect you here, especially so soon. You didn’t like Felice, either?”

  “No. I escorted her out and came to find you. We need to talk, and it can’t wait.”

  She gives me an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. I need to run some errands for lunch.”

  “You’re avoiding me.” In fact, given that she’s set up a makeshift work station in here, it’s clear she’s camped in this room for that purpose.

  “I’m giving you privacy.” She drops her voice. “You’re interviewing for a wife. I’m sure you don’t want me to overhear your conversations.”

  Is that really why she’s been keeping her distance? I don’t know and I’m tired of guessing.

  “I don’t care if you hear my conversations. You and I bypassed strictly professional when we hooked up. You asked me if we were having casual sex or starting a relationship. You said you didn’t see any reason for us to spend time together until I could answer that question. Now I can.” I shut the door. “We’re going to talk.”

  Since Nia has always been independent and forthright about expressing her opinions, I’m not shocked when she crosses her arms over her chest and raises that dark brow at me like I’ve pissed her off.

  With a sigh, I realize I have to stop demanding. First, she’s not merely an employee. Second, that tactic will never work with her.

  “Please. Sit,” I add as I grab the closest chair and plop in it.

  She hesitates, then lowers herself into the big leather chair beside me. “All right. Let’s talk.”

  “After a great deal of consideration, I’ve realized the status quo isn’t working. I can’t work with you and be purely professional anymore. To manage that, I can transfer you to Bas or another of the executives—”

  “That’s how you’re going to deal with what happened between us?” Nia leaps out of her chair, betrayal streaking across her face. “Listen, you barged into my dressing room and acted butt-sore because I was dancing in public—which you had no right to do. Burlesque is something I’ve been doing for almost five years. I love it. I so look forward to Saturday night. But suddenly you were in my face, practically foaming at the mouth about what, my lack of modesty? My partnering with someone I screwed a couple years ago? But I got caught up in the moment, believing you’d only be jealous if you felt something for me. Afterward, I remembered you’re not emotional and probably hadn’t had sex in months.” She sniffs. “I’ve given you three years and now my body, Evan. I could be pregnant. And your response is to get rid of me? Fuck that. I quit.”

  When she glares my way and barrels toward the door, I jump from my chair. I’ve got one shot to grab her before she escapes. Thankfully, I snag her by the wrist. Tightening my fingers, I draw her in until our chests brush. This is the closest I’ve been to her in over a week. All at once, I’m soothed and stirred. I don’t know what to think or how to stop the loss of control. The only thing I know is the truth.

  “I won’t accept your resignation. You’re right that I’m not normally emotional. But this…is different. Being with you makes me different. I can’t not want you. Suddenly, when you’re around, my concentration is shot. I don’t have the control I should. And if I don’t change something, it’s only a matter of time before people guess what happened between us.”

  She cocks a fist on one hip. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so awful. Dunstead is dating Melissa, that customer service manager. They’re not hiding anything. And they’re making it work. Why would we be any different?”

  “Because she works with him, not for him. Their contact on the job is limited to an occasional meeting. You’re barely six feet from me most every day. How long do you think it would take before I started peeling off your clothes in the office? And what happens if our relationship goes south? It will be awkward. And the possibilities for sexual harassment lawsuits are almost endless.”

  “So, because you can’t handle yourself or you’re worried I’m petty enough to hire some shyster to rip you a new asshole, you’re going to demote me?”

  “No. You’re misunderstanding. If it comes to that, you won’t lose salary or benefits.” Somehow, I’m saying this all wrong. We’re getting into an argument I never anticipated and I’m unprepared for. How do I turn things around? Becca never argued with me, so this entire interaction is foreign.

  “But people will talk,” she counters. “They’ll speculate about why you suddenly kicked me to the curb professionally. They’ll either think I couldn’t handle my job anymore or they’ll realize I was fucking the boss. Either way, my credibility will be shot.”

  Nia has valid points.

  “All right, then. Once I move to Maui, you stay here in Seattle and continue to report to me.” Then I won’t be tempted every moment I’m in the office with her.

  “Our opportunities to see each other will be limited.” Her tone is neutral, but it paints a picture I don’t like.

  “Forget I said that,” I bark even as I mentally ac
knowledge my suggestion would solve a lot of problems. But for a reason I’m unable to pinpoint, I can’t have Nia that far from me. “Last week, you offered to move to Hawaii, and I said I would consider it. I’m far more efficient and productive when I have you with me. So I think you need to come, maybe work for Bas.”

  “But if I’m working for him, then I won’t be organizing you.”

  Is she just determined to be argumentative today? “Or we could forget this entire debate about where you’ll be living and who you’ll be working for. And you could simply marry me.”

  Nia freezes. “What?”

  “I don’t want these ‘candidates’ you’ve lined up, none of whom suit me, by the way.”

  “You’ve only talked to four.”

  “That was four too many.”

  “I genuinely gave you the best possibilities among the women who replied.”

  “I’m not questioning that. You told me this ad would bring in the crazies, and you were right.” Again, we’re getting off topic. I need to stop being discombobulated by my nerves and her nearness and get back to what I planned to say. “The truth is, I came in to the office today, prepared to tell you to withdraw the ad because I want to marry you.”

  She bites her lip and frowns. “Why?”

  I’m prepared for this question. “We make sense. Our working rapport is phenomenal. We communicate well. Our relationship won’t cause much splash around the office if we’re married. Plus, the sex is…beyond.”

  “But there has to be more between us than that for the marriage to succeed.”

  I frown. I’m not sure what she’s getting at. “Statistically, most marriages that end in divorce fail because of issues arising from money or sex. Neither will be a problem for us. I understand we’ll have some adjustments to make—”

  “Yes. Because working together isn’t like living together. If your ability to clean up after yourself is any indication, you and I would have some major clashes. I like a tidy space, and if I only make half the mess I’m not fixing it all by myself.”

  “I can endeavor to pick up more.” Getting in the habit would probably be good for me. Hygienically speaking, it’s not good to live in filth. I should have considered that obvious fact sooner. “If you show me what to do, I’ll help.”