Page 64 of The Stranger

“Crisis management expertise.” She almost rolls her eyes. “Up until recently, my children have gotten along well. Not too much now,” I add almost under my breath.

“Siblings aren’t supposed to be besties all the time.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that.” We stare at each other, neither willing to yield and inch. Stubbornness on her part. For mine, I just enjoy looking at her. “My children require someone with elite multitasking skills. This is not a typical forty-hour week position. It could be eighty, twenty, ten, or any number in between. You should be prepared for a loss of discretionary time assets, as well as the generous down times you’ve benefited from up until now.”

“Discretionary? Down times. Is this some kind of business speak?” She sounds amused rather than confused.

“Your brother is a banker. It thought I’d put it in terms you might better understand.”

“But I’m a doctor, not a banker.”

“Sadly, my medical knowledge is rather lacking.” She smiles but tries to hide it, dipping her head and causing a strand of hair to fall across her cheek. Such tiny details I shouldn’t pay heed to, yet I drink them in like fine wine.

“There may be overnight operations required in the coming weeks.”

“Overnight?” Did her eyes flare? Did I imagine it?

“It’s likely I won’t be home this coming Thursday evening.”

Her brow furrows, and I can see she wants to ask why. I could tell her I’ll be on the mainland for a meeting and business dinner afterward. That rather than travel back late, I’ll stay over instead. But those are the details you tell a lover. Not an employee.

“Should the need arise, it will be you the children come looking for during the night. It’s early days, but I’m comfortable with the metrics. You should be too.”

“Metrics?” She scoffs.

“There has been a marked increase in your brand loyalty.”

A smile. Small, but genuine. “Well, I’m sure one of your kids like me, at least.” Her eyes fall over me as though trying to read me. I’m glad that she can’t see the full effect her perusal has on me.

“One sector is harder to warm,” I agree. Unlike my groin. “But the ROI will be substantial should you stay the course.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Please do.” Because it’s a poor substitute for what I’d like you to take from me. What I’d like to give you. I want to taste her again. Tease her until she’s shaking and swearing. Bend her over this table to feel her pulse around me. Then I’d wreck her for all other men.

The rhythmic tap of her hands on the back of the chair disintegrates my pleasantly perverse interlude. “Well, that answers my question, I suppose.” She begins to turn, though pauses, slanting me a look. “What is it you want to ask me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“A question for a question.”

“Another time.” I force myself to smile, but it feels wrong. But then, none of this is either right. Or beneficial to either of us.

Her brows rise and she gives a short shrug like whatever.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” I say in polite dismissal.

“I’m sure I will,” she replies with a forced lightness.

I wait until she leaves the room, which is better for all concerned, and reach for the bottle to top up my wine. This is what I get for abstinence, I think as I bring my glass to my lips. A reaction too strong for the wrong kind of girl. A girl who doesn’t know the meaning of good sex, so she says. I find it hard to believe her when I think of⁠—

I screw my eyes tight, refusing to indulge in the memory. The heat of her around my fingers and the sound of her soft, sultry cries.

She’s too young. Too confusing. I don’t really want her at all. Not to hold. Not to taste again. Not to devour whole. And even if I did, no red lipstick, no heels, no soft cotton shirts that mold to full breasts, and no red flag bikinis would make an iota of difference.

Because it can’t.

She’s not meant for me.