Chapter 3
“Everyone’s excited to meet you, Miss Riley,” a petite woman with dark hair and dark skin blurts out as she escorts me to Mr. Mills' primary office. It is on the top floor of a thirty-story skyscraper. It’s a private room set on the far side, but the rest of the building is open and welcoming.
The employees chat and work with an easy air, smiling and laughing.
There’s a quaint kitchen off to the side, hosting a variety of them, who are chatting by the coffee machine.
Most people aren’t at their desks yet, happily catching up on their weekend adventures.
It’s an atmosphere I could get used to if I weren’t a field agent constantly changing assignments, locations, and identities.
“Really?” I ask in response to the woman’s statement, genuinely surprised.
“Oh, yes. Everyone was very impressed with your background and skill set. In fact, I think you’re a bit overqualified.”
When researching the company, it was challenging to determine how far to extend my training, education, and expertise. I admit I might have made myself look a little too good, especially on paper.
I laugh, trying to sound surprised by her comment even as my body tenses. “I realize I’m overqualified, but the position interests me.”
“I bet it does,” the woman chirps.
I almost roll my eyes, knowing what she’s implying about our looks. “I’m extremely interested in his mission statement for his charities. I believe in what he’s trying to do, Miss…?” I ask since we weren’t properly introduced earlier.
She waves her hand at me. “Call me Laura.” She stops in front of large, wooden, double doors. “Here we are. Good luck, Miss Riley.”
Laura disappears back across the office floor before I can say anything or thank her. Though it’s not part of my job description to become friends with the other employees, I’d still like not to alienate myself. So far, I’m not off to a great start.
Staring at the door before me, I can’t understand my nervousness. I’ve pretended to be other people for ten years now. Why does this time feel so different?
Knocking softly, I take a step back.
I expected Mr. Mills, but I did not expect a sweaty, half-dressed Mr. Mills to open the door.
Stumbling in my red heels, I catch myself right before crashing into him.
Mr. Mills smirks, and I quickly compose myself.
“Apologies. I didn’t realize I was intruding,” I say, my voice a little shaky.
“You didn’t. Come in.” He steps aside, that stupid hint of a dimple appearing.
He’s definitely used to flustered women.
Straightening, I walk past him, ignoring his muscled chest damp with sweat.
A moment later, I realize why: Half of his office is a gym. Dumbbells and a barbell are on the floor, along with kettlebells and medicine balls. There are even ropes and a pull-up bar, as well as other various types of gym equipment.
“Do you work out, Miss Riley?” he asks, seemingly aware of my attention.
I face him, finally composing myself. “Yes, sir. I do.”
He raises a brow but doesn’t ask anything else. Instead, he walks to a bench and grabs a clean, white T-shirt. He pulls it over his head and runs his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes.
“Am I early?” I ask, confused as to why I’m staring at a man who clearly isn’t ready for work.
“No, you’re right on time.”
“Then, you’re late?”
He laughs. The sound is alarmingly and annoyingly alluring. “No. I’m also right on time. Have a seat, Miss Riley.”
Okay. So he’s a casual boss. Clearly. His desk is unorganized, and papers litter every unoccupied space.
An empty coffee mug sits next to his keyboard, while a steaming cup sits on the other side.
He has a pile of dirty laundry pushed into a corner of his office, and reusable water bottles are scattered around the room.
“I think you need a cleaner, not an assistant,” I comment before I can stop myself.
He laughs again. “Perhaps you can find a good one for me, Miss Riley? But I bet you don’t know any.
Let me guess, you’re annoyingly organized and neat?
” His eyes sweep over my body. I’m wearing a clean, pressed black suit with a modest, white shirt underneath.
His gaze drifts to my red heels and holds before traveling back up.
I eye him, wanting to give him a piece of my mind. Instead, I reply sweetly, “I like order, Mr. Mills. I’d be happy to find someone to clean your office if that’s what you want, but if not, I’m glad to do it.”
His smile grows wider. For unknown reasons, he seems to be finding this whole situation amusing, while it’s only making me feel more uncomfortable. I’ve never felt so far off my game before. I try to convince myself it’s because of my impending trial and not the man in front of me.
“No need to find me a cleaner, Miss Riley, and it's not in your job description.”
I almost roll my eyes as he walks around his desk and falls into his chair, motioning for me to do the same.
“This trial run will only be a week, Miss Riley, but I doubt it will take me that long to decide.” He pauses and keeps his stare on me, but I keep my face neutral.
He continues, “I have a few charity galas coming up that are poorly planned since my last assistant retired. I want you to start by vetting the current venues and event planners and ensuring they are up to the standard of our previous galas.”
I nod.
“The list is on the desk over there.” He points to a small desk opposite his gym. It’s next to a small bar that looks like it’s been used far too many times. Dirty glasses litter the small counter, and the alcohol bottles that decorate the shelves are almost empty.
I return my gaze to find him watching me far too intently.
“I’ll get started,” I say, wanting to put some distance between us but not understanding why. I’ve dealt with men far worse than him. Why am I feeling so flustered?
I hear him pushing papers around his desk and then the clicking of keys as he gets to work.
Looking down, I focus on my task, wondering how I’m going to find the evidence I need to convict him if all I’m doing is planning fancy parties for rich people. I try to remind myself what I’m best at: getting close to notoriously difficult people.
I glance at Mr. Mills as he answers a phone call, surprised by the easy way he speaks. He’s all charm, and I wonder if it's genuine or part of an act to keep people from thinking he’s a murderer.
“Do you need something from me, Miss Riley?”
My eyes widen when I realize I’ve been staring. “No, Mr. Mills, I was just thinking.”
An amused grin lifts his lips. “About?”
Luckily, I’m much more intelligent than the last ten minutes would suggest. “Instead of multiple galas, which I’m sure you’re tired of, why not make it a combined event in a larger venue?
Fewer logistics, less time, and combining patrons and your different charities might be a good thing.
Might lead to more connections and bigger money.
” Not to mention, it’d make this task easier for me.
Mr. Mills cocks his head to the side. “If you can pull it off, Miss Riley, by all means.”
I smile. “Nora. Please call me Nora.”
He smirks back. “Only if you call me Owen.”
I sigh, giving in. “Fine, Owen, I’ll put together the logistics and run it by you.”
He winks. “Deal.”
We spend the next couple of hours both lost in our respective tasks.
Combining events proves to be less complicated than I expected.
His charities are all nonprofit organizations, focusing on either regenerative agriculture education, urban agriculture education, or organizations involved in converting monocropped farms into regenerative ones.
They all have a common theme. He has a few small charities, though, that don’t have a clear mission or name and only deal in small amounts of money.
Those catch my eye, and I search for more specifics.
The more I research the charities, the more frustrated I become.
There appears to be no red flags or suspicious activity.
There are no connections between the acquired companies and the murdered CEOs and any of the charities.
Perhaps money is involved, but that’s not obvious.
Just because funds are transferred to these charities, it doesn’t mean there’s any wrongdoing.
I start to wonder if I’m in way over my head with this assignment. Perhaps Declan should have put my partner, Gray, on this assignment. He’s the tech genius.
Coming out of my thoughts, I find Owen watching me as I frown at the computer.
“Something wrong, Miss Riley?”
“Nothing’s wrong. In fact, everything’s perfect!” I chirp.
God, I sound like an idiot.
His lips quirk, turning up into a half-smile. “Did you eat?”
His question throws me a bit, and I look at the clock on my computer. It reads 3:30 pm.
My eyes widen, and I shake my head.
“Here,” Owen says, standing and walking the short distance to my desk.
He deposits a small, brown, paper bag on the tabletop and waits, arms crossed, for me to open it.
“You didn’t need to give me your lunch,” I say, reaching for the bag.
“It’s not mine. It’s yours.”
I scrunch my nose, peering into the bag. There’s a perfectly wrapped sandwich inside next to a receipt. Angling my head, I read it. Owen did, in fact, order two different sandwiches.
“How’d you know what I like?” I ask, pulling out the sandwich and unwrapping it.
Owen’s half-smile turns into a full one, with that annoying, charming dimple and, what I imagine is, his usual mischief. “I don’t. I got you my favorite.”
I stare at the Italian sandwich made on a French baguette, burrata cheese spilling down the sides, and my mouth waters. He may not know my favorite sandwich, but damn does this one look good.
Owen chuckles at my reaction and moves back to his desk, grabbing his coat. “I’m off to a few meetings for the rest of the day. Feel free to leave whenever you need to.”
With that, he’s out the door, and I’m no closer to finding evidence or even a lead. What’s worse: my traitorous brain is actually starting to think this man is a decent human being.
But that can’t be right.
“How’d the first day on the job go?” Declan’s familiar voice comes through the cell phone I have pressed between my ear and shoulder.
In an apartment that agents use as a safe house in San Francisco, I make myself a quick bowl of pasta with sausage. The place looks out over the Bay Bridge and is furnished but sparsely decorated. If you didn’t look closely, you’d think no one lived here.
It’s no home.
“Can’t say it was easy,” I reply, “though I’m grateful to not have to fear a gun to my head every five seconds.”
Declan chuckles. “No, you’ll just have to check your coffee every morning.”
It was meant as a joke, but I’m not sure what to make of that.
He continues, “How can I make it easier?”
Thinking, I pour through what I’ve learned about him and the company over the last eight hours before replying. “He’s pretty secretive and observant as hell. He won’t be easy to deceive. I’m likely going to need hackers. I don’t think he’ll willingly give me access to his phone records and emails.”
“You can be pretty convincing, you know.” I hear the amusement in Declan’s voice.
“Not with Owen. I don’t think he likes the fact that his employees picked someone who looks like me. As I told Ella, I think we made a huge miscalculation in what he likes.”
“You’re saying he doesn’t like pretty women?”
“I’m saying he doesn’t want a pretty woman working in his office. I’m sure he loves them in his bed.”
Declan laughs, and the sound is oddly comforting. “Interesting. I wonder why that is?”
“Distraction? How should I know?” I’m getting more frustrated as the conversation goes on, and I’m no closer to figuring out how to get closer to Owen. And if I can’t, I won’t find what I need.
“I’ll work on getting you a hacker, but you’re going to have to tell them where to look. You’ll have to have an idea at least.”
I sigh, switching the phone to between my other shoulder and ear while stirring the boiling pasta. “I’m far better suited for assassinations, I think.”
“The last assignment nearly destroyed you, Nova. And I’m not talking about the trial.”
I hate how spot on he is. I can barely stand to think about it without panic surging through my chest and rendering me breathless.
“I know, Dec. But I don’t know how to get close to this guy. I’m not charming like he is. I’m a ticking time bomb.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.”
Ignoring his barb, I continue, “I can’t promise this guy won’t end up with a knife through him. A punch to the face would be me holding back.”
Declan laughs again. “Maybe he’s into that kind of thing?”
“Not helpful,” I grumble, straining the pasta and throwing it in a pristine, white bowl that’s probably never been used.
“I have faith in you, but Nova?”
“Mmm?”
“Don’t forget to prepare your testimony for the trial. That is a priority, not Owen Mills.”
“I know. I’m sitting down to work on it now.” It’s the truth, even if I’d rather pretend Italy didn't happen.
“Good. Any new memories or leads coming through?” Declan suddenly sounds oddly fearful, which is very unlike him. He’s usually the steady and stable one in our duo.
“No. The memories of that day are still fuzzy. I lost a lot of blood. I’m working on a timeline and identifying faces of the people involved.”
Declan is quiet for a few moments. “Be careful who you indulge all of this with. I don’t want anything to go wrong with your trial.”
I find it odd that Declan wants me to be so secretive, but I know he’s worried about me.
“Oh, and don’t forget to take care of yourself,” he adds.
“I will, Dec. Thanks.”
“Talk tomorrow.”
When he hangs up, I’m left alone in a dark, cold apartment that is eerily silent. I chew my food, a lump in my throat every time I swallow, knowing I’m in way over my head with two completely separate problems.