Piercing Eyes (The Perfect Man #2)

1. Rory

1

RORY

I should be on my honeymoon right now.

Instead, I’m sitting in my car outside an unfamiliar neighborhood coffee shop, second-guessing my outfit choice. The blazer I’m wearing might be too formal for a coffee shop interview, but showing up underdressed would be worse. The job listing was frustratingly vague—it just said seeking general assistant —but my bank account isn’t giving me the luxury of being picky. San Francisco rent waits for no one, not even jilted brides.

I reach up to smooth a wayward strand of hair, catching sight of my bare ring finger in the rearview mirror. There’s still a faint line where my engagement ring used to be. Three weeks ago, that ring—and my entire future—disappeared when Michael had his great revelation that we “weren’t meant to be.”

Something tells me there was more to that revelation than he let on, but I’ll never know for sure. Just like I’ll never return to my job at his family’s company—the thought of facing pitying looks in the hallway makes my stomach turn. Finding a new job has been harder than I expected, but something will work out.

It has to.

I take a deep breath and step out of my car. The coffee shop is tucked away on a quiet street, far from the bustle of the rest of the city. Everything about this feels odd—the out-of-the-way location, the vague job description, the instruction to look for someone in a navy blue shirt.

The whir of an espresso machine and gentle clinking of cups fills the quiet space as I step inside. Only a handful of people occupy the tables, most of them absorbed in laptops or books. My eyes scan the room, searching for navy blue.

Then I see him, and my heart nearly stops.

The man in navy blue isn’t just anyone. He’s Aiden Edwards, former shortstop for the Stallions, now retired and apparently looking to hire an assistant. But that’s not the only reason why my pulse is racing. I know Aiden from long before his pro baseball career—we went to elementary school together.

I’ve never told anyone about that connection. After all, who wants to brag about knowing someone when your main memories of them involve being the target of their relentless teasing?

My first instinct is to turn around and walk right back out the door. But I force myself to move toward him, reminding myself that we’re both in our thirties now. Elementary school was a lifetime ago.

As I approach his table, Aiden looks up and smiles, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. My mouth goes dry as I take him in. He’s kept every ounce of that athletic build even after leaving pro baseball—his broad shoulders fill out his navy shirt, muscles clearly defined beneath the fabric. But it’s his eyes that really get me, so blue and piercing that I nearly forget how to speak.

“You must be Rory.” His smile is warm and professional, without a hint of recognition.

I swallow my disappointment, though I’m not sure why I expected anything different. It’s been over two decades since we were in school together, and unlike me, he hasn’t had the constant reminder of seeing his former classmate on TV.

“Aiden Edwards.” He extends his hand, and a jolt of electricity shoots through me when our palms meet.

“I know,” I say with what I hope is a professional smile.

Aiden’s smile deepens as we sit down to start the interview. “Thanks for coming out here. I know the job posting was vague and this isn’t exactly a central location.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he keeps on talking. “I wanted to avoid people applying just because of who I am. You wouldn’t believe how many opportunities people try to take advantage of when they recognize my name.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Sure, being hounded by fans must be annoying, but there’s something a little too self-important about assuming everyone’s dying to work for you.

“The job itself is pretty straightforward,” he continues, still not giving me a chance to speak. “I write children’s books now, which means managing writing deadlines and promotional appearances. Plus being a former Stallion comes with its own commitments—charity events, special appearances, that kind of thing.” His fingers drum against the table, the movement of his muscled hands temporarily distracting me. “I need someone to handle my schedule, travel arrangements, emails, and so on. I’ve been doing it all myself, but my sister and her husband finally convinced me I need help.”

“That does sound like a lot to manage alone,” I say, finally getting a word in. Aiden’s blue eyes lock onto mine, and my heart somersaults. I force myself to stay focused. “What kind of experience are you looking for?”

Our conversation flows easily from there. He asks about my background in executive assistance, and I find myself relaxing despite my initial nerves. Well, mostly relaxing—every time he leans forward to make a point, the way his shoulders move under his shirt threatens to derail my train of thought completely.

I tell him about coordinating complex travel arrangements in my previous role and describe the charity gala I organized last spring.

“How are you with large groups of kids?” He leans back in his chair. “The book events can get pretty wild.”

“I don’t have much experience with children’s events,” I admit. “But I’m excellent at handling chaos.”

Those insanely piercing eyes of his crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I feel something dangerously close to melting.

By the time the interview ends, I’m confident I’ve managed to come across as capable and professional, even if I did have to repeatedly remind myself to stop getting lost in how gorgeous Aiden is.

“I’ve got to say, Rory, I’m really impressed.” He sits forward, resting his forearms on the table. “I don’t need time to think about it—the job is yours if you want it.”

My pulse quickens. After all the job rejections I’ve gotten, this feels almost too good to be true. “Yes, absolutely. When would you like me to start?”

“How’s tomorrow?”

I blink. “Tomorrow?”

“I’m flying to New York to meet with my publisher, and it would be great if you could come along.” He says this like it’s the most normal request in the world, asking someone he just interviewed to fly across the country with him.

I take a steadying breath, reminding myself that this is exactly the kind of thing an assistant should be prepared for. “I can make that work.”

“Perfect.” He stands, his big athletic frame unfolding in front of me. “Let me walk you to your car.”

As we step outside, he asks, “So are you from around here?”

My stomach tightens. He really doesn’t remember me at all. I consider telling him about our elementary school connection—about Mrs. Watson’s third grade class, about how he used to steal my lunch desserts, about all the times he made me cry on the playground.

“Yes,” I say simply. The words sit on my tongue: We went to school together, Aiden . But what would be the point? Drawing attention to our past would only make things awkward, especially now that he’s my boss. Some things are better left buried in the past.

“What time should I get to the airport tomorrow?” I ask.

“I’ll email you the flight details tonight,” he says as we reach my car. “I’ll handle booking everything—just show up ready to go.”

“Sounds good. I’ll make sure I’m early.”

He starts to turn away before pausing. “Oh, and Rory?”

“Yes?”

“I take my coffee black with an extra shot.” He flashes me a smile that would be devastating if it wasn’t so clearly paired with an expectation that I’ll show up tomorrow with his coffee order in hand. I get it—I’m his assistant now. But he could at least phrase it as a request.

I watch him walk away, torn between attraction and exasperation. My new boss is absurdly hot, used to be my childhood bully, and clearly hasn’t changed much in the ego department. What did I just get myself into?

A job, obviously—one I desperately need. But as I slide into my car, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m playing with fire.