Page 18 of Fifth Avenue Fling

“You,” he says at last, his jaw visibly tensing.

“Me. Eh, sorry about that little incident at the hotel. I—”

“I was expecting you to be older,” he cuts in, his voice as cold as his eyes.

“Oh.” I blink, unsure of how to rectify that issue. “I apologize?”

I wipe my sweaty palm against my skirt before extending my hand. Marcus may not be so confident if he could see me now.

Another scan up and down of me, and his jaw tightens further. The man looks as though he’s about to slam the door in my face.

He takes my hand in his.

I hide my nerves behind my brightest smile as his hand envelops mine. My pulse jumps a little from the contact with his skin. “I’ve never been vetted by a doorbell before.”

His frown deepens as if even the sight of me displeases him, and he drops my hand.

I subtly unpick my skirt wedgie from my backside and shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Umm…”

Is he going to let me in? If I’m canned because of a few missing soaps, then, for crying out loud, can’t he put me out of my misery already?

“Come in,” he says in a clipped voice. He sounds like he doesn’t want me on the island of Manhattan, let alone in his house. He opens the door wider, and I force my feet into motion, skittering past him to step inside the foyer.

Holy fucking potatoes. Everything’s huge. And white. I feel like an ant.

I want to spin and take in all the intricate details—the chandelier, the grand staircase with gleaming white stairs, the moldings, the door frames, and the marble floor that looks clean enough to lick.

Even the freaking door handles are like something out of the Museum of Modern Art. I know; I walked past it on my way here. The room looks like it’s been plucked straight out of a New York-based movie.

Killian or Mr. Quinn, because he never told me what to call him, stalks toward a door to the left of the staircase. I assume I’m to follow.

Double doors open magically as he walks. So this is how billionaires live? No need to spend time on mundane tasks such as door opening.

“Your place is beautiful,” I say breathlessly, wishing I could muster up something more eloquent.

“Thank you,” he replies gruffly. “It’s a Bosworth design.”

I pretend I understand what he said and let out an “ooh” as he escorts me into a stunningly lavish lounge area with enormous white couches and a fireplace much taller than me.

I’m the scruffiest thing in the room.

He motions to one of the couches. “Take a seat.”

I lower myself onto the couch, but my feet can’t reach the floor. Trying to appear composed, I slide forward until I’m perched on the edge of the seat.

Quinn settles on the couch opposite me. He rests his forearms on either edge of the sofa and spreads his thick thighs wide while he scans me again critically.

Gone is the suit. Now he’s in dark blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and trainers. I mean,sneakers.

I squirm in my skirt, which sticks to my skin thanks to the nylon fabric.

Marcus made this job seem like it was in the bag, but with how my potential boss looks at me, I’m not so sure anymore. My heart races in my chest, so palpable I think he can hear it.

“How old are you?”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to ask that in an interview,” I joke meekly.

He doesn’t smile. “I have all your information, including your blood type, on file. It would be preferable for both of us if you save me time retrieving it and just answer the question.”

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