First Taste (The Lust List: Devon Stone #1) (3 page)

I’m frozen in place as Keenly picks up my resumé, wads it up, and tosses it into the trashcan near his feet. I bet that thing cost more than my monthly grocery budget. I want to say something, anything, to mend my broken ego, but Keenly clears his throat loudly, and I take it as my cue to leave.

I should’ve known better. I should’ve fled when I had the chance. Working here? I’d be an even bigger nervous wreck. Famous people—they’re always in the spotlight. Always surrounded by tons of people. Always composed and personable—ready to smile for the cameras with their perfect, bleached teeth. Their lives are beyond anything I can comprehend.

I cower out of the office.
I can see myself out, thanks.
I wish I had the nerve to get into Keenly’s face and tell him off. Asshole.

Instead I close the office door behind me and sigh with relief. It’s easier to breathe in this vast, open foyer. Floor to ceiling windows invite all the day’s light inside. Two marble staircases curve up to the second floor. And an enormous sparkling chandelier hangs from the ceiling resembling an orb of dripping diamonds rather than a light fixture. I think the most expensive lamp in my house cost $30—and the bulb is burnt out.

The door across from me opens, and before I can make my escape, I’m staring into the icy blue eyes of my mystery man. Maybe I can take him up on his offer now. Let him take my mind off my own failures. I’m sure he can distract me. I’m sure he can do all sorts of things to me.

He gives me a once-over. “Are you crying?” he asks.

Dammit. I didn’t even notice. “No.”

I bring my hand to my face to wipe away the trail of tears that’s giving away my personal shame. There goes my chance with this guy. Now he can laugh at me, a perfect follow-up to the thorough berating I just endured. And later, an audience will have the opportunity to chuck tomatoes at my face. I’m an all out spectacle.

He walks closer, and I can only imagine the puffy eyes and smudged makeup I’m sporting. He stops in front of me, but instead of leaving any amount of personal space between us, he’s standing over me, his tie skimming the front of my dress. I try to look away, but he lifts my chin. His fingers seem to possess an electricity that travels through my body. Without speaking, he takes me in, demanding my eye contact as his own gaze scans my hair, my jaw, my lips, my neck. A shiver runs through me, and a grin reappears on his face. What’s so funny?

“Are you always this rigid?”

Oh honey, you don’t know the half of it.

I’m in a daze, entranced by his closeness. His cologne smells like lying in tangled sheets in the middle of a field—musky and herbal at the same time. It’s intoxicating. I don’t know what he wants, but I’m certain I’d do whatever it is.

That thought alone snaps me back to reality, and I step back. What am I doing?

“I take it a congratulations is not in order?” he asks.

Is he going to be rude now too? “I didn’t get it. It’s fine. I was just leaving.”

“Did you want the job?”

I want you. Forget the job. “It’s just a job. I can find another.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Did you want this one?”

A chance to work in this level of luxury? The chance to see this guy again? Hell yeah, I want it. “Yes.”

He walks past me into the office. “Hey, Keenly.”

“Devon, my favorite young man…”

Devon. Hot guy has a name now.

Keenly sees me standing behind Devon, and for a moment he glares at me. But he erases his face of any expression and plasters on a practiced smile instead. “What can I do for you?”

“Stop your shit.” Devon’s voice is calm, but there’s an authoritative tone to it that’s just as threatening as him storming through the house yelling earlier. “You have a job to do, and as far as I can see, you’re wasting my family’s time and money fishing around for employees to do your busywork for you. Here’s your new hire. Olivia Margot. When do you want her to start?”

Devon reaches back to me, flicking his hand to summon me forward. I take a couple steps, not sure what’s going on here.

“With all due respect, sir,” Keenly says while struggling to keep his composure. “This woman would not be a valuable asset to your time or money. She has none of the qualifications needed—”

“You work for me, Greg. And now she works for you. Is that clear?” Devon doesn’t have to move an inch to seem like he’s bearing down on the little man. His tone, alone, seems to be effective. “If you continue to argue, she’ll replace you entirely.”

Keenly releases an audible sigh but doesn’t object any further. Instead, he leans down to grab a briefcase, plopping it onto the desk and sifting through its contents. He pulls out a paper clipped bunch of pages and lays them on the edge of the desk rather than handing them to me directly.

“These need to be filled out. Bring them in tomorrow.”

“What time?” I ask, meekly.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Devon swipes the paperwork off the desk, handing it to me, and just as swiftly, he directs me back out of the office, his hand pressing against the small of my back. Such a casual touch, but his hand sends instant warmth deep into me. I could melt. I don’t know where this is heading. It feels like an out-of-body experience.

Back out of the office, Devon heads down a hallway before I can thank him. But I really should thank him, right?

I trace his steps down the hall and through a doorway on the right—the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, pulling out a beer. A little early for that, in my opinion, but I won’t judge the person who just scored me a potential career-building job.

“Hey. Um…Sorry. I just wanted to say thanks.” I lean against the doorway, trying to keep my calm. Devon opens the bottle, taking a couple gulps before he even turns toward me.

“You know, if you want to show your thanks…” He looks at me with the same provoking expression he gave me outside.

Does he expect me to return the favor by sleeping with him? “No. Thank you. But. I’m not like th—I don’t. I just… You didn’t have to do that for me, that’s all.”

“Oh, I didn’t do it for you.” He moves toward some cabinets, rummaging through their contents. “I love pissing off that dickwad. He and my dad have been buddy-buddy since their college days. Now he mooches off my father however he can. I figure, if you’re any good, then it works out. Cool. But if you’re as awful as Greg seems to think you are…” He laughs. “Oh man, that’ll make this weekend much more entertaining.”

And with that he leaves through another doorway. No goodbye. No more sexual advances. He just leaves, and I’m dumbfounded. I don’t know whether to hate him or fantasize about him. And I can’t pinpoint how I went from bombing an interview to following this Devon guy around like a schoolgirl chasing after her crush.

It doesn’t matter. I got a job. And I’ll be seeing more of Devon soon enough.

“Olivia. You seem distracted today.”

Dr. Maureen Shannon sits across from me in a high-backed armchair, its upholstery a soft pink with little blue birds all over. I’m slouching in her forest green, corduroy love seat, twisting my phone in circles on my lap while my brain replays my interactions with Devon.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

I blink and focus on her. She wears a yellow skirt and jacket over a white, buttoned blouse. Her blond hair is pulled back from her face, and her entire ensemble makes me want to call her Sunshine. “Yeah. I’m fine.” I sit up straighter, trying to push out images of Devon—his strong jawline, his smooth skin, his very kissable mouth. “I…um…had another interview today.”

“That’s wonderful. How did it go?”

Awful. Worse than awful. “It went well. It’s a temp job as an assistant to a party planner. I’ll be able to afford rent.” I’m downplaying the extravagance of it all. I wouldn’t know where to start if I tried to describe the mansion and upcoming party and Devon.

“And how do you feel about the job itself? Or rather, how is this job making
you
feel?”

“I’ll be working around a lot of people—important people.” And Devon. What is his deal? He’s nice to me. He hits on me. Then he completely brushes me to the side like I’m…like I’m nothing.

“When you say ‘important people’, be careful to not belittle your own worth. You’re important as well—”

“Um, no. I’ll be working with famous people. Rich people. Influential and powerful people.” According to what Mr. Keenly claimed, at least. “It wasn’t a jab against myself.”

“Very well. Tell me how our experiment is going. How have your days been?”

She’s talking about my alarms. I don’t see what the problem is with them. I grip my phone tighter as I answer. “Fine. I’ve been fine. Check the clock a lot more often, but it’s okay. I did have to turn them on today. But just today.”

“And how many did you set?”

I look down at my phone, though I already know the answer. “Eight.”

“Can you tell me what they were all for?”

Of course I can. I always can. I recite them in order. “8:00 wake up. 11:00 get ready. 12:00 leave for interview. 12:30 interview. 2:30 leave for this appointment. 3:00 appointment. 5:00 make dinner. 8:00 set tomorrow’s schedule.” I shouldn’t have admitted that last one. This is the closest thing to exposure therapy I’ve agreed to, and I’d promised I’d try my hardest.

“Do you plan to use them tomorrow?”

I know damn well I will. I have to go back to that mansion in the morning. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Good. Keep working on that. Next month, I want to discuss the next step I’d like you to try.”

“Which would be…?” I don’t want to try anything new. If I’m being honest, I don’t want to even come here. She’s the only person that makes me talk about my brother, Jared. But that’s why I keep coming back…
because
she’s the only person that makes me talk about him.

“Don’t worry about it. For now, you know what we’re working on.”

Don’t worry about it? That’s an evil trick. She said that knowing I will worry for the entire next month.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, as though she wouldn’t if I said no. “How would the events of your brother’s passing have changed if you relied on all these alarms back then?”

She’s asked me this before, so I think she’s checking to see if my answer’s changed. It hasn’t. I think back to five years ago.

I’d skipped school to hang out with my friends instead. Tyler and I were dating at the time. He had an older brother who’d sell us weed for unreasonable prices. Then Tyler and I and our little group of friends would hang out in Tyler’s pool house wasting away entire days sometimes. And when it was just me and Tyler, those days would be spent naked, getting lost in each other. His tan, Spanish skin. My purple-streaked hair. It was easy to be carefree and spontaneous back then.

It was a Friday, and I was still high when I finally left to pick up my little brother. I’d be late, but fourteen-year-old Jared couldn’t do anything about it even if he did get mad. I was doing him the favor. Pulling into the high school, I was too busy thinking up excuses for my teachers in case they noticed me in my car. I didn’t notice the cluster of police cars blocking my usual route to the parking lots until I had to slam on my brakes to avoid rear-ending one of them.

“Shit.”

I looked around, paranoid. Did anybody see me do that?

That’s when I noticed the fire truck. The ambulance. The flashing lights from the cop cars. The ‘Do Not Cross’ yellow tape. All blocking off the familiar entrance to the woods to the right of the school. So many kids—including myself—took that path leading to a half-assed tree house built by some freshmen several years before. A group of seniors back then had taken it over, and ever since it’s where we’d all go to skip a class or smoke a cigarette or compare the tastes of the liquor we’d stolen from our parents, hiding it in our makeshift flasks of lotion bottles and medicine containers. But our safe-haven would never be the same.

I take a deep breath, not wanting to remember the rest. I glance at the clock hanging on the wall near a cheerful inspirational poster encouraging me to persevere. This appointment was so close to being over. Thank god.