Page 17 of For the Plot

“It was real.”

“Damn. Guess I can’t blame the wine.”

“No,” I say, voice tightening slightly. “Are you having second thoughts?”

There’s another pause, and this one isn’t light. It stretches between us, unspoken meaning slipping in through the cracks of our respective silences. I clear my throat and lean against the edge of my desk.

“No.”

“Good, because I reviewed your résumé,” I say, bringing us back to neutral ground. “You’re more than qualified.”

“I was worried I came off desperate. I had three typos in my cover letter and almost submitted a version that started with ‘To whom it may concern and/or tempt.’”

I let that one hit and choose not to react. What I can’t tell is if this is just grown-up Skye, bold and brash with a touch of flirtation.

“I’m glad you followed up,” I say instead.

“Me too,” she replies.

“It’s a temporary position,” I remind her, more for myself than for her. “Sixteen weeks, twenty at most. You’d be working closely with me—calendar, travel, correspondence. Everything my current assistant manages. She’s left an extensive guide, but there will be some onboarding.”

“Sounds doable.”

“You’ll have access to my schedule and full discretion over who gets to see me. It’s a high-trust role.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know.”

That silence comes back again, tighter this time. She’s waiting for me to say more but I don’t.

“Are you always this charming during interviews?” she finally asks, clearly noticing my curt responses and clipped tone.

“Only when I’m coming from a place of desperation.”

She lets out a short, surprised laugh. “Wow. That felt almost honest.”

I glance out the window. “I don’t do well with pretense.”

“Then you might’ve picked the wrong woman.”

“I didn’t.”

Another beat of silence, this one full of something heavier than the rest.

“I’ll send you a formal offer,” I say, trying not to let her sultry voice worm it’s way into my brain. “Start date is this coming Monday. Office hours are pretty standard, but I prefer early starts.”

“Shoot, I’m more of a night owl, but I’ll adapt,” she teases.

“Well, I’m sure there will be some late nights as well.” I don’t intend for it to sound like it does but it’s too late. I can practically feel the tension seeping through the phone.

“I can do that too,” she says a little softer.

I clear my throat. “Great, sounds like we will work well together, then.”

“Alright, Mr. Blackwood,” she says, tone bright again, any shred of tension now dissipated. “Looks like you’ve got me at your beck and call… at least temporarily.”

The sound of those words, her voice calling me that again, shouldn’t land the way it does—heavy and intentional, like she knows the effect it has.