Page 4 of Surprise Me Tonight (Claimed on Sight #1)

Stella

J ess’ question hangs in the air like a challenge and an invitation at the same time.

My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Do I want this job?

The salary is more than I expected. A lot more.

Especially for someone who hasn’t been properly employed in nearly two decades.

And I wouldn’t have to commute into London, which makes the offer even more generous.

That alone should make this an easy yes.

No long train rides. No expensive lunches.

No city hustle I never missed in the first place.

It’s a chance. A real one. I could earn my own income again. Pay for my course without Jeremy’s monthly guilt money sitting like dead weight in my account. I could step out of the shadow of the person who should have no longer any hold over me… but still kind of has.

But it would also mean working for this man.

Callum Wright.

He hasn’t said much since I put him in his place. No apology. No visible discomfort. Just that sharp, unreadable stare. Like he’s still trying to figure out who I am and why I’m in his space.

I want to say he’s arrogant. And maybe he is. But it’s not that simple. There’s something else. The way he looks at me—it’s not dismissive. It’s not leering, either. It’s... intense. Focused. Like he is trying to figure me out. It almost looks like interest.

It unnerves me.

And worse, it does something else, too.

I press my palms to my thighs and take a breath.

I can’t read him and I am not sure if he actually wants me here. He certainly seemed surprised when Jess offered me the position out right. But at least he didn’t sound angry

I clear my throat. “Maybe... maybe you should both talk about it first? And come back to me if you still want to offer me the Executive Assistant position?”

Callum doesn’t blink. “It’s a PA role.”

Something sharp rises in my chest—embarrassment, maybe, or something nearer to defiance. It slips out before I can stop it.

“PA is a rather outdated term.”

The silence stretches for a second. Not hostile. Just tight.

Jess lets out a short laugh. “God, I like her.”

Callum doesn’t respond. His jaw shifts slightly, but his face gives nothing away.

Jess continues, still smiling. “We’ll talk. I’ll give you a ring later this afternoon, but I’m fairly confident it’ll be good news.”

I nod, too quickly. “All right. Thank you.”

I stand, fussing with my cardigan, like that’ll make me feel less as though I’ve prodded a sleeping bear. Callum rises too, slower, more deliberate. From this close, his scent hits me. Clean, warm, maddeningly male.

Brilliant. Just what I need. A crush on my boss before I've even signed an employment contract.

Jess says goodbye from the screen and then the call ends. The screen fades to black, and suddenly Callum and I are left in an awkward silence.

“Thank you,” I say, looking toward Callum, though not quite meeting his eyes.

He gives a single nod. No more than that.

I gather my bag. My hands feel too warm. My spine is straight, chin up, posture perfect—but inside, I’m already second-guessing everything.

This was a mistake. I should never have applied, but I couldn’t stop myself. Even admitting that now feels like a defeat.

“Well,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag. “No need to show me out. I can find my way.”

His brow lifts the slightest bit. “I’ll walk you.”

I almost argue, but think better of it. He’s already heading for the hallway, so I follow, the silence stretching between us like a taut thread.

He doesn’t say a word as we pass through the half-unpacked house. He just walks ahead, hands in his pockets, his steps precise. Controlled.

At the front door, he opens it and steps aside. I pause, unsure if I’m meant to say something. Apologise? Smile? Pretend none of that just happened?

He meets my gaze for the first time since we left the office. “We’ll call you.”

Then the door shuts before I can reply.

I stare at the wood for a beat too long .

Right.

I step back out onto the path, the cool air hitting my face like a quiet reprimand. I make it halfway down the drive before the certainty settles.

I’m not getting the job.

And honestly, I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed.

Possibly both.

By the time I reach the village green, the cold’s settled into my skin. I should go home, but my feet turn toward Steam & Bloom without asking permission.

Francesca’s behind the counter when I walk in, wiping down the glass with one hand and already eyeing me with suspicion.

“Well?” she says, before I’ve even reached the till. “You’ve got that ‘emotionally bruised but pretending to be fine’ look.”

I huff a laugh. “Charming.”

“I try. Cappuccino?”

I nod and find our usual corner table. By the time she joins me with two mugs and a scone we’re probably going to pretend we didn’t mean to eat, I’ve already started picking apart the morning in my head again.

“So,” Fran says, settling into her seat. “How did it go?”

I sigh, blowing gently on the coffee. “Odd.”

“That bad? ”

“No. Not... bad. Just—awkward. Jess was lovely, but the man barely spoke. I think he’s allergic to conversation.”

Fran smirks. “He usually just grunts his order when he comes in here to get his coffee. He's not a small talk person, that's for sure. That’s why I was so surprised when he told me about the job. He gives off strong ‘emotionally constipated’ energy.”

“Fran.”

“Well, it’s true. You know the type. Probably has a colour-coded wardrobe and a panic attack if someone moves his stapler.”

“He didn’t have a stapler,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her eyebrows go up. “Oh? You were paying attention, then.”

I shake my head. “No. I mean. His office wasn’t finished. That’s all.”

“Right. So? What happened?”

I give her the rundown. The questions, Jess’s friendliness, the fact that I felt about as confident as a sixth-former pretending to be a grown-up. I leave out the bit where I snapped at him. Mostly.

Fran listens, sipping her coffee, eyes narrowed with delight. “So, what you’re saying is... it wasn’t for you?”

“It was practice,” I reply firmly. “Good practice. If nothing else, I remembered how to pretend I am confident in an interview.”

She grins. “And how was he? Close up?”

I shrug. “Quiet. Broody. Like he’s carrying the weight of something.”

“Fit though?”

I hesitate. “Didn’t really notice.” Let’s not mention his scent.

Fran arches a brow.

“I didn’t,” I insist, a little too fast.

She leans forward, eyes narrowing like she’s about to cross-examine me in court. “You’re pink.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re lying .”

I focus very hard on my cappuccino, but the heat in my face is already betraying me. Again.

Fran sits back, smug. “Uh-huh. So he’s fit.”

“I said nothing .”

“No, but your cheeks did. Loudly.”

I groan and reach for the scone. “I hope they don’t call me.”

“No you don’t.”

Why does she always have to be right?

By the time I get home, my fingers are frozen and my head won’t stop replaying the last hour in uneven fragments.

The house greets me in its usual quiet. I hang up my bag, kick off my shoes, and tell myself once again that I haven’t made any decisions. Jess said she’d call this afternoon. It’s not official. There’s still time to politely back away and pretend it never happened.

But as I walk upstairs and open the wardrobe, the lie starts to wear thin.

Black trousers. Two cardigans, nearly identical. A line of plain blouses that wouldn’t offend a soul. The kind of clothes you wear when you don’t want anyone to look at you too long, or ask questions.

I stare at the row for a long moment, then shut the door.

If I were going to take the job — and that’s still an if — I don't have enough office worthy outfits. But then again… it’s not a normal office, is it?

He works from home. The man greeted me in jeans. Not casual-smart. Just jeans-jeans. And a T-shirt. No collar. No apology.

Maybe a full office wardrobe isn’t even necessary. Maybe this is a smart-casual setup. Maybe I’m bloody overthinking this.

I sit on the edge of the bed, pull out my phone, and open the shopping app I always scroll but never buy from.

Bigger sizes. Smart casual. Tops with actual shape. Dresses that suggest the person inside them isn’t just going through the motions.

I swipe past the usual navy-and-blush combinations and pause on a dark green wrap dress. Clean lines. A bit of stretch. Structured enough to look capable, soft enough to appear comfortable and simple enough not to scream for attention.

I imagine walking into that house, into that mess of an office, in something like that. Standing in front of his desk, composed, collected, and very clearly not someone to be overlooked.

Stupid.

I’m not doing this to get a look from him. I’m not. I just don’t want to fade. Not again. Not around someone who already made me feel invisible once.