Alistair's POV
When she took my briefcase to drop in my bedroom, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. As if she'd done it a thousand times before. As if she belonged there.
That thought disturbed me more than I cared to admit.
I've been thinking about her recently. Constantly. It's becoming a problem. When I inhaled her scent that night—that delicate, intoxicating mixture that clung to her skin—it slammed into me like a freight train. Jasmine and something that smelled herbal. The same scent that had cut through the drugged haze of that night five years ago.
Was she the one?
The question burned in my mind, and with it came a surge of hot anger. If she was the woman who left Liam... but no. The image wouldn't form. Looking at Mitchell, seeing the way her eyes softened when she played with Liam, the gentle patience in her voice... I couldn't reconcile that with the cold, heartless woman who abandoned a premature baby in an incubator.
But I needed to be sure. I'd have Mike investigate her background thoroughly. Every detail. Every secret. Because Liam had her eyes—that same dark forest eyes that held galaxies of emotion. And sometimes, when Liam was in a hurry to finish his robots and move to his next project, he ate clumsily, exactly like she did at breakfast this morning. The resemblance in mannerisms was uncanny.
The next morning, I sat through a board meeting, my mind only half-present. My secretary had informed me that Mike would arrive shortly to conduct interviews for the open personal assistant position. Mike, who was technically a CEO but who I insisted on being my assistant. The most disturbing, loyal, and effective person I knew.
I glanced at my watch and stood abruptly. "Meeting adjourned."
The board directors exchanged bewildered glances. "But Mr. Wright, we haven't covered the quarterly projections—"
"I'll review them later." I was already walking toward the door. "I have an interview to conduct."
Their surprise was palpable. An interview? Something any competent HR staff could handle? I didn't bother explaining. Let them wonder.
I positioned myself in the conference room adjacent to my office, watching through the one-way glass as Mitchell was escorted in. She looked nervous, fidgeting with the hem of her professional blazer. That's the spirit. I chuckled softly, and through the glass, I saw the remaining board members in the hallway freeze. They'd probably never heard me laugh before. I wanted to roll my eyes. Did they think I was a robot?
Mitchell didn't seem surprised to see me when I entered the conference room. Mike must have told her. That traitorous, matchmaking fool. Well, I still like the reaction that was on her face.
"Come with me," I said, my voice brooking no argument as I strode toward my private office.
She scrambled to keep up with my long strides, her heels clicking an urgent rhythm on the marble floor. By the time she entered, I was already at my desk, loosening my tie. Her eyes swept the space—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the modern art, the wall of accolades. Appreciation flickered across her features.
Then her gaze returned to me, and she swallowed.
Gosh. The way her throat moved, the flush creeping up her neck... heat pooled low in my gut. What is wrong with you, man? I scolded myself internally. This was an interview. Professional. Appropriate.
But she looked so damn sexy in that professional attire—the fitted blazer, the pencil skirt that hugged her curves just right. Was this deliberate? Was she trying to seduce me? Did she want me to—
I glanced down at my trousers and immediately stilled.
Hell.
The evidence of my reaction was unmistakable. I moved quickly, deliberately, circling my desk to sit in my high-backed chair, praying the movement went unnoticed. From her face—now the color of a tomato—I was 80% certain she'd seen everything. The other 20% was wishful thinking.
"Ahem." I cleared my throat, hoping the sound would reset the atmosphere. "Please, sit."
She did, perching on the edge of the chair like a bird ready to take flight. I launched into the interview questions, my voice steady even if my pulse wasn't. Standard qualifications. Experience. Skills. She answered each one with clarity and confidence, surprising me.
I leaned forward, my eyes narrowing slightly. Time for the real test.
"As my personal assistant, you'd handle sensitive information. Confidential meetings. Personal matters." I paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "How would you handle discovering something compromising about me? Something that could damage the company if leaked?"
Her eyes met mine without flinching. "I would assess whether it was a matter of personal privacy or public concern. If it was personal and irrelevant to the company's operations, I'd keep it to myself. If it affected the business, I'd bring it to you directly and work on damage control together." A small, wry smile. "Loyalty doesn't mean blind obedience, Mr. Wright. It means honest partnership."
I asked more questions, each more pointed than the last. She answered them all, never retreating, never fawning. By the end, I realized something with sharp clarity: Mitchell Turnerstone was not naive. She was not simple. There were layers here, depths I hadn't anticipated.
And the scent of jasmine and herbs still lingered in my office, wrapping around me.