CHAPTER FIVE – THE REAL ARRANGEMENT
Talon
The girl stands at the sink, wrists up to the elbow in suds, the sunset outside doing impossible things to her hair—gold one minute, then strawberry at the tips, then some strange new element they haven’t named yet.
She hums under her breath, completely unaware that she’s alluring and gorgeous.
Most people would say this is an opportunity. I say it’s a goddamn miracle.
I watch her from the far end of the table, hands folded, my eyes heavy-lidded from wine and something much more primal.
Every motion she makes is an act of unconscious seduction.
She’s wearing a faded sweatshirt with some ironic slogan, but she’s barefoot and the fabric rides up every time she reaches for a plate, showing a band of pale tummy and, sometimes, just a flash of panty.
Is she wearing a thong? God, I love that shit but it’s too early for that.
As much as I want to devour Kat, she still has no idea of my true reason for bringing her to my cabin.
She thinks I’m busy with my thoughts, maybe outlining a chapter in my head, but I’ve been watching her curves non-stop, from the moment she tripped up the front steps like she was auditioning for a midwestern porn parody.
The tits are the headline, sure. You could feed a small country off those things, and she hides them like they’re something to be embarrassed about, but every time Kat laughs or shrugs, they make themselves known.
Her ass is almost comically round for a girl her age—nature’s way of making sure even a monk would have impure thoughts.
The waist, though. That’s the killer. She’s got the old Hollywood ratio, the one they stopped making in the late nineties.
It’s almost obscene. The fact that she’s young enough for the proportions to look *innocent*—not put-on, not bought and paid for—just makes it better.
I glance at my phone, out of habit. No texts.
No service this deep in the woods, and I like it that way.
Camille at Sweet Lies set this up with maximum discretion; even the contract says “personal assistant,” as if anyone would believe I can’t run my own laundry.
But the second I saw Kat’s Polaroids—her standing there, chin down, arms crossed under the breasts like an innocent—I knew I was cooked.
The other agencies send practiced women, career types who can smell loneliness through lead paint.
Sweet Lies is the only one who delivers raw material: college co-eds, girls with just enough bad decisions in their past to make them desperate for a miracle, girls who have no clue what they’re worth and would break if you squeezed too hard.
And I like the breaking. I crave it.
Kat finishes the last plate, wipes her hands on a towel, and turns to find me staring.
She flushes, her whole face going peach, and gives a little half-curtsy like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to sit at the table unless invited.
I let the silence hang. There’s power in silence; it’s the one thing most people can’t outlast.
“Dinner was incredible,” I say. “Seriously. Most people order take-out five days a week, what with UberEats, DoorDash, and GrubHub .”
Kat smiles hesitantly.
“I like to cook,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms across her waist. “I mean, I’m not great at it. But my mom taught me some basics.”
I picture the mother: probably still pretty, probably single, probably had Kat at eighteen and raised her with a mix of hard rules and nervous laughter. I bet the mom still has the same body type, but softer at the edges, and yells about TikTok being the devil.
“You don’t have to be great,” I say, “just not afraid to make a mess.” I let my eyes linger on her hands—small, strong fingers, a little red from the heat. “You ever work in a restaurant?”
She laughs. “God, no. Just coffee shops. Cafés. I always envied the kitchen people though because they had this secret language, like, I don’t know, pirates or something.”
I chuckle. “It’s all screaming and sexual harassment, trust me. At least, from what they broadcast on cooking shows.”
Kat bites her lower lip, making it appear even more plush than before. There’s a fragility to her that isn’t weakness. There’s strength in there, and I want to get to know her. More specifically, I want her to know that I want to know her. It’s a tongue-twister, but it’s also true.
She’s cleaning the table, gathering up the wine glasses and her little dessert plate. I catch her wrist as she moves by, not hard but enough that she stops. Her pulse flutters under my thumb. For a second, she goes completely still, waiting for the next move.
“Sit down, Kat.”
She nods and folds herself into the chair across from me, hands in her lap. I watch her face, the nervous smile she’s trying to kill, and wonder how many men have ever just *looked* at her, instead of what they think they’re supposed to see.
“You know why you’re really here?” I say. My voice is gentle and deep, which is a trick I learned from my own father. You don’t have to shout if you’re strong enough to make them want to listen.
The young girl blinks, unsure if this is a joke.
“You’re my assistant,” I say, “but I think we both know there’s something more than just admin work. After all, why would there be the insistence on discretion? The need for a woman? The Polaroids?”
Kat bites the inside of her cheek, but doesn’t break eye contact. I like that about her. She’s nervous, but not weak.
“What are you saying?” she says. Her voice is just above a whisper, and I get a little high off it.
I drum my fingers on the table, letting the question float. I could spell it out, but I want to see how long it takes for her to put it together.
“You ever read romance novels, Kat?”
She nods, a little too quickly. “Sure. I mean, who hasn’t?”
I lean back, a man at ease. “Ever read the ones that are a little more explicit?”
Her lips part. I can see her weighing whether to lie. She’s not a good liar. “Yes,” she says, after a beat. “The usual stuff. Some Fifty Shades, some Harlequin, that kind of stuff.”
“Good,” I say, my eyes on her mouth. “Because, actually, I’m working on a romance novel. A new book. It’s not public yet, but it’s a—let’s say, an experiment for me. And I want it to be real. Authentic. So I need someone to help me.”
Kat is confused.
“Help you how? I’m happy to proofread scenes, and even act as a sounding board, but that’s normal, Mr. McKnight. I’d be happy to do that no matter what kind of book you’re writing.”
This is where the going to gets tricky. I arch an eyebrow.
“Well, actually, the kind of help I need is a bit more specific. This is my first romance novel ever, so I need someone to act out scenarios, test dialogue, and help improvise. You’d be surprised how many writers get it wrong, even when they think they know what they’re doing.”
Kat stares at me.
“Okay, sure, I can act out scenes. I’m not a professional actress, but I was in drama club in high school.”
I nod, my expression calm.
“Great, because there’s going to be a lot of drama. I need help with all sorts of scenes, you see, including the ones … ah, below the belt, I might say.”
Kat stares at me.
“I have no idea what that means.”
I shrug.
“You’re getting paid to help me with things that are sexy, sweetheart. The kink scenes. The intimacy. The ones where I tie you up.”
Her shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t look away. “Tie me up? So… you want me to help you with—like—sex scenes?”
“Yes,” I say, and I let it hang there, naked and unashamed. “Exactly that.”
She swallows. Her pulse is pounding in her throat, visible even from across the table.
“And I would be…” She falters, looking for the right word. “A character?”
I smile, slow and wide. “Sometimes. Sometimes just yourself. Sometimes whatever I need you to be. That’s the job. You’ll be playing a role.”
She chokes a bit, and I let her stew in it for a minute. Some people run at this point, but I can see Kat thinking. She’s wondering what kind of perv I am, and what kind of kinks I’m envisioning. She stares at me before licking her lips.
“And if I say no?”
I shrug, slow, deliberate.
“Then we finish out the week as boss and assistant, and you walk away with a small bonus as a thank you for your time. No hard feelings.”
She considers. For a second, I think she’ll bolt, or maybe just laugh it off and do dishes until bedtime. But she surprises me, as she’s been doing since she walked in.
“But what kind of scenes are you thinking?”
Ah, we’re finally getting somewhere. I paint the first scenario in her head with words—something simple, something vanilla but with an edge.
“The usual stuff,” I drawl. “I’m doing research right now, so I don’t even have much of a plot yet.
But I’m thinking of a standard trope: my character could be a shy intern with a handsome older boss.
Maybe we’d start with her bent over the desk, taking dictation.
Maybe we’d see how far she’s willing to go before she says stop. ”
Kat’s nodding, slowly, her hands in fists in her lap.
“Okay,” she says, voice small but steady. “I can do that.”
I resist the urge to jump with joy. Instead, I act calm.
“Great, because that’s just the beginning. Again, I’m still tossing around ideas, so there could also be a student-professor scene where she’s a shy undergrad who stays after class to speak with a world-famous professor. Something like that.”
Kat swallows hard.
“Funny, because I did have a professor who was a Nobel prize winner. But he wasn’t a romantic hero in the least. He was about seventy-five.”
“We’ll change that part,” I say. “So do you think you’re in?”
Kat takes a deep breath.
“I don’t want to get hurt, meaning I don’t want any severe physical injury. I don’t want to be beaten, or to bleed, or anything like that. And I want a safe word.”
I toast her with the last of my wine, and nod.
“Of course, that’s not an issue at all. In fact, I’d insist on those precautions.”