“Right back at you. Good luck tonight.”
An itchy dread about something he almost remembered scratched the back of his neck. He swiped right on his monitor and his calendar popped up. Below the notes about the Singapore deal he was in negotiation about was a notation that the Harbor City General Gala was at eight. They were naming the hospital’s new heart center after his dad. The cardiologists and surgeons had done everything they could to help save Michael Carlyle, but they hadn’t been able to. They were amazing physicians and nurses, and they deserved the state-of-the-art equipment and space.
“Damn,” he said, ignoring the tightness that squeezed his chest whenever he thought about his dad. “I’d blocked it out of my mind.”
“Don’t worry about bringing a date,” Hudson teased. “I’m sure Mom will have two or three all lined up for you there.”
With that final dig, his brother hung up and the sound of the dial tone filled Sawyer’s office, bouncing off the unadorned metal and glass surfaces. He hit the end call button and took another look out at the city at his feet before crossing over to the door to do what needed to be done—tell everyone to go home because there was no job.
…
Clover Lee was in the wrong place. She had to be.
The office at the top of Carlyle Tower was filled with the kind of huge guys in dark suits who either protected you from the bad guy’s muscle men or actually were the bad guy’s muscle men. Their gazes had slid toward her as soon as she’d stepped off the elevator, completed a quick up and down threat assessment, and then turned away, letting identical blank looks slide into place.
Remember why you’re here, girl.
Because every day was an adventure and most poor suckers were stuck on the couch with a bag of plain chips—but not her. Adventure. Romance. New places. Interesting people. Fun. Thrills. Chills. Beauty. Agony. Ecstasy. Lust. Love… Well, not that last one—because who wants to settle down?—but give her a big old double order of the rest with extra-large fries on the side. So when she’d spotted that weird ad for a personal buffer, it was just the thing to catch her attention—and fund her next adventure.
Yes. That was exactly why she was here. Lifting her chin, she pressed forward into the sea of testosterone and intimidation to an African-American woman in a conservative black suit sitting at the only desk in the room. She didn’t even bother to look up when Clover stopped in front of her desk. The nameplate on the desk read Amara Grant, Executive Assistant.
“Good morning, Ms. Grant. I’m here for the buffer interview.”
“Another one?” The woman sighed, but her long fingers never missed a beat as they flew across her keyboard. “Okay, take a seat if you can find one.” She motioned with her chin toward the general area of the crowded office.
Someone must have brought in extra chairs to accommodate all the warm bodies. It was the best explanation Clover could come up with for the mishmash of sturdy leather club seats and ordinary rolling office chairs lining the walls. The only available option for Clover was a chair with a purple seat squeezed between two men who each looked like they could bench press a bus.
In for a penny, in for a squashed seat.
She crossed over to the empty chair. “Excuse me,” she said to the two men.
The men made noncommittal grunts but shifted over.
Quickly sitting down, she clutched her purse to her lap and took in a deep breath, while she scoped out the competition. The suits and hair color may vary from man to man, but there was a sense of sameness radiating from them—a uniform toughness. If she was trying to sneak her way past any of them to annoy Sawyer Carlyle, they’d beat her back like a fly.
While that was an awesome talent to have, it wasn’t in Clover’s arsenal. The initial interview with Hudson Carlyle had assured her the position was not one requiring brawn. In fact, he’d suggested a clever mind was best suited for this job. Keeping that in mind, she tried to come up with something that would make her stand out for more than just being a five-foot-five chick with a Hello Kitty tattoo on her ass. God knew her resume wasn’t going to do it.
She’d done time as a snake milker—don’t ask; smiled for pictures as a paid bridesmaid—bridezillas, she’d known a few; bellied up to the table as a dog food taster—think stale crackers with a funky aftertaste; learned the true benefit of good arch support as a professional line stander—always in the rain or the cold or the blazing heat; and distilled the mysteries of the universe as a fortune cookie writer. Clover had done it all to pay the bills, have some excellent adventures, and stay as far away from the small town of Sparksville as possible. However, up until a few days ago, she’d never even heard of a personal buffer.
Ideas swarmed to the forefront. She could play up her adventures as being international experiences in non-familiar surroundings. She worked well with others. She was loyal, determined and—she took a look around at the men in black, the executive secretary who looked like she pitied the fool who’d even try to fuck up her day, and the huge double doors opposite the elevator that were shut tight—totally out of her depth.
Anxiety unleashed an invisible hand that squeezed her lungs and made it hard to take in a full breath. Shit. Nothing good ever happened when she got nervous. That’s when her mouth went into verbal vomit mode. She closed her eyes and took in another deep breath.
If anyone is out there listening, please let me just get through this interview. I really need this job. The clock is ticking on Australia.
The click of a door opening snapped Clover out of her mini-panic attack, and she opened her eyes.
Sawyer Carlyle stood in the middle of the open doorway to his office. Her Google image search hadn’t done the man justice.
The whole package was…wow. He was over six feet tall and muscular, enough so that the other men in the room didn’t look quite as intimidating. Or maybe it was the way he held himself—so sure and borderline cocky—that made everyone else fade a little bit into the background. The sexy package was completed by a dark pair of designer glasses, slightly overly long brown hair that he brushed to the side, and a dimple right in the middle of his chin. He looked over the room, his gaze went past her and then jerked to a stop before rewinding and dropping down the necessary foot from the mountains sitting on either side to her face. One of his dark eyebrows went up over the black frame of his glasses. The corner of his full mouth curled up for a fraction of a second before melting back into a firm, straight line. His focus moved on to the man on her left and kept going.