Page 6 of His Little Angel

It’s why we work so goddamn well together.

Whatever exists between us is professional. Always has been. Even when my mind strays—impure, fleeting thoughts that end with nothing more than my hand and a locked door—it means nothing. Men think about women all the time; it’s biology, not sentiment. The reason Mila is fixed in my orbit isn’t desire. It’s constancy. She’s been there. Day after day. Year after year. That’s it. No more. No less.

Which is why the idea of anyone else standing in her spot feels wrong. And this candidate? She isn’t even a fraction of Mila.

“What’s going on?” Mila asks, stepping forward and placing a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder.

The gesture irritates me more than it should.

“I don’t like this one,” I say.

Her mouth parts in disbelief, and I watch her silently count to ten—like she always does when she’s trying to stay professional.

“Sir, all the candidates were handpicked by me. They’re the best available, and I will train them thoroughly. May I ask what about Amy you disliked?”

Amy practically hides behind her like a child clinging to their mother.

“She sat at your desk before it was hers. She messed with your pens. You hate that.” I cross my arms.

Mila’s hazel eyes widen for a split second before she smooths her expression back into neutrality. “Sir, I’m sure she didn’t—”

Then Amy presses closer to her.Actually fucking burrows into her side.

That’s it.

“Mila,” I say quietly, dangerously, “I want her out.”

Mila shuts her eyes for five slow seconds. I watch her inhale, exhale, then open them again.

“Understood,” she sighs.

Mila returns with another woman an hour later. She doesn’t even make it two steps in before her eyes sweep across my office, assessing it like she’s mentally redecorating.

My annoyance spikes.

Mila clears her throat softly. “Sir, this is Bethany. She has eight years of—”

“Mr. Morelli,” Bethany interrupts, extending her hand with a dramatic flutter of lashes. “It’s such an honor. I’ve heard so much about you.”

I stare at the offered hand without moving. Mila’s breath catches—she knows I don’t shake hands.

At all.

Touch is a big thing for me, and it isn’t something I take lightly. Which is why, at twenty-nine, I’ve only slept with three women. All had contracts and expiration dates—and that was eight years ago. While the sex was good, it wasn’t anything outstanding enough to justify the inconvenience of contracts, secrecy, and privacy. None of those women were special enough to return to. If I feel the need, I use my hand.

Bethany awkwardly lowers her arm.

“So,” she says, pretending nothing happened, “Mila said you prefer efficiency. I’m very good with multitasking, and I learn quickly. I’ve been an executive assistant for demanding—”

“You’re wearing too much perfume,” I cut in. “It’s giving me a headache.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh. I—I can tone it down tomorrow.”

“There won’t be a tomorrow,” I hiss under my breath.

“Sir, I haven’t even shown you my—”

“I can smell you from the hallway,” I reply. “That alone disqualifies you.”