Page 3 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
Silence stretches between us, thick and charged. I should look away, break the tension, but I refuse to be the first to blink. And he doesn't look away either. Just watches me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then lower, then back up.
My breath comes faster. Shallower.
Does he know what he's doing to me? Does he see the way my pulse jumps in my throat, the way my fingers curl against my thighs?
"You're overqualified for a temp position," he says finally. "Even an incomplete degree puts you above what I need for basic administrative work."
My throat tightens. Here it comes. The polite rejection, the thanks-but-no-thanks, the door closing on my last chance before eviction.
"But you're also desperate," he continues, and his gaze sharpens. "And desperation makes people reliable. Motivated. Less likely to ask inconvenient questions."
I should be offended. Should tell him to take his job and shove it. But rent doesn't care about pride.
"I need the money," I say quietly. "And no one else is hiring right before Christmas."
His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping there. I want to press my fingers to it, feel the tension under his skin.
What is wrong with me?
"Elena has worked for me for eight years," he says. "This is the first time she's requested holiday leave." There's an edge to his voice. Frustration, maybe. Or sharper.
"That's... a long time to go without a break."
"The world doesn't stop for holidays, Miss Brooks. Business continues. Deals close. Problems arise that require immediate attention." He pushes off the desk, moves to the window, and I breathe again. "I don't understand this need to halt everything for a single day."
"Maybe because people need rest? Time with family?"
He glances back at me, one eyebrow raised, and the look is so sharp it cuts. "You have family waiting for you? Big Christmas dinner planned?"
The question lands like a fist to my sternum. "No."
"No family, or no plans?"
"Both." The word comes out harder than I intend. "I've been in the system since I was seven. Foster care doesn't exactly come with a built-in family. So no, no big dinner. No one waiting. Just me and whatever's on TV."
His expression shifts—not quite softening, but the sharp edges dull slightly. He turns fully to face me, and the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch all over again.
"Then why defend the holiday?"
"Because other people have families. Other people get to sit around a table and pretend everything's fine for a few hours. Just because I don't have that doesn't mean Elena shouldn't."
Silence fills the space between us, heavy and charged. His gaze holds mine, and I refuse to look away even though my pulse hammers in my throat and my palms are slick with sweat.
"You have opinions," he says finally.
"You asked a question."
"Most people in your position would tell me what I want to hear."
"Most people in my position probably aren't one broken boot away from eviction."
A flicker crosses his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or respect. He moves back to his desk, but this time he sits, and the loss of his proximity feels like cold water.
"Tell me about your last position. Why did you leave?"
"The company downsized. Last hired, first fired."
"And before that?"
