Every time I see Archer, I feel challenged.
There is no denying the sexual overtone in every conversation we have, even if it’s not said out loud. Granted, we already crossed the line once. My bad!
I can’t get rid of the memories of his escort party I crashed two weeks ago.
Would you like a hand for quick relief?
To be fair, that was before he officially became my boss.
Observing him has become my favorite thing. What he does. How he moves. How he interacts with people.Forbes 30 Under 30—he seemed like a unicorn before. But now the god is becoming a little more human.
He thinks he watches me. Ditto. I notice everything. I see how hard Margot tries to get close to him. How indifferent he is—maybe he already fucked her and lost interest. How irritated he gets when interrupted. How suddenly quiet and somewhat soft he occasionally gets when he is on the phone—I learned those phone calls come from his dad, Secretary Crone. They are not close, though Archer wants to be—it’s in the sharp line of his pressed lips when the call is done, how suddenly quiet and indifferent he gets for a moment. I know what disappointment looks like.
After his mother and little brother died in a car crash twelve years ago, he is the only child of a single dad.
Just like me.
We don’t know each other well. We are completely opposite. Yet the similarities are the most random.
I can tell by the way he looks at me, how his body reacts to mine when we are close that he wants me.
Have at it, Mr. Chancellor.
I got my first order of clothes from the mainland and squealed in excitement when I unwrapped shorts and cargo pants, dresses, bikinis, underwear—oh, god!—underwear, for Christ’s sake! And not just cheap cotton stuff but from some boutique, which was the only option on the Thrive account. Tractor boots. Sandals.
I flaunt it now. Nothing makes you feel as confident as wearing clothes you love.
For Archer, tsk-tsk.
I see him glance at my clothes. He is learning my style.
Wait till I wear a dress, asshole.
He is a predator. An alpha. But I don’t like to be ordered around. He might be cold, but I am calculated. He comes across as emotionless. I don’t give away my feelings either, which probably makes him wonder. He does crazy shit, but it’s planned and intentional. I act crazy, but it has logic.
What makes me mad is the way he dismisses me. Every. Single. Time. Like I am entertainment. It’s an invisible battle.
But I won’t bend. Nor will I run to him every time he curls his finger to summon me. He thinks I’m playing around with work. I’ll prove I can be useful. He just doesn’t know I have different methods.
There are seven files in a separate pile on my desk—the Eastern European guards, whose bios I studied front to back. Marlow connected me with the security team’s HR, so I got the info about their schedules.
Yesterday, I went by post 43, on the Eastern side of Ayana, right along the back road.
Perfect.
Jogging was my cover as I stopped, Ayana green yoga uniform, hair tied in a bun, sweating, hands on my knees and panting to chat with—ta-da—Pasha and Kolya, two guards in their thirties, one Russian, the other Ukrainian.
Oh, I can be friendly as hell. My smile can seduce the grumpiest of men.
So, when I feigned cheerful laughter and chirped away about life at Ayana and joked about the martial arts classes I take on the beach—lies, lies, and more lies—Kolya slid his eyes up and down my body—ew, but I dealt with it—and murmured to the other guy in Russian that he could do me all night long.
The words yanked me into the past for a hot second.
“Wanna play, darlin’? How about you show us some moves? That sweet ass of yours can move.”
“Brandon, hold her down. Hold her the fuck down! Fucking hold her!
“Cover her mouth!”