Page 4 of Jealous Stepbrother
He?
Probably the department head. A senior designer.
I hesitate. “Is that where the orientation is happening?”
Her eyes flicker, amused and almost pitying. Then she taps the badge. “Turn right, double doors at the end.”
My stomach churns as I step into the sleek elevator and I barely have time to collect my thoughts or my breath before it comes to a smooth stop.
When the doors open, I step into a space that looks more like a luxury penthouse than an office. Black polished floors reflect every step I take, and the space is scattered with designer furniture and floor-to-ceiling views of Manhattan.
My palms are damp, my heartbeat just fast enough to feel in my throat. Nerves and adrenaline, all tangled together in a way that’s beginning to feel less than first-day nerves and more like…
I shake my head, keep my steps measured.
But something in me coils tight, a premonition clawing its way to the surface. I approach the glass double doors anyway.
I came all this way. I spent three months working on my portfolio. I beat out over two hundred applicants. I need this internship desperately.
Besides, I’ve known this kind of silence before.
The loaded kind. The kind that builds just before someone pulls the trigger.
I’m still attempting to locate my stolen breath when the doors swing silently open on electronic hinges.
And I see him.
Leaning back in a black leather chair at the head of an obsidian table, suit jacket unbuttoned, forearms inked and bare.
Four years vanish in a heartbeat.
I feel the heat, power, and fury of his body when he flipped over in that bed. Hear his voice…Don’t say I didn’twarnyou, little girl.
I recall in surround sound the rip of silk and dreams and innocence. My pulse hammers. And of course, now that I know, I feel it.
The chill.
The weight.
The trap.
Not the building after all but the man.
He’s in the floors and the walls. The architecture itself, somehow. Brutal and unyielding. Stark lines and sharp edges with no warmth in sight.
He doesn’t look surprised.
“Scarlett,” he says slowly, like he’s tasting and savoring the name. “Welcome to my house.”
The shock that held me captive on seeing him multiplies a thousandfold. I blink. “Your… house?” My voice is a messy croak.
My head swings to the glass doors I just walked through. Frosted with one name etched clean across them.
ASHER MASTERSTON
Creative Director. Founder.
My stepbrother.
