Chapter 2
Two days fly by, and I don't feel prepared, even with all my research. I’m accustomed to targets who already have established records and primarily work within crime syndicates.
Those bastards are easy to take out because no one cares if they are found dead or alive.
They are also easy to manipulate with a racy outfit and shameless flirting.
They are all the same—thinking pretty women have no brains and are only after a slice of their fortune.
Owen Mills is a different story. Although he has a reputation with the ladies, it's clear that he vets his employees with meticulous attention to detail.
He requires extensive interviews, background checks, references, years of experience, the highest degrees an education can buy, and even a trial period.
All for a personal assistant position.
The strangest requirement is “a love of plants.”
I fly through the initial interviews with a panel of his employees, playing a part I know well. No one suspects the lies that easily spill from my lips during the video calls.
They buy it all.
My extensive research into the company pays off, which is how I find myself staring into captivating green eyes on the other side of my computer screen a few days later. My sparsely-decorated office is the perfect place for the interview. It’s quiet and unassuming, giving nothing away.
“Good morning, Miss Riley. My team seems quite taken with you.” Owen’s voice is deep and rich, and I almost roll my eyes at his insinuating tone.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mills,” I reply, adding a sweet smile to finish off my image.
He smirks back, appearing satisfied that I didn’t take the bait. “You seem to check all the boxes, Miss Riley. I only have a few questions for you before we give this a trial run.” I nod when he pauses. He continues, “What is your opinion on the food system here in America?”
An odd question to ask, but since his charities are mainly focused on changing agriculture, I’m prepared with an answer.
“The food system is not only insufficient, creating more waste than necessary while still not supplying enough to everyone, it is also at risk of failure due to climate change and loss of topsoil.” I pause, gauging his reaction, worried my response was too rehearsed. Too rigid.
His brow furrows as he watches me, the smirk gone. He sits up straighter when I begin to speak again.
“But if you’re asking me my personal opinion,” I add, taking a sip of my cappuccino, “Then I think the power needs to go back to local small farmers. They need the resources and money to switch to regenerative ways of tending the land. And not just farmers—everyone. Even if all they have is a small apartment balcony or a window box. The money shouldn’t be going into the hands of large farm owners, regardless of their promises to switch to regenerative agriculture.
Farming shouldn’t be a monopoly run by billionaires.
It should be a community effort. It should be something everyone buys into and controls. ”
Mr. Mills smiles, and this time it isn’t a cordial one. It’s an authentic one, lighting up his whole face and causing a single dimple to appear on the left side. It’s nice, until he opens his mouth. “There is more to you than what’s on the surface. I see why my employees like you.”
Once again, I grit my teeth at the insinuation.
He can’t be more than thirty-five years old, and despite my hate for him, he’s more than easy on the eyes.
Yet he’s a billionaire CEO and has the nerve to assume I’m all surface-level.
He’s captivating, with dark hair, light brown skin, and the brightest green eyes I’ve ever seen.
His messy hair falls to his brow, and even through a computer screen, I have the urge to brush it aside.
I don’t know how to respond to his little comment, so I say simply, “Thank you, Mr. Mills.”
“Owen.”
I raise my brows.
“If you’re going to be my personal assistant, Miss Riley, you don’t need to use the formalities.”
“In that case, you may call me Nora.” I don’t flinch at the lie. After all, my real name has only a one-letter difference.
He smiles, but this one appears to be another forced one. “I’ll see you tomorrow at nine, Nora.”
“That’s it? No other questions?” I blurt, my calm composure slipping a little. I expected more of an interrogation.
He almost laughs, his mouth twitching. “No. My employees were comprehensive with their interviews, and I read their extensive reports on you. I did a little research, myself.”
“Oh?” He has me sweating as I stare at the almost conspiratorial look on his face. I take a sip of coffee to hide my surprise and rising panic.
“You never mentioned your modeling career in the interviews.”
I almost spit out my drink. I’ve never had a modeling career, and I have a feeling I know where he got that information.
“It was very short-lived,” I comment, trying to sound sincere, but it comes out through clenched teeth. Squeezing my fists beneath the surface of the desk, I try not to hang up and go straight to Ella, who is the one responsible for my fake identity with each assignment.
She failed to mention that little detail about my “past.” Likely because she knew I’d hate it.
“Not your thing, Miss Riley?”
I thought I told him to call me Nora?
“No. Not enough action for my liking.”
“Action?” The ghost of his dimple reappears.
I could punch the insinuation off his face, but I smile sweetly. “I need lots of different types of tasks that keep me on my toes, Mr. Mills.”
He doesn’t miss me calling him Mr. Mills instead of Owen.
His smile broadens. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Riley.”
His image disappears, leaving me staring at the post-video blue and white screen.
“Ella!” I call from my desk.
From the slow way the door opens, I can tell she knows I’m unhappy with her.
“Yes?” she squeaks.
I swivel my chair around, finding her poking only her head through the doorway, her red curls falling in front of her face.
“A modeling career?” I drawl, but I can’t help the quirk of my lips.
Ella laughs nervously. “Seemed appropriate for the literal hottest, richest bachelor on the planet.”
“I appreciate the thought, Ella, but the man is not interested in looks when it comes to his employees. He only wants brains and a good work ethic. He made that very, very clear in our conversation.”
“Really?” Ella sounds horrified that she made such a terrible miscalculation.
I sigh. “It didn’t cost me the position, but he only asked me two questions, and one of them was about my ‘modeling career.’”
Ella opens the door so her entire body is visible. “Perhaps he was just curious?”
I snort. “The man couldn’t stop making assumptions based on my looks.”
“Like every other man who ever meets you?”
I drop my head into my hands. “Is using plastic surgery to make you look uglier a thing?” I mumble through my fingers.
Ella laughs, plopping herself down on my desk. “No, Nova. It’s not a thing.”
“It should be.”
She doesn’t entertain my little comment. “Can I get you anything? Are you ready for your trial run with Mr. Mills?”
I peel my face from my hands and look at her. “No, I don’t need anything, and I’m overprepared for it.”
Little do I know, I’m not even remotely prepared for Owen Mills.