Chapter 1
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Lark
Finish Christmas shopping early so I don’t get stuck with the sad, leftover wrapping paper.
—From Lark’s Christmas to-do list
"Happy thirty days to Christmas.” My voice is so upbeat, the words seem to chirp back at me. I wince.
I’ve officially turned into one of those irritating people who treats the holiday countdown like a national emergency wrapped in tinsel.
But how can I not be cheerful? It’s almost Christmas. Ch-r-iiii-stmas. My fave time of the year.
I’m in the front office of Davenport Capital on the executive floor, which is also the top floor of the building they own.
The receptionist lifts her gaze. The expression on her face implies my intrusion is unwelcome.
Undeterred, I flash my brightest smile. “Don’t you love this season?”
She grimaces. Some of the color fades from her features.
“Are you okay?” I scan her face, concerned.
“Yes. Of course. Thanks for asking.” She winces, then presses a hand to her stomach.
I lean forward. “Are you sure you’re alright? You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine. Period pains.” She pinches her lips. “Nothing some ibuprofen won’t cure. Only I seem to have run out.”
“Oh, I have some.” I dig through my bag and pull out the mini bottle I always carry.
Her face brightens. “You sure?”
“Of course. Go ahead, take it.”
“Thank you, so much.” She takes the bottle from me, shakes out two in her palm, then swallows them down with water. “Thanks again. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” I slip the bottle back in my handbag. “I’m Lark. Lark Monroe.” I hold out my hand.
“Evelyn Rainer.” She shakes my hand and smiles.
“I’m here to interview with Mr. Brody Davenport.”
The smile vanishes. There’s a flicker of—pity?—in her eyes.
She recovers quickly, smoothing her expression into a practiced neutral one. Her eyes, however, stay soft.
“You’re here to interview for the assistant role?”
“Executive assistant.”
Because that’s what it is. On paper, sure, it’s EA. But in reality? This job is the equivalent of the Chief of Staff to the CEO.
It’s access. Power. Money. Enough to pay off my student loans, help support my sister’s tuition, and provide a more comfortable life for my parents.
Not to mention, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime break. A monster item to check off my list. It’s right up there with getting married. Which, for the record, I am. Engaged that is.
I’m deep in seating charts and dress fittings. I have an excel sheet to track the deliverables from vendors.
Soon, the life I’ve always wanted, with the perfect job and the perfect husband, will be a reality.
“Of course.” The receptionist checks her screen then looks at me again. "Mr. Davenport isn’t in."
“He…isn’t?” My smile falters. “But the meeting’s at ten, right?” I check my phone.
“It is.” Her tone is apologetic. “He’ll be back shortly. He asked that you wait in his office.”
Right. So, my prospective boss is the kind of CEO who schedules an interview, then ghosts the first ten minutes.
My chest tightens.
This job is supposed to be the opportunity; the one that changes everything. But now, it feels like I’m chasing someone who can’t be bothered to show up on time.
I clamp down on the rising doubt. Nothing ruins my festive spirit. Not even being stood up by my could-be boss.
On the other hand, it shows he needs an EA to make sure he turns up to appointments on time.
And I’m the woman for the job. I hope.
“This way, please.” Evelyn rises and leads me down a hallway dotted with glass-fronted offices. People are glued to their phones or buried in their screens. Senior management, I assume.
In between them, a scatter of cubicles hums with keyboard tapping, and meeting rooms brim with polished tables and serious faces.
The whole place is a study in minimalist white desks, aluminum fittings, and brushed chrome. Exactly the kind of fast-growing, billion-dollar company I want to work for.
What it doesn’t have? A single hint that Christmas is less than a month away. No garland. No sparkle. Not even a lonely string of tinsel.
Tragic. That'll be the first thing I’ll fix when I get the job.
I trail Evelyn across the gray carpet toward the double doors tucked away at the far end of the office.
Just before she opens them, she pauses.
“Good luck.”
Her voice is concerned.
That borderline-pitying look is back in her eyes. Just like that, the butterflies in my stomach start breakdancing. Why do I get the feeling I’m walking into the lion’s den?
I researched my ass off; I pulled together a whole personality profile on Brody Davenport. But now? When faced with his receptionist's reaction, I wonder if my ambition has bitten off more than it can chew.
I shuffle forward, then stop in the middle of the large room.
It’s a corner office and has floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Thames and the boats that ply on it, leaving white foam in their wake. The view feels too curated to be real.
The kind which money—or a surname like Davenport—can buy.
The office is situated in a heritage Victorian building and is located on prime real estate in the center of London on the Southbank.
From the outside, it's four stories of weathered red brick, crowned with ornate cornices and a black wrought iron balcony that curves like a sneer above the main entrance.
Inside, it’s a shrine to futuristic design.
Mr. Davenport’s office is a masterclass in masculine minimalism: cold-toned chrome and brushed steel. All sharp lines and angles.
The space hums with the kind of tension that makes me want to stand straighter and breathe a little shallower. It’s built for power plays, not pleasantries. For raising empires. For issuing orders and expecting to be obeyed.
His desk dominates the room. It’s large yet sleek, immaculate yet intimidating. It tells me a lot about the man whose office this is.
It's the kind of desk I envision for my own office one day. Sitting behind that polished surface is everything I dream of.
It’s also uncluttered.
Except for a pair of glasses, a sleek computer screen, a keyboard and… What is that?
I take in what looks like a length of black rope.
It looks strong. Probably military grade. And it’s twisted into intricate knots. Huh? It’s so out of place in the room.
I walk toward it then reach out and run my fingers over the pleated coil. It’s deceptively soft, silken to the touch. Strange. Wonder what he uses it for?
I draw in a deep breath, and the scent of something dark and peppery, with underlying notes of pine and sandalwood, fills my lungs. I know instinctively that it’s his scent. It feels like I’m wrapped up in a very masculine embrace.
A shiver grips me.
I’m simultaneously turned on and left with this aching need to feel what it would be like to be in the shoes of my possible would-be boss.
Without stopping to overanalyze my actions, I round the desk for his big armchair, then sink into it.
That scent deepens; it’s as if he’s right here in this room with me. My skin prickles. My toes curls. A sense of power fills me. So, this is what it feels like to be the CEO?
I let my gaze leisurely flicker around the room. On my left is a wet bar. In front of it is a comfortable settee and two armchairs with a coffee table between them.
Then there’s the bookcase opposite the desk. It’s filled with hardbacks and paperbacks. Books, which seem well-used. They’re not the kind of leather-bound tomes designers put on shelves which scream that they’re for show.
Hmm. Apparently, Mr. Davenport has read them.
What a surprise. Now I’m curious about what kinds of books they are.
I slip off the chair and approach the bookcase. That’s when I hear panting.
I turn to the doorway, in time to see a massive Great Dane amble in. The mutt is so tall, its head comes up to my chest. It’s tail waves in the air like a flag. It’s the last thing I expected.
The big dog makes a beeline for me, his tongue lolling, his face wearing what can be described as a smile.
I find my lips curve in response.
"Where did you come from?" I hold out my hand.
The dog sniffs my fingers, then licks them.
"Good boy." I give in to the cuteness overload and rub the space between his eyes. He makes a purring sound in his throat.
"Tiny, sit."
The command slices through the silence, low and clipped.
I look up, and my breath catches.
A man stalks into the office like he owns it. Because, judging by the authority which radiates from him, he does.
The very air seems to contract around him, charged and alert, as if the room itself recognizes him as a threat, or a king. Maybe both.
Holy North Pole. He’s tall. Imposingly so.
Broad shoulders that block out the door behind him, a perfectly cut black jacket clinging to every hard line of his body.
His chest strains against the lapels, sleeves clinging enough to suggest the kind of arms that don’t come from leisure, but labor, precision, control.
Then there’s his face. Harsh angles, sharp jaw, and a scowl carved so deeply between his brows; it could be chiseled in stone. Disapproving. Intense. Almost devastating in its precision.
And that heavy-duty watch with the worn front plate on his wrist. It’s not the kind I’d expect on a billionaire CEO. Too hard-edged. Too tough. But it matches the manly, dangerous energy he exudes.
I should look away. I try to look away.
But an awareness detonates between us. Hot. Immediate. My lungs constrict. My skin prickles. My pulse drops, then surges; like my body can’t decide if it wants to run or leap into his arms.
I recognize Brody Davenport from his pictures. But those photos didn’t convey how commanding he is in real life. How lethal. How beautiful.
How inappropriate that I’m gawking at my possible future boss like he’s some kind of buff gingerbread man, and I’m dying to lick the icing off. And how deeply, catastrophically unfortunate that I’m attracted to him. I’m engaged. Engaged. Ugh.
This is wrong on so many levels.