Chapter 3
Chapter Three
CALEB
I’ve been awake for hours, my cock hard and aching in my hand for the fourth time since midnight.
Her face won’t leave me alone. Those eyes that looked straight at me without flinching, that mouth that I can’t stop imagining against my skin.
Fuck.
She’s been in my house less than twenty-four hours and already she’s crawled under my skin like a splinter I can’t dig out.
I finish with a grunt that sounds more like pain than pleasure, come spilling hot over my fist. It helps exactly as much as it did the first three times.
Which is to say, not at all.
I reach for the tissues on my nightstand, clean myself off with clinical efficiency.
I should be disgusted with myself.
Fourteen assistants in twelve months, and I never once thought about any of them after hours. Never imagined the sounds they’d make underneath me. Never jerked off thinking about the curve of their necks or the way their lips formed words.
But here I am, dick in hand like a fucking teenager, all because Nola Vance sat across from me in a worn yellow dress and didn’t flinch at my scar.
I shove the sheets back and sit up, pressing the heels of my hands against my closed eyes until I see stars.
This has to stop. She’s an employee. A temporary solution to a staffing problem. Nothing more.
The shower does nothing to clear my head. Hot water sluices over my shoulders, down my back, and all I can think about is her hands. Small but strong, nails short and clean. Practical hands. What would they feel like on my skin? In my hair? Wrapped around my—
“Fuck.” I slam the temperature to cold, letting the shock of it drive the thoughts away.
It works for about thirty seconds.
My morning routine is precise. Shower at 6:00. Dressed by 6:20. Breakfast at 6:30. Office by 7:00. It’s 6:22 now. I should be heading downstairs for coffee and whatever Franklin has prepared.
Instead, I find myself walking toward the east wing. Toward her room.
I tell myself there’s a reason for this deviation. That I need to brief her on the day’s expectations. That I should check if she needs anything before we begin work. But these are lies I’m not even convincing myself with. I want to see her. Simple as that.
Pathetic as that.
Her door is open when I reach it. Franklin is inside, straightening the already immaculate bed. He looks up at my approach, and something shifts in his expression.
He’s not surprised to see me here.
“Good morning, sir.” He straightens, his hands clasped behind his back. “I trust you slept well?”
I glare at him. “Where is she?”
“Ms. Vance has been in your office since 5:30, sir.” Franklin’s voice gives away nothing. “She declined breakfast, saying she wanted to review the files before you began your day.”
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest. “What files?”
“The quarterly reports you left on your desk, sir. And the Thorne Industries contract.” He pauses. “She also asked for coffee. Black, no sugar. I took the liberty of bringing her a second cup at 6:15.”
I stare at him. Franklin stares back, his face a mask of professional neutrality. But there’s a hint of amusement there, too.
My eyes move past him to the room. The bed is made with corners sharp enough to cut paper.
No personal items on the surfaces. No clothes visible.
The only sign that someone occupies this space is a single framed photograph on the nightstand.
It’s a picture of an older woman with silver hair, smiling in front of a farmhouse.
“Is there anything else you require, sir?” Franklin’s question pulls me back to the present.
“No, that’s all.” I step back from the doorway. “Thank you, Franklin.”
“Of course, sir.”
I turn and walk away, my steps quickening as I head toward the stairs.
She’s been in my office for almost two hours. Going through my files. Sitting at my desk. Touching my things.
I should be furious.
Should be storming down there, ready to fire her on the spot for overstepping. No previous assistant has ever dared enter my office without explicit permission, let alone before I arrived for the day.
I take the stairs faster than usual.
When I walk into my office, I see Nola sitting in my chair. My fucking chair. Her head is bent over a stack of papers she’s sorting through while a few strands of her blonde hair hang loose from her ponytail.
Fuck.
I want to pull that elastic from her hair and watch it tumble down around her shoulders. Want to mess up all that neat control she’s wrapped herself in. The realization makes me even more irritated than finding her in my seat.
Nola looks up when I enter, and something bright and cheerful crosses her face.
“Good morning, Mr. Asher,” she says, her voice carrying that hint of huskiness that’s been haunting my dreams. “I hope you don’t mind my being in your office this early.
I wanted to get started on organizing these quarterly reports.
They were a bit...” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “...scattered.”
The subtle critique of my organizational skills should irritate me. Instead, I find myself fascinated by the way her mouth forms the words.
“Ms. Vance.” My voice comes out rougher than intended, almost a growl. I clear my throat. “You’re in my chair.”
She blinks, then rises immediately. “Of course. Sorry.”
I move past her, hyperaware of how close our bodies come to touching as we navigate the limited space behind the desk. The faint scent of something clean and subtle drifts from her skin. I grip the back of my chair to keep from reaching for her.
“I’ve sorted the reports by quarter and flagged the areas where there seem to be discrepancies,” she continues, seemingly oblivious to the effect she’s having on me. “The Thorne Industries contract also needs a few minor corrections on pages four and seventeen. I’ve marked them for your review.”
I sink into my chair, the leather still warm from her body. The thought sends an unwelcome jolt of heat through me.
“Fine.” I pull the stack of papers toward me, needing to establish control over something, even if it’s just the positioning of documents on my desk. “Any calls?”
“Two. Mr. Davis confirmed the Blackridge Capital meeting is set for Thursday at 10 AM. Virtual attendance, as usual. And Keystone Ventures’ legal team had a question about section 8.
3 of the contract. I told them you’d call back this morning.
” She hands me a yellow sticky note with the contact information, her fingers brushing mine briefly in the exchange.
Even that minor contact is enough to make my pulse jump.
“Good.” I don’t look up. “Now that I’m here, you can work at the desk over there.” I nod toward the smaller workspace in the corner, the assistant’s station that’s been empty more often than not these past twelve months.
Nola moves to the desk without comment. I force my attention to the reports in front of me, to the numbers and projections that have always made perfect sense to me. But the numbers blur together today, meaningless shapes on the page. My focus keeps drifting to the corner of the room.
To her.
Focus, Asher. For fuck’s sake.
I’ve built an empire on my ability to concentrate. To shut out distractions. To focus on what matters with laser precision. And now I can’t even read a simple report because a woman is sitting twenty feet away, doing nothing more provocative than breathing.
For the next three hours, I accomplish exactly nothing.
I stare at the same page of projections, reading and re-reading without comprehension. I pick up the phone to return the call to Keystone, but set it back down without dialing, suddenly unsure of what I was going to say. I type half an email to Davis before deleting it and starting over.
All while hyperaware of every move Nola makes. I hate this.
Hate the loss of control, the inability to focus, the constant awareness of her presence in my space. Hate how my body responds to her without my permission, like some basic animal part of me has seized the controls from the civilized man I’ve spent years constructing.
“Would you like me to bring these contracts to Keystone tomorrow for signatures?” she asks, breaking the silence. “It might be faster than a courier service.”
The thought of her leaving the compound—even temporarily—sends an irrational spike of panic through me.
“No.”
She looks up, surprised by my sharp tone.
“I mean,” I moderate my voice with effort, “that won’t be necessary. We’ll use the secure courier as usual.”
Nola nods, accepting the decision without argument. “Of course.”
We lapse back into silence, broken only by the scratch of her pen and the ticking of the clock on my desk. Eleven thirty becomes noon. Noon stretches toward one. The longer she sits there, the more I resent her. Not for anything she’s done, but for what she’s doing to me without even trying.
Franklin appears at 1:15 with lunch, a perfectly grilled salmon on a bed of greens, similar to last night’s dinner. He sets the trays on my desk without comment, his eyes flicking briefly between Nola and me before he withdraws.
“Join me,” I say to Nola, the words coming out more like an order than an invitation.
She rises, moving to the chair across from my desk.
I don’t ask what she wants to drink. Just pour water for us both from the crystal decanter on my desk.
We eat in silence for several minutes. It should be awkward.
Should be tense. But somehow it’s not. Nola seems perfectly comfortable with the quiet, focusing on her food with the same calm attention she gives to everything.
“I was wondering,” she says, breaking into my inappropriate thoughts, “if you’d like me to request the guest list for the charity gala? I thought I might prepare briefing notes on who’s attending.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
“What did you say?”
Nola looks up, her expression open and unsuspecting.