Page 38 of Man of the Year

The library is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the antique desk lamp. Rosenberg stands near the mahogany bookshelf, his back to me. I watch, my breath shallow.

He tugs at a row of faux books, reaches behind them, and pulls out a to-go McDonald’s cup. He sips through the straw right there, greedily, not moving, not sitting down. There’s only one thing men can be that thirsty for—booze. I should know—my dad is a prime example.

My stomach twists. It feels wrong, watching him, like it always is when you discover people’s shameful secrets. Rosenberg’s shoulders loosen just slightly—I know a fix when I see one. For a moment, I almost feel bad for him, then remember why I’m here.

A creak beneath my foot gives me away. Startled, Rosenberg spins around and glares at me.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, keeping my voice soft. I step into the library with a tray in my hand and close the door behind me. “I thought one of the guests was sneaking in here, and we had instructions to make sure no one does. For your privacy, sir.”

His jaw tics, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He cracks his neck, then tilts his head toward the door. “It’s all right. You can go.”

Not a chance.

Steeling my spine, I approach, conjuring an obedient smile, my eyes on the cup. “I can take that…”

Rosenberg pulls it toward him. “That’s okay.”

“It looks almost empty, sir. I can refill it for you,” I say, reaching for the cup.

The speed with which Rosenberg yanks it away from me is hilarious. In fact, he’s so quick that he bangs his elbow against the shelf, and the plastic lid with a straw pops off his cup, dropping to the floor.

The smell hits me instantly—rich and sharp. Whiskey. Not even diluted.

I sniff the air, making sure Rosenberg notices.

He inhales sharply, his eyes on my nostrils as anger flashes across his eyes.

“I’ll clean this up, sir,” I murmur nervously. “I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”

His mouth tightens. “It’s fine,” he grits out.

“No worries, sir. I’ll take care of this,” I say as I kneel beside him, set the tray down, pick up the lid and straw, and dab at the floor with a napkin.

My kneeling is intentional. I don’t want him to be angry, I want him in charge. More than that—I need his trust.

I look up and catch his gaze as he assesses the lower part of my body. To be precise, my butt. He catches me looking at him, and his gaze locks with mine.

I know this gaze, the intensity, the silent question,“Is this what I think it is?”The seconds of doubt—even powerful men have those, calculating, figuring out pros and cons, whether to go for an opportunity or not to bother.

That’s Rosenberg right now. I turn my gaze to the floor, cleaning at his feet, while he’s probably trying to figure out how much he can get and what he can get away with.

“It’s okay,” I murmur with a reassuring smile as I get up and gently take the cup from him. “Anything you want, sir?”

He narrows his eyes on me, and I wait, my heart pounding so loudly that I’m afraid he can hear it.

“Would you like a refill?” I offer.

No booze for the boss—that’s the rule in the house. Well, screw rules. This guy needs to loosen up and let that monster inside him out of the cage.

“I’m here to help, sir,” I repeat.

Predators like obedience and weakness. I can see that in him, and I know what I’m doing. He thinks he knows what I’m offering. His gaze slowly slides down my body, then crawls up, making me shiver in disgust.

I cock a brow in question, with the most obliging expression I can muster, waiting for him to make a decision. Or maybe he’s calculating if this is a good time to make a move.

“Hmm.” His hum is low and dangerous, the meaning behind it even more so. Slowly, he steps away from me.

“I’m good.” He walks past me and toward the door. “Keep this between us.”

---