Surrender to the CEO (Fit Mountain Instaloves #17)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

CALEB

My CFO, Davis, shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Instantly, I know that he’s about to bring up something I don’t want to hear.

I keep my eyes on the spreadsheet in front of me, hoping that if I ignore the tell, I can avoid whatever’s coming next. The silence stretches between us like a rubber band pulled too tight. When it snaps, one of us is going to feel the sting.

I’m determined it won’t be me.

“The Keystone Ventures deal is solid.” Davis clears his throat, a nervous tic I’ve never been able to break him of in ten years. “They’ve agreed to the terms, and their legal team is drawing up the contracts as we speak. Should be signed by the end of the week.”

I nod, still not looking up.

“Good.”

The floor-to-ceiling windows behind me frame the mountains in a perfect, panoramic view that no one but me ever appreciates.

“The quarterly projections are exceeding expectations.” Davis continues his report, flipping through pages of his portfolio. “The new platform’s presales have already covered development costs. We’re looking at a thirty-four percent profit margin in the first quarter post-launch.”

I make a noncommittal sound. “Unless the launch fails.”

“It won’t.”

“It might.” I finally look up at him. “Something always goes wrong.”

“Your optimism is why our investors love you so much.” Davis’s dry response makes the corner of my mouth twitch, almost a smile.

Almost.

Davis is the only person on earth who can get away with sarcasm in my office.

He’s earned it, sitting across the table during the early days when Asher Security Systems was just me, a laptop, and a pathological need to build walls no one could breach.

Now it’s a multi-million dollar company, and I have this fortress on a mountain where no one can reach me.

“If that’s all—” I start to reply. But then Davis shifts his weight again. Right foot to left.

Fuck.

Here it comes.

“Not quite. There’s still the matter of the foundation’s annual gala.” His voice is deliberately casual. “Next month at the Branford Hotel. They’ve sent another invitation. The director was hoping you’d agree to be a guest speaker.”

“No.”

“You’ve been their anonymous benefactor for eight years, Caleb. Don’t you think—”

“No.” The word comes out harder this time, with an edge that would make anyone else retreat.

“They’re doing remarkable work with those centers you designed. The Tech Labs have helped hundreds of kids aging out of foster care. Your vision—”

“I said no. The foundation gets my money. That’s enough.”

My hand moves to my face before I can stop it, fingers brushing the raised scar that runs from my temple to the corner of my mouth. The gesture is automatic, and I hate myself for it as soon as I realize what I’m doing.

Davis sighs but nods, accepting defeat. He places a cream-colored envelope on my desk.

“Fine. I’ll leave it here, in case you change your mind.”

I won’t. I never do. The invitation will sit there until I throw it away, just like the previous nine years’ worth.

“Now, if that’s all—” I begin again.

“One more item.” Davis reaches into his portfolio and extracts a slim folder. “The temp agency sent over a candidate for the assistant position.”

I lean back in my chair, irritation flaring hot in my chest. “I’ve told you I don’t need another assistant.”

“You’ve gone through fourteen in the past twelve months.”

“Because they were incompetent.”

“Because you’re impossible.” Davis meets my gaze without flinching.

“The last one cried when I asked her to redo a presentation she’d already fucked up twice.”

“You told her a child with crayons could have done better work.”

“It was constructive feedback.”

Davis’s eyebrow rises above the rim of his glasses. “The one before that quit after three days.”

“He tried to prop open the secure access door with a potted plant.”

“And the one before that?”

“She talked too much.”

“To who? You’re the only person here besides Franklin.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that you need an assistant. You need someone who can manage the day-to-day while you focus on the product launch. Someone who can handle the details you consider beneath your attention.”

“I can handle my own affairs.”

“You missed the investor call with Thorne Industries last week because you were coding and turned off your alerts.”

Shit. He has me there.

“Fine.” I hold out my hand for the folder, more to end this conversation than out of any real interest. “What’s so special about this one?”

Davis hands over the slim file.

“She’s qualified. Administrative experience, basic design background. Good references from her previous position.”

I flip it open, glancing over the sparse resume without really seeing it.

Nola Vance. Twenty-six. Administrative assistant at a marketing firm that folded six months ago. Freelance work since then. Education from a community college I’ve never heard of. Nothing remarkable. Nothing that explains why Davis is pushing this particular candidate.

“What’s the catch?” I ask, looking back up at him.

“No catch.” But Davis adjusts his glasses again, telling me there’s more to the story. “The agency says she’s reliable, adaptable. Takes direction well.”

“So did the last fourteen, according to their files.” I close the folder and toss it onto the growing pile at the edge of my desk, right next to the gala invitation I won’t accept and the reports I’ll review later when I’m alone. “Why should I waste my time interviewing another disappointment?”

Davis stands a little straighter.

“Because you need an assistant, and I’m tired of conducting interviews for candidates you reject without meeting. At least do this one yourself so you can see firsthand what you’re passing up.”

The challenge in his voice makes me pause. Davis doesn’t usually push this hard.

“Fine,” I concede with a dismissive wave. “Schedule it. Tomorrow. Late afternoon.”

Relief crosses Davis’s face, quickly masked. “She’s on her way here.”

“What?” I sit up straighter, anger flashing through me. “You brought her to the compound without approval?”

“She was in town, and the agency said she could come today. I told Franklin to expect her at four.” Davis checks his watch. “Which is in about twenty minutes.”

“Jesus Christ, Davis.” I run a hand through my hair, frustration making my movements sharp. “You can’t just—”

“I can and I did. You need an assistant, and I need to get back to Manhattan for the Blackridge meeting tomorrow morning.” He closes his portfolio with a decisive snap. “Interview her, hire her, don’t hire her—I don’t care. But at least meet her before you say no.”

The fight goes out of me, not because I agree, but because I recognize the stubborn set of Davis’s jaw. I’ve lost this round before it even began.

“Fine,” I repeat, the word clipped and cold. “Send her in when she arrives. But don’t expect miracles.”

Davis nods, satisfied with his victory.

“I never do. That’s why we work well together.” He turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “And Caleb?”

I look up, already reaching for the next report on my desk. “What?”

“Try not to make the poor girl cry.”

The door closes behind him before I can respond. I stare at the space where he stood, torn between irritation and something dangerously close to amusement.

I glance at the resume folder, then shove it aside. Twenty minutes. I can get through at least two more reports before this Nola Vance arrives to waste my time.

Twenty minutes later, Franklin’s voice cuts through the silence of my office, the intercom crackling to life with unnecessary formality.

“Sir, the candidate from the Wren Agency has arrived.”

“Send her in,” I reply, not bothering to hide my disinterest. I straighten the papers on my desk, more to give my hands something to do than out of any real concern for order.

The door opens and Nola walks in.

Suddenly, I forget how to breathe.

She isn’t what I expected at all.

Honey-blonde hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders, catching the afternoon light that streams through my windows.

Her eyes—sharp, intelligent, the kind that miss nothing—scan the room before settling on me.

But it’s her mouth that destroys my concentration.

She has a pouty lower lip, slightly upturned corners, the kind of mouth designed specifically to make men lose their fucking minds.

The kind that makes it impossible to focus on anything but what it would feel like wrapped around my cock.

Fuck me.

She smiles at Franklin as he shows her in, and something hot and possessive claws at my insides. Franklin, the traitorous bastard, actually returns it with a slight nod that’s practically effusive coming from him.

I force my attention to her clothes, looking for an anchor, something to pull me back to professional detachment.

Her outfit is neat but clearly worn. A black skirt, not expensive but well-maintained.

White blouse with the collar starting to fray at the edges if you know what to look for.

I do. I recognize the careful preservation of limited resources, the strategic deployment of a wardrobe stretched to its limits.

I see the effort she’s made with what she has.

I suddenly want to strip every piece of fabric off her body and replace it all. Want to see her dressed in silk and cashmere, in fabrics worth touching. Want to watch her walk back through my door wearing clothes I’ve chosen, clothes that mark her as—

“Good afternoon, Mr. Asher.” Her voice is low and smoky. “Thank you for meeting with me. I’m Nola Vance.”

I stand, forcing my face into neutral lines.

“Ms. Vance.” I extend my hand across the desk, a formality I typically avoid.

When her fingers touch mine, another jolt runs through me. Her hand is smaller than mine, but her grip is firm. I hold on a fraction too long before releasing her.

“Thank you, Franklin, that will be all.”

Franklin hesitates for just a moment and that slight pause tells me he’s noticed something off in my tone. I level a cold stare at him, and he withdraws with a slight bow of his head.

Then door closes, leaving me alone with Nola.

I gesture to the chair across from my desk.

“Please have a seat.”

She sits, smooth and graceful, crossing her legs at the ankle. Her posture is perfect and her shoulders are relaxed. Like she belongs here. Like she owns the chair and the office and maybe me.

Fuck.

I need to get my shit together.

“Davis tells me you’re looking for an executive assistant position,” I say, forcing myself back into interview mode.

“Yes, I am.” She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t rush to fill the silence with nervous chatter like most candidates do. Instead, she waits.

I pick up her resume, pretending I haven’t already dismissed it.

“Well, I’m sorry Ms. Vance, but I’m afraid your experience is rather... limited.”

“Perhaps. But my capabilities aren’t.”

The directness of her response catches me off guard.

“The position requires discretion,” I tell her, watching for her reaction. “Absolute confidentiality. My life and work remain private.”

“I understand boundaries, Mr. Asher.” Something flickers in her expression. Not quite amusement, but close. “And I respect them.”

I lean back in my chair, trying to create more distance between us. It doesn’t help. The air feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

“The position is live-in,” I say, watching her carefully. “The compound is remote. The nearest town is thirty minutes away. Most assistants find the isolation... challenging.”

“I’m not most assistants.” She holds my gaze without wavering. “And I don’t mind isolation.”

There’s a story there, something behind those words. I find myself wanting to know it, which is unusual. I typically don’t care about the personal lives of my employees. Their problems are their own, as long as they do their jobs.

But I want to know hers. I want to unravel her like a puzzle, one layer at a time.

“Your references?” I ask, though I could just read the damn resume in my hand.

“All in the file.” She nods toward the paper I’m holding. “My former employer closed six months ago. I’ve been doing freelance work since then.”

That explains the worn clothes. Six months without steady income would strain anyone’s wardrobe. I find myself wondering where she’s been living, who she’s been relying on. Whether she has a boyfriend waiting for her somewhere.

The thought makes my jaw clench.

“And you’re available immediately?”

For some reason, the question comes out more like a demand.

“Yes.” Again, that direct answer without elaboration.

I need to end this before I lose more ground.

This interview was supposed to be a formality, a courtesy to Davis that would result in another rejection. Instead, I’m sitting here imagining how she’d look in clothes I’ve bought her, wondering about her life, noticing the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder.

“You’ll have dinner with me tonight,” I say abruptly.

Her eyebrows rise slightly. It’s the first sign of surprise she’s shown.

“Dinner?”

“To continue the interview.”

It’s not a request. It’s not even entirely professional. But I need more time to figure out what the hell is happening here, why this unremarkable candidate on paper is anything but unremarkable in person.

She studies me for a moment, those intelligent eyes taking my measure. Then she nods once. “Alright. I’ll have dinner with you tonight.”

“Franklin will show you to the guest room where you can freshen up. Dinner is at seven.” I stand, signaling that this part of our discussion is over.

She rises smoothly, that same quiet grace in every movement. “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Asher.”

When she extends her hand again, I take it automatically. The second touch is no less electric than the first. I release her quickly this time, unwilling to reveal how affected I am.

“Seven o’clock,” I repeat.

She nods, then turns and walks to the door. I watch her go, unable to tear my eyes away from the subtle curve of her hips beneath the simple skirt.

The door closes behind her, and I sink back into my chair, feeling like I’ve been running uphill for miles. My heart pounds against my ribs. My skin feels too tight for my body.

What the fuck just happened?

I’ve conducted hundreds of interviews. Hired dozens of employees.

None of them have ever affected my like this.

I press my fingers against my closed eyes, trying to regain equilibrium.

This is dangerous. This feeling—this instant, visceral want—it’s a vulnerability I can’t afford.

I need to get control back. Need to remember who I am and why I’m here.

I reach for the mouse and pull up the security feed. I watch her follow Franklin down the long, shadowed hallway toward the guest wing. Her back is straight and her chin is lifted. She doesn’t look intimidated by my fortress, by my cameras, or by me.