Page 6 of Surprise Me Tonight (Claimed on Sight #1)

Stella

I stare at the mirror, arms crossed, like I’m waiting for it to make a decision for me.

I’ve done the prep. Two weeks commuting into London for training, shadowing Jess, learning how to slot myself into the well-oiled machine that is Callum Wright’s business.

Not that he was ever part of the training.

He showed up once. Didn’t speak to me. Just looked.

That look that’s not quite a smile, not quite a frown, just an intensity that makes it feel like he’s seeing more than you’ve said.

And still, it did something to me.

I shift my weight and glance at the dress again. The forest green wrap one I ordered late at night and immediately told myself I wasn’t buying for him.

It’s fitted. Clean lines, a soft v-neck, a bit of leg. Not over the top. But not something I’d normally wear, either. Definitely not for work.

I smooth the fabric over my hips and frown at the mirror.

Am I too old for this ?

At twenty-five, this would’ve been confident. At thirty, maybe daring. At forty-two, divorced, with a daughter at university and a wardrobe full of sensible black trousers, it feels like a bloody statement.

Who am I dressing like this for?

Not him. Not that grumpy, silent, frustrating man who can’t even say good morning.

But I remember how he looked at me. That one time, in the London office. The way his eyes dragged from my face all the way down to my sensible clothes. Like he was taking stock. Or judging me. Hard to say with that face of his.

It got under my skin. More than it should’ve.

And now I’m standing here in this dress, wondering if I’m trying to look like the women he probably dates — sleek, effortless twenty-somethings who know where all their bones are and don’t have a drawer full of sports bras.

I reach for the cardigan. Pause. Put it back.

No.

If he doesn’t like it, he can look the other way. Or not look at all.

I didn’t buy the dress for him.

But if it turns his head, I won’t be apologising for it either.

The drive to his house is short, but my brain manages to spin itself in circles the whole way.

I park at the end of the gravel drive and sit for a second, hands resting on the steering wheel. Jess gave me a key last week in case I’d need it when he’s on calls or travelling. It’s in my bag. I could just walk up, let myself in, and act like this is all perfectly normal.

But this is my first day. First time stepping into his space as more than a job candidate. It feels... rude. Presumptuous. Like announcing I belong before he’s even said hello.

I step out of the car and walk up the path, my heels clicking far louder than they should. At the door, I hesitate. Then press the bell.

Nothing.

I wait. Birds. Wind. But not a sound inside.

I ring it again.

A few seconds later, the door swings open.

Callum stands there, mobile pressed to his ear, speaking into it in that low, clipped way of his.

“Tell them if the figures don’t make sense by midday, I’m pulling the proposal… yeah. No, that’s not my problem. You tell him that.”

He scowls at me as if I’ve personally caused whatever financial drama he’s knee-deep in. Then his eyes do that slow, deliberate sweep — from my hair to the hem of my dress and back again.

My skin prickles. The blush hits before I can stop it.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say good morning. Just jerks his head slightly, still talking into the phone.

“Come in.”

Then he turns and walks off down the hallway, his voice disappearing with him.

I stand for a beat too long on the threshold, then pull the door shut behind me and follow, clutching my bag like it might anchor me to the floor .

The house smells like coffee and clean wood and something faintly expensive.

I walk carefully through the hall, trying not to notice the way his voice carries from the office, rough and impatient and far too comfortable giving orders.

So this is how it starts.

I walk through the living room towards the office.

The chaos I remember from my interview is gone.

No boxes, no clutter, no stray cables or shoes by the stairs.

The place is pristine now — floors gleaming, walls bare, everything in its place.

Clinical. Like a high-end Airbnb that’s never been lived in.

He disappears into his office, still on the phone. I stop just outside the doorway, not sure if I’m meant to wait or walk in so I wait.

His voice is low, sharp.

“No, I said midday. If the numbers aren’t there, we pull the offer. No discussion.”

A pause. Silence. Then a clipped “Fine,” and the call ends.

He turns, sees me still standing there, and frowns.

“Did Jess not give you a key?”

“She did. I just thought, first day, it might be polite to—”

“Right,” he cuts in. No thank you. No nod of appreciation. Just that same brusque edge. He turns without another word and strides across the hall.

“Your desk’s this way.”

I follow when he opens the door opposite his and gestures me in without looking at me.

It’s small. No windows. The white walls are bare.

There’s a desk pushed into the corner — not the grand oak type he has, but a plain white one that screams budget-friendly.

A monitor sits on it, connected to a docking station for my laptop.

A small set of shelves hold a handful of neatly arranged folders.

On the other side of the room, there’s a round meeting table and a TV mounted on the wall.

Functional. Efficient. Completely soulless.

“Jess set it up,” he says. “You’ve got your logins. Anything else, email her. Or me. Preferably her.”

He pauses in the doorway. “Get settled. Then come to my office. I’ll run you through what I need today.”

And with that, he disappears again.

I take a breath, slow and shallow, and turn back to the desk.

The docking station works — a small miracle. I connect my laptop, boot it up, then take out the tablet Jess gave me before I left London. Slim, lightweight, already loaded with apps and logins, company-branded wallpaper and everything. It feels new. A bit surreal.

I check my reflection in the dark screen before I press the power button. Still me. Still not sure if it was the right decision to take this job. But it is too late for second thoughts now. I’m here to make his life easier and that’s exactly what I will do if he likes it or not.

I gather the tablet and cross the hall.

His office door is open, but he doesn’t hear me as I step in.

The room’s changed completely since my interview. No boxes, no mess. Everything is in place now — polished oak desk, sleek shelves, matte black fixtures, and a few framed patents on the wall. The carpet’s thick underfoot, the furniture looks heavy, expensive, cool .

This is a CEO’s office. A power play in interior form.

He’s facing the desk, leaning over something on the screen, one hand resting on the table, the other on the mouse. He’s wearing a fitted blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

His tattoos are on full display, dark and striking, dense patterns curving up to where his sleeves end. There’s another hint of a tattoo creeping out from beneath the open top button of his shirt, curling just under his collarbone.

I stare longer than I should.

His voice cuts through the air without looking up.

“You just going to stand there?”

My mouth goes dry.

“I—sorry,” I say, stepping in properly. “You said to come over when I was set up.”

He finally looks up, and when his eyes meet mine, the intensity of it steals my breath. I can’t remember anyone ever looking at me like that.

“Right,” he says. “Let’s get started.”