Page 11 of Selfish Suit (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #1)

THE INTERN

IVY

T he interior of Mr. Sutton’s car looks as if it’s never been touched. The wood grain wraps around his digital dashboard, thinning out to the side panels and dissolving into custom dark blue carpet that covers his floors.

It’s so clean that I’m scared to leave a fingerprint.

Keeping my gaze forward, I try to focus on the road ahead and not the way the seat hugs my back. The faint scent of cedar and spice coming off his skin. The slow, effortless way he weaves through traffic like Manhattan bends for him.

“You’re not going to ask me where I live?” I say eventually.

“Why would I?” He glances over at me with a smirk. “I have your employee file. Remember?”

Right. My cheeks warm as I turn back to the window.

“Are you still delivering for Uber on the side?” he asks as we approach a red light.

“No, but it’s not by choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some customer personally called the CEO and said that I had a non-compete in my employment contract.”

“That customer was simply looking out for everyone else who expects good food delivery service.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help biting back a smile.

We fall into silence, but it’s not as awkward.

For now.

He makes a brief stop at a cafe and buys me a to-go dinner, and I devour every morsel in appreciation.

When we cross into my part of Brooklyn, my stomach begins to knot. The view of my neighborhood from his custom-tinted windows looks completely different than it does from my car.

“You know what?” I spot one of my neighbors who I owe twenty bucks to. “Instead of dropping me off at home, just pull over at the bodega at the corner. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“What?” He glances over at me. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I need to get some food for dinner.”

“We just ate dinner…”

“Yeah, well, this is for while I work on my projects alone tonight,” I say. “I need to buy a few things and there’s no parking outside my place anyway. This is way easier.”

He doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t slow down either.

As if he can tell I’m tempted to jump out of the car, he locks the doors as we ride past the bodega.

And then, as if fate is playing some type of cruel joke, he pulls into one of the surprisingly empty spots in front of my building.

“This is where you really live?” he asks, looking offended.

I nod.

I can’t even blame him.

The front door is half off the hinges. The foyer’s entry light is flickering, beckoning anyone to come and see if it’s haunted. An old mattress—with a lovely orange pee stain—is leaning against the side of the steps.

“Okay, Miss Locke.” He puts the car in park and steps out to open my door. He doesn’t return to the driver’s side, though.

He steps with me onto the sidewalk.

“Whoa,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Walking with you inside.”

“I don’t need you to do that.” I shake my head. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“This isn’t a debate.” He presses his key fob lock. “Lead the way.”

“It’s really not that serious.” There’s no way I can let him inside to see anything else. “It’s not like this is a hotbed for crime.”

“Ay, finance bro!” The universe betrays me again as someone calls out to him.

Clay, the guy from Apartment 4B, jogs over to us and pulls out a knife.

“Hand over your wallet and your keys and I’ll let you live,” he says. “Move.”

Mr. Sutton blinks at him, looking completely unfazed.

“Now, motherfucker.”

“Clay, please stop.” I sigh. “This is my boss…”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, man.” Clay grins, putting the knife away. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“You just threatened to kill me.”

“It was an empty threat.” He shrugs. “You’d be surprised how often that works on business dudes, though. I can’t help but try it every time.”

I shoot him a pointed look. “Go home.”

He salutes me and slips into the alley.

I head up the steps, key in hand, and glance back.

“You don’t need to come inside,” I say. “You’ve come far enough.”

“Open the door, Ivy.”

“We’re on a first-name basis now?” I narrow my eyes. “You think the promotion and the raise were just pretext to seduce me in my kitchen?”

“No,” he says. “And for the record, I doubt I’d have to force you to sleep with me. You’d do it willingly.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“And if I wanted to pay you for sex,” he adds, voice low and hard, “I would’ve paid a lot more.”

My pulse stutters.

He steps in. Close.

One hand braces on the doorframe beside my head, the other ghosting just behind my hip. Not touching—not quite—but close enough to make my breath catch. His scent—cedar and clean spice—wraps around me, thick and dizzying.

“Open,” he says again, his voice lower now, more dangerous. “The door.”

I oblige, pushing it open and letting him follow behind me.

The lights are off, so I walk over to the battery-powered surge and step on the switch, waiting for it to power on.

As the LED lamps begin to flicker, the truth I’ve been hiding from family and friends is on full display.

My air mattress lays on the floor—fully made up in the Four Seasons sheets I brag home about.

Instead of a fridge, I have a stack of brightly labeled coolers, and on a whiteboard that props up my makeshift wardrobe rack, all my debts are listed in order—right next to the former Uber Eats tips I calculate for savings.

Everything else in the apartment is just… there.

When the lights are fully illuminated, I see Dominic looking around with his jaw clenched.

“Would you like a tour?” I try to lighten the sudden dip in mood. “Well, I mean, you’ll need to take your shoes off and then try not to step too hard on the floorboards by the window because?—”

“Pack up your shit,” he interrupts.

“What?” I cross my arms. “Why?”

“Pack. Up. Your. Shit,” he repeats himself. “You don’t live here anymore.”

“You could just say ‘no’ to the tour.” I laugh. “I appreciate the ride home. I’ll see you tomorrow, and you can leave the same way you came.”

“Exactly,” he says. “With you.”

“Come again?”

“I’m not letting you stay another night here, and I’m not leaving without you,” he says, glancing at his watch. “So either start packing, or I’ll call someone to pack everything for you.”

“You think you can just make me move out of my apartment?”

“Can you ask your ridiculous questions and pack your things at the same time?” he asks. “It would prevent me from taking more drastic measures…”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“What part of what I’m saying is unclear, Ivy?” The way my name falls from his lips is dangerous.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead-ass serious.”

“Well, I need time to go through things and?—”

“Tracey?” His phone is against his ear, and he’s dismissed me like we’re at work. “I’m going to send you an address and I need you to get me—” He looks around my room. “Six full sets of luggage within the hour. Thank you.”

He ends the call and leans against a door.

“There,” he says. “You have an hour’s time.”