The elevator ride to the top floor was silent, save for the sound of Sophie accidentally clicking her pen over and over again. Click. Click. Click.
"If you do that one more time, I will throw that pen into the Thames," Oliver said, staring straight ahead at the brushed-gold doors.
"Sorry. Nervous habit," Sophie squeaked, shoving the pen into her messy hair. "So, about this 'living together' thing. Clause 15? I think there's been a mistake. I have a cat named Tax Fraud. He has separation anxiety and a very specific diet of expensive tuna and spite."
"The cat can stay at a pet hotel," Oliver snapped. "You, however, need to be reachable 24/7. My mother is a suspicious woman. If she calls at 3:00 AM and a man answers your phone—or worse, a dial tone—the deal is off."
The doors chimed and opened directly into a living room that looked like a page from a magazine for people who hate comfort. Everything was white, glass, or chrome. It was so clean that Sophie felt like she was breathing "expensive air."
"Wow," Sophie breathed, stepping onto a rug that felt like walking on a cloud. "It's very... clinical. Do you live here or do you perform heart surgery here?"
"It is organized," Oliver corrected, tossing his keys onto a marble console. "There is a place for everything, and everything is in its place. You will stay in the guest suite at the end of the hall. Do not touch the art. Do not eat on the velvet sofa. And for the love of God, do not enter my office."
Sophie wandered toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of London was breathtaking. The Shard pierced the clouds, and the Thames snaked through the city like a dark ribbon.
"I feel like a spy," Sophie giggled, leaning against the glass. "Or a very well-paid prisoner."
"You are a consultant," Oliver reminded her, walking over to a sleek, hidden bar. "Drink?"
"Do you have juice? Or something with an umbrella in it?"
Oliver sighed. "I have sparkling water and a vintage Scotch that costs more than your rent."
"Water is fine. With ice! I'm fancy now."
As Oliver poured the water, Sophie's curiosity got the better of her. She spotted a small, wooden box on a side table—the only thing in the room that wasn't made of cold metal. She picked it up.
"Is this—"
"Don't!" Oliver shouted.
Sophie jumped. Her hand slipped. The wooden box flew into the air, hit the edge of the marble table, and burst open. Dozens of tiny, silver gears and springs rained down onto the white rug.
Oliver froze. His face went from pale to a deep, vibrating red.
"It was a 19th-century Swiss clock movement," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I was... I was restoring it."
"I can fix it!" Sophie cried, dropping to her knees and grabbing a handful of springs. "I'm great at puzzles! Once, I fixed a toaster with a paperclip and a piece of chewing gum!"
"Do not touch the springs!" Oliver roared, diving to the floor to stop her.
They collided. Sophie fell back onto the plush rug, and Oliver landed directly on top of her, his hands pinning her wrists to the floor to keep her away from the delicate machinery.
For a moment, the shouting stopped. The only sound was the hum of the city far below. Sophie could see the flecks of gold in Oliver's eyes. She could smell the cedarwood on his skin. His heart was hammering against her chest—fast, frantic, and very much not like a robot.
"You," Oliver breathed, his face inches from hers, "are a walking hurricane."
"And you," Sophie whispered back, her wit returning despite her racing heart, "have a very pointy elbow."
The front door suddenly swung open with a loud thud.
"Oliver, darling! I let myself in! I simply couldn't wait to meet the girl who—"
A tall, elegant woman in a Chanel suit stood in the foyer, staring at her son pinned to the rug on top of a girl with a pen stuck in her hair and clock parts scattered everywhere.
"Oh my," Lady Eleanor Sterling said, raising a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "I see you've already started the... interview."