1. Anya #2
The offer hangs in the air between us, reasonable and infuriating in equal measure. They're not saying no. They're not cutting me off. They're just making me prove myself first, which should feel fair except it doesn't, not when it's my own money they're holding hostage.
"Why?" The question comes out flat.
"Because," Jones says, voice dropping to that low register that does things to my pulse I refuse to examine, "we want to see what you're capable of before we sign off on a major financial decision. Call it due diligence."
"I don't have to prove myself to you."
Vincent's response comes quick and matter-of-fact. "You do if you want the money."
The fury hits like a wave—hot and bright and consuming. My jaw locks, my hands ball into fists in my lap, and for a wild second I consider telling all three of them exactly where they can shove their proposition.
But the alternative is walking out of here empty-handed, and that's not an option. Not when I've spent enough time imagining the café, sketching layouts, picking paint colors, building something beautiful in my head that I refuse to let die.
Jones takes another step closer, and suddenly I'm hyperaware of everything—the way his shirt fits across his chest, the scent of something clean and warm and distinctly male, the heat radiating off his body.
My own body responds in ways I have zero control over, a tightness low in my belly that makes me want to press my thighs together.
I don't. I sit perfectly still and lift my chin and meet his eyes even though looking at him this close makes my skin feel too tight.
"Three months," he says, and it's not a question. "Then we give you the money and help you however we can."
The words sit in my throat for a long moment before I force them out with something that sounds suspiciously like a groan. "When do I start?"
Jones smiles. It's brief, barely there, but real—the first genuine smile I've seen from him since I walked into this room.
"Today."
An hour later, I'm sitting at a desk in the center of what they call the Ashford wing, surrounded by a month's worth of administrative chaos.
File cabinets stuffed with misfiled patient records, a computer system that hasn't been properly organized since the Mesozoic era, and a phone that's been ringing every ten minutes with appointment requests that apparently got lost in the transition between secretaries.
My desk sits in the open area on the second floor with clear sightlines to all three office doors. Jones's corner office dominates the space—larger than the other two, door currently closed, dark wood and leather visible through the glass wall.
Eric's office is adjacent, door wide open, more relaxed with a plant on the windowsill and what looks like a small couch against one wall.
Vincent's office sits across from Eric's, door slightly ajar, minimal but not cold—clean lines, organized shelves, everything in its place.
They positioned me here deliberately. I can see who comes and goes, and more importantly, they can see me.
It should feel like being under surveillance, but instead it feels like being at the center of something important, something that runs on precision and competence and standards I'm determined to meet.
The filing system is a disaster. Physical files mixed with digital records, patient information scattered across three different databases, appointment scheduling that makes no sense whatsoever.
Within the first hour, I've identified at least six major inefficiencies and twelve smaller ones that add up to significant time waste.
Fine. Let them watch me work.
I start with the physical files—pulling everything out, creating a proper alphabetical system, cross-referencing with the digital records to catch duplicates and missing information.
My literature degree might not seem relevant, but four years of research methodology and attention to detail translate perfectly to this kind of systematic organization.
By noon, I've consolidated three months of patient intake forms into a coherent filing system. By two, I've untangled the appointment calendar and caught a double-booking that would have created a nightmare next Tuesday.
By three, I've identified a supply order with pricing that's thirty percent higher than it should be and called the vendor to negotiate.
The work is satisfying in a way I didn't expect. Concrete problems with concrete solutions, the kind of tangible progress that feels good in my hands. I don't need to overthink or second-guess or wonder if I'm qualified—I can see what needs fixing, and I can fix it.
Throughout the afternoon, the brothers move past my desk with the easy efficiency of people who know their space and their routine. Each interaction is brief, professional, and absolutely devastating to my ability to concentrate.
The first time happens around one-thirty. Jones approaches my desk while I'm entering patient data, reaching across me to access something on my computer screen.
His chest presses against my back for maybe two seconds—brief, incidental, probably accidental—but those two seconds light up every nerve ending I have.
The heat of him through his shirt, solid muscle and warmth, his forearm beside mine showing ink that disappears under his rolled sleeve. I hold completely still until he moves away, barely breathing, hyperaware of how my body wants to lean back into that contact.
"Good work," he says, voice neutral and professional, like he didn't just make my entire nervous system short-circuit. "The filing system looks better already."
I manage something that sounds like agreement, but the words stick in my throat. Twenty minutes later, I can still feel the phantom pressure of his chest against my back.
The second time happens an hour later. Eric appears beside my desk with a coffee I didn't ask for—something that smells expensive and complicated, definitely not the swill from the break room coffee maker.
"Thought you might need fuel," he says, setting the cup within easy reach. When I reach for it, our fingers brush—half a second of contact, his skin warm and slightly rough, and the touch shoots straight through my palm and up my arm like a small electric shock.
"Thanks," I manage, pulling my hand back too quickly.
"You're welcome, gorgeous." The endearment rolls off his tongue like it's natural, easy, like he calls every woman gorgeous and doesn't mean anything by it. But the way his green eyes linger on my face for just a beat too long suggests otherwise. "You settling in okay?"
"Fine." I wrap my hands around the coffee cup, using the heat to ground myself. "Just getting organized."
"I can see that." His smile is warm, genuine, the kind that makes it hard to remember why I'm supposed to be irritated with all of them. "Let us know if you need anything."
He walks away with that loose, confident stride, and I stare at the coffee for a full minute before I trust my hands enough to lift it to my lips.
The taste is perfect—exactly how I like it, which means he either guessed very well or noticed something I don't remember revealing. Both possibilities make my stomach do something fluttery and unwelcome.
The third time happens just after four. I look up from my computer screen and catch Vincent watching me from his office doorway. Not staring, not leering—just watching with that calm, steady attention that makes me feel exposed in ways I can't name.
His brown eyes drop briefly to my mouth, so quickly I almost miss it, then back up to meet mine.
We look at each other for maybe three seconds. He doesn't say anything, doesn't smile, doesn't move. Just watches me with an expression I can't read before turning and walking back into his office, leaving me with tingling lips and a heartbeat that's entirely too fast.
I touch my mouth without thinking, then immediately hate myself for it.
This is insane. The whole situation is insane. I have never been attracted to anyone—not once in twenty-one years of school dances and college parties and boys my own age trying to get my attention. Not a single one of them.
But apparently my body skipped right past age-appropriate and went straight for thirty-seven, thirty-five, and thirty-four.
Zero interest in anyone before them, zero awakening of anything resembling desire. My friends talked about crushes and hookups and butterflies, and I listened like they were describing experiences from another planet.
Then I walked into my mother's wedding reception a year ago and saw three men standing across the room in perfectly tailored suits, and for the first time in my life, my body woke up.
Not gradually, not subtly—all at once, like someone flipped a switch I didn't know I had.
I barely spoke to them that night beyond polite introductions, spent most of the evening trying not to stare, and told myself it was just the champagne or the atmosphere or the general emotional intensity of watching my mother get remarried.
Except now I'm sitting ten feet away from all three of them, and that switch is permanently stuck in the on position.
Every casual interaction feels charged, every accidental touch sends heat racing through my bloodstream, and I have absolutely no idea what to do with any of it except clench my jaw and keep working and pretend I'm not falling apart from the inside out.
By six o'clock, Eric and Vincent are packing up to leave. I hear their voices in the hallway—something about a dinner with potential investors, discussions of quarterly projections and expansion plans.
Professional, competent, the kind of conversation that reminds me these aren't just three attractive men who happen to control my inheritance.
They're successful doctors who built the largest fertility clinic in the state, and I'm just their stepsister with a literature degree who just spent her first day organizing their filing cabinets.
The thought should be humbling. Instead, it's oddly comforting. They didn't get where they are by being careless or impulsive.