First Taste (The Lust List: Devon Stone #1) (2 page)

I’d like to say I don’t end up driving three times around the fancy fountain, trying to figure out the appropriate place to park, but yeah, that’s me. I finally notice where the driveway extends to one side of the house, and I pull up behind the only other car I see. It’s a freshly waxed, black Lexus—a shiny onyx compared to the faded denim-color of my twenty-year-old Saturn. I get out of the car but can’t bring myself to take a step closer to the monstrous structure in front of me. Where am I? Whose house is this? Glancing at the screen of my phone, I have eight minutes to go. My nerves are still too unreliable to go inside early. I need to feel relaxed enough to know I won’t go in and vomit right in front of my interviewer.

It’s quiet out here with the peaceful sounds of the Pacific Ocean coming from the frigging backyard. The soothing rhythm of the crashing waves draws me to it, and I walk around the back corner of the house to see what, I assume, is a spectacular sight.

Like something out of a dream, the view is unimaginable. A stone patio leads to an infinity pool that appears to drop straight into the ocean. An iron, spiral staircase leads the way to a second level upstairs, and beyond that one, other similar balconies extend out the back of the house. I’m jealous of whoever gets to leave their room and immediately enter a paradise. I try to stay out of direct view of the enormous windows spanning the walls along the back of the mansion as I make my way closer to the far end of the pool. A short, hidden stairway brings you down to the beach level where these people seem to have this part of Mother Nature all to themselves.

I’d do anything to live in a place like this. I don’t need to even go inside. I’d be happy pitching a tent right there on the sand. Fall asleep to the whooshing sound of the water. Wake up to the salty, clean air of a new day…

There. Now I feel at ease, like I can handle today.

“Are you lost?”

I almost jump out of my skin as I whirl around to see who’s interrupted my moment of serenity.

One look at him, and I’m right back to square one. My throat catches, and I feel my palms clamming up.

This guy is unbelievably gorgeous. Tall, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and he’s dressed like…like he belongs here. I sure as hell don’t, and I’m feeling that certainty increase by the second. If this is his house, then he figured out life long before me. I just graduated with a bachelor’s in Hospitality and can’t snag a job to save my life. I end up with shitty, part-time gigs just to scrape by. Food service instead of a flourishing career. A run-down apartment instead of a… I look around at this magnificent mansion and the beautiful man standing before me.

He’s holding a suit jacket, and the navy blue tie around his neck is loose and framing a white dress shirt, its top button undone. Please tell me this is Mr. Keenly. I’ll do my best not to screw up if I can just get a chance to work for this guy.

But who am I kidding? I’m not even talking to him now as he stands there with a confused expression on his face.

“Um…sorry. No, I’m—uh—actually here to meet with Mr. Keenly. Is that you?”

“God, no. That’s the asshole planning Saturday’s party. You working for him?” He checks me out, furrowing his brow, and I’m reminded of the creep at the front gate.

Of course he’s not a party planner. He’s got to be a model or something. I’m an idiot for asking. “No. Not yet anyway. I’m supposed to have an interview… But I may have changed my mind.”

As inviting as he is in appearance, he seems to be tense. Maybe even angry. His fist clenches a phone, and he pushes his loose hair away from his face. However it had been styled this morning, it’s disheveled now, like he just got done fighting with someone or having sex… A vulgar image flashes across my mind. Him. Me. My back up against a wall.

Snap out of it, O.

Is he mad at me? Did I insult him? I check my phone to see I have two minutes left. It’ll buzz at 12:30, yet I still feel the need to double check in case I set the wrong alarm or my phone decided to malfunction. You never know.

Right now, I want to flee. Forget the interview. I can’t stand out here any longer making an ass out of myself. I can just leave. Maddie can help me with rent…again, and I’m sure I can find a job at some chain restaurant or a motel needing an overnight concierge. Something low-key, simple. I’m certain if I stick around, what’s waiting for me inside will be anything but low-key
or
simple.

I realize from an outside perspective, I’m just standing here, fidgeting and staring at the tan skin peeking out from under my hot stranger’s shirt collar. He’s clearly noticed, and a mischievous grin replaces his former scowl.

“So you changed your mind? Want to bail?” He glances up toward a window and returns his gaze to me. “If you need an excuse to get out of the interview, I can fill your schedule with something else…”

What is he talking about? He doesn’t even know me. Is it the dress? Dammit, I look easy, don’t I? Thanks a lot, Maddie. But what kind of guy just puts it all out there like that?

I turn and start toward the door right as my phone begins vibrating. If I have to choose between responding to that obvious come-on and dealing with an awkward job interview, then I’ll go find Mr. Keenly now.

“So what’s your name?”

This guy is walking alongside of me, not taking my silence as a hint.

“Huh? I have to go in now.”

“I just asked your name. If you can’t answer that then, damn, this interview’s going to suck for you.”

I laugh but try to stifle it. I shouldn’t encourage him. I’m getting some serious weird vibes from him, like he’s used to getting anything he wants. With a face and body like that, I can imagine it’s the truth.

“My name’s Olivia. Margot.”

“Well, Olivia. Good luck to you.” We’ve reached the huge double doors at the front of the house, and he opens one for me. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

We step inside, and the look on his face shifts. His eyes turn cold, and he marches upstairs. So he
is
mad. But, thankfully, not at me. I’m not sure I’d want to be on his bad side. Then again, I’m not sure I want to be on his good side either. His presence is overwhelming, and he demands attention. I imagine dating him would be exhausting.

Dating? No. I’m here for an interview.

“Miss Margot, correct?” A stubby, well-dressed man is waiting in a doorway to my right. I rush over realizing I may officially be late thanks to Mr. No-Name.

I reach out my hand to shake his. This guy will be much easier to talk to now that I’ve survived the encounter with that anonymous male model.
You’ve got this girl. Now kick some interview ass.

“Thank you so much for meeting with me.”

“Yes, I see you found the place alright—”

“This is bullshit!” Stomping footsteps interrupt us as Mr. Hunk follows an older, white-haired man back down the stairs. The old man is dressed in a robe—in the middle of the day—and seems to be nursing a glass of scotch, but I can see from their scowls alone, they’re father and son. So I assume he’s
the
old man according to the gate guard. “You and Kaidan know what you’re doing, and you’re screwing me over in the meantime.”

He follows him into another room across the foyer, slamming the door behind them. Their arguing continues, muffled through the walls.

Mr. Keenly rolls his eyes. “Let’s speak in here where it’s quieter.”

“Does that happen a lot?” I motion to the chaos coming from the other room. Dreamy guy is still yelling, and I’m more intrigued by that than the impending interview. I gulp and remind myself I need to focus on the task at hand so I don’t blow it.

“You haven’t worked with them before? This family is intense, so brace yourself.”

I follow him into an office. I can’t help but be mesmerized by the mere size of everything. From the chandelier back in the entryway to the massive desk taking up the center of this room, I’m certain all of my belongings would fit in a single closet in this house—with plenty of room for myself and my growing doubt.

I feel torn. This is the nicest house I’ve ever been in, and to work in it… A part of me still wants to run. This is too much. I don’t belong.

“Welcome to my office away from my office. I do so many parties here, I just work in the residence while I’m planning. Makes it easier to get all the details right.”

“Of course.” Here we go. There’s no getting out of it now.

Mr. Keenly motions toward a desk, and I sit across from him in a plush, upholstered chair. I could nap in this thing. The desk is shiny and free of dust and clutter, and a massive paperweight looks out of place holding down a scrawny stack of notes. It could probably be better used anchoring a ship. Keenly snatches a pen from a marble cup and begins knocking it against the surface of the desk.
Tap, tap.

“So a little about the job,” he begins. I focus on my breathing as I listen.
In, out. In, out
. “I coordinate a variety of events here and around the city. I’m a very busy man and have garnered high respect, so I’m seeking out an assistant who can, essentially, help me be in two places at once. An assistant must be able to make decisions on my behalf. They must possess excellent judgment and a professional image.”

I’m distracted by his tapping but so far, I think I can handle all this.

He continues, “At Platinum Planning, we’re an all-inclusive event planning agency. We have our own in-house catering division with renowned chefs and experienced staff. We handle furnishings, decorating, scheduling, and, of course, event day coordination. Our events are flawless—always have been under my watch. Does this sound like a position for which you’d excel?”

Think carefully. This could be a dream job. “Absolutely. Without a doubt. I—”

“Do you feel you possess the aptitude to make swift, flawless decisions?”

Aptitude? Yes. Ability? Well, I don’t have the cleanest record. I tend to overthink and screw up. “I’m very diligent when it comes to details and have excellent insight that will help ensure my decisions align to what you would expect.”
So far, so good, O.

“Alright. And tell me about how well you interact with others. How are you with large crowds, high-profile guests, your confidence as a hostess?”

My nails dig into the arm of the chair as the thought alone—of catering to important people, of having their attention on me—brings back the same thumping in my chest as before. “Good.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “I mean, I’m good in social situations. Have no problem with them.”

Mr. Keenly eyes me with suspicion as he continues his
tap, tapping
. “Tell me about your experience,” he says, sifting through a folder with his free hand and pulling out my resumé.

“Well, I received a Bachelors in Hospitality Management, graduating summa cum laude with a perfect 4.0 GPA.”

“Mhmm.”
Tap, tap. Tap.

“…And during my last semester I had the honor of interning with Striker Events and Media—”

“And they are?” He’s not sounding impressed…at all.

I try to steady my voice. “They host events at a number of country clubs and hotels along the West Coast.”

His tapping halts, and now he’s glaring down at my resumé as if searching for a secret code. He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose like he has a sudden headache. “And what did you do as an intern?” The word sounds drenched in animosity.

What did I do? I picked up garbage and wrapped utensils in cloth napkins. I almost choke trying to come up with a spin to make my minuscule experience sound worthy. “I…uh…assisted in the pristine, impeccable design of each event location and ensured the amenities were top quality.”

“And were any of these
pristine
events catered to the rich and famous?”

I consider the events I attended. A graduation. Sweet sixteens. A couple of weddings.

“Every one of our clients were high class. And the events were planned and hosted to the…highest of standards. And the guest of honor was our hi—highest focus.” Who am I kidding?

Keenly stares at me blankly. Maybe I’ve pushed the bullshitting too far. My stomach is full of knots, and I’m ignoring the impulse to run away.

“With the highest of my patience being pushed, Miss Margot, I’ve heard enough.”

“No, wait. I—”

He holds his hand up to stop me. “This isn’t some middle class, weekend theme party thrown together by some low-rate party planners.” The pompous man closes his folder, leaving my resumé lying on the table next to a leather organizer and a gold-plated miniature globe. I’d happily pick any spot on that shiny, tiny world to disappear to right this second. “We’re talking Hollywood elite here. You’re in the midst of American royalty. And it takes more than some intern to pull off the quality of events that take place in this very residence. You have to keep up, and quite frankly, I’m far from convinced that you—”

“But sir, I can do it. I know I don’t… I may not be…” There has to be something I can say to redeem myself. “Please. I can prove—”

“You have to be kidding. Begging will not get you any points here.” He looks toward the closed office door and then down at his watch. “I’m on a tight schedule. There are other interviews. Other candidates. Many of which who’ve made names for themselves. If you want to work with some of the most influential, important people in this country, I suggest you do the same… Somewhere else.”