Chapter Three

SARAH

The secretary rises from her chair, file in hand, looking feminine and pretty with her golden hair in a bun, wearing a black pencil skirt that fits snugly around her curves and a white top that is tucked in neatly.

Her stilettos click-clack against the polished floors as she escorts me to the boss's office.

She opens the door, and a blast of sweet, cool air conditioning fills my lungs.

The room is huge spacious, with glass walls that offer a stunning view of the city.

I assume the handsome young man behind the desk is Grey Sullivan, CEO of Grey Incorporations. His nameplate flashes on his desk, confirming my assumption.

He gestures for me to take a seat.

My nerves, which were already doing the salsa in my stomach, turn into a full-blown rave party as I do.

From what I'd seen on newspapers and magazines, I expected Grey Sullivan to be some warm, fuzzy grandfather type, not an Adonis in a three-piece suit.

“Good to finally meet you, Sam,” he greets, his eyes still focused on the files that the secretary left behind. "I noticed you didn't submit your ID with your resume.”

“Oh, y-yes,” I fumble, reaching into my pocket. “It wasn't uploading properly when I tried submitting it with my application,” I explain, pulling out the fake ID and handing it over.

He takes a good look. I must have passed the small test, because after a moment, he nods, seemingly satisfied.

“You're hired. The job entails chauffeuring me to and from the office, 7 am to 4 pm; that's all. Nothing difficult, really. You can start right about now.”

Reaching into his desk drawer, he retrieves a set of keys. "There's an SUV parked in the lot. I'll meet you there in ten minutes.”

I stare at the keys in Mr. Grey's outstretched hand, my eyes darting between the shiny metal and the fingers that hold them, slender and strong, like branches on an oak tree.

My gaze trails upwards, following the length of his arm to his face, and I'm greeted by a pair of smoldering chocolate-brown eyes that make my heart skip a beat.

“Er… Restroom?” I utter nervously.

“Restroom?” He raises an eyebrow, seemingly amused by the abrupt change in topic. “Down the hall, second door on your left. You'd better hurry, we don't have much time.”

I linger in my seat, paralyzed by indecision, my cheeks burning as I contemplate the disastrous consequences of blood stains on a pair of ivory slacks.

“Get moving, Sam? We don't have much time.” Mr. Grey prompts, eyes fixed on his computer screen.

Slowly, cautiously, I rise to my feet, taking backward steps as I inch away from the desk.

Those pair of smoldering chocolate-brown eyes flicker between the screen and my approach, Mr. Grey's expression shifting from interest to concern.

I plaster a fake smile on my face, and his eyebrows furrow together in a storm of suspicion, but I hold my ground, locking eyes with him as if my life depends on it.

Slowly, step by step, I back out of the room, breaking eye contact only after the door shuts behind me and making a beeline down the hallway.

It's like the heavens have blessed me with a stroke of luck, because Miss Secretary is nowhere to be found on her seat.

***

I'm squirming in the driver’s seat like a kid on a first date, trying to adjust the wad of toilet paper I’ve stuffed in my slacks.

Once in place, I take a deep breath. You got this. Okay, Sarah—no, Sam, you got this.

My gaze shifts to the rearview mirror, and I fiddle with the fake beard, smoothing out any stray hairs.

That's when I catch a glimpse of Mr. Grey striding toward the car.

I quickly adjust my posture, gripping the steering wheel firmly as my attention focuses on the beast of a machine in front of me.

The door opens and slams shut.

There's a thinly veiled irritation in Mr. Grey's gaze as our eyes meet through the rearview mirror.

“I don’t open my doors, Sam. That’s something you should know if you don’t want to be fired before your first day is over."

Heat creeps into my cheeks as I grapple with embarrassment.

“Get moving. We don't have all day.”

Gulp, “Er…" My voice cracks slightly, and I'm mortified. I clear my throat, trying to regain composure. "Where are we headed, sir?”

“Emailed you a schedule for your duties as my personal chauffeur. You should know my destinations without me having to remind you.”

“Y-yes, Of course, sir.” I scramble around, patting down my pockets. Phone, phone, where's my damn phone?

“Reels Empire.” Mr. Grey's voice rumbles. A rich, dark timber that vibrates through the car.

“Yes, boss. Routing to destination,” chimes the car’s automated system.

I force a nervous swallow. My sweaty palms grip the steering wheel, and I try to project an air of professionalism.

On the GPS screen, the route unfolds. My fingers, still shaky, turn the key in the ignition, and the car hums to life.

I fidget in my seat, scooching forward to reach the pedals. I might as well be as short as a hobbit in a land of orcs.

“Adjust the driver's seat, Milan.”

“Noted, Boss.” The computer intones, “Adjusting driver’s seat.”

At Mr. Grey's command, the seat obediently slides into a more manageable position.

“She's Milan. Whenever you need help with anything, just ask her.”

I nod, however. Paranoia creeps in, and I wonder if the computer's monitoring more than just the car's systems… I glance around the dashboard, half-expecting to see blinking lights or a judgy face staring back_