Page 16 of Shifted Desire

Fuck me, that’s a horrifying reminder. My skin crawls with shame and self-loathing at how the lustful monster inside me isn’t factoring in that I witnessed her grow up.

I try to remind myself that I wouldn’t have slept with her if I’d known who she was. That I’ve been around her for decades with nary a stray inappropriate thought about her because she’s always been firmly in my head as Shane and Elle’s kid.

It’s a piss-poor consolation, because despite all of that, there’s a base part of me that still wants to fuck her again. I can’t stop thinking about her pussy choking my dick and her hot, needy scent filling my lungs.

Whether I choose to go forward with the interview or not, I’m going to feel like a piece of shit.

I don’t call Samantha in the morning.

I’m too exhausted from a sleepless night to even consider it.

But then I miss another meeting because I didn’t account properly for the time difference, and get chewed out by my brother on a call, who undoubtedly is doing it on behalf of our father. I get even further behind on emails, and angry follow-ups appear in my inbox from impatient clients, until my brain becomes too mushy to prioritize anything.

I’m horrible with organization. I get overwhelmed, and then I do shit like spill coffee all over my keyboard and shirt and then look like a mess in my calls because I didn’t think to bring another shirt into the office.

I can’t work like this, and after Bobby or Robert or whatever the hell the name of my assistant who ran away was, I don’t trust recruitment to find me a suitable replacement. I’m beginning to suspect that hiring him was sabotage or an act of petty revenge.

People aren’t exactly happy to have one of the company founder’s sons working in their office. They think I’m here to whip them into shape. Which technically I am, but I don’t give a shit about that.

I came here to escape decades of baggage and poor decisions. If I had my way, I wouldn’t work here at all, but I’m too much of a coward to quit after all this time—or to face my parents’ disapproval.

Reeking of shitty coffee and stress, and fueled by desperation, I dial the number Shane gave me for Samantha.

My palms sweat as the phone rings. It rings so many times that I go to end the call, not wanting to leave a message.

“Hello?”

I freeze, finger hovering over the “end call” button. “Samantha. This is Nathan.” My words are clipped and harsh.

“Oh… Hi?”

“I’m calling regarding the position I discussed with your father.” I fall into business mode, using it as a shield to keep my thoughts from going anywhere inappropriate. “Would you have time to come in for an interview⁠—”

“You know, it’s common courtesy to say ‘hello’ when someone greets you.”

“I’m sorry?” I huff, frustrated by her interruption.

“Apology accepted. Now you can continue with setting up your obligatory pity interview. Which, by the way, we don’t have to do. I can tell my dad that we talked and realized it wasn’t a good fit. You’re off the hook.”

Her snide tone makes my proverbial hackles rise. “I need an assistant. You need a job. According to your father, you’re qualified and competent. So, are you available for an interview tomorrow or not?”

There’s a long pause, and I wonder if maybe she hung up on me.

Then she sighs. “What time?”

“9 am.” I should be nice and make it later so she doesn’t have to rush out the door in the morning, but I need to know she’ll be able to be there at the start of the day and the sooner I get this sorted, the better.

It’s definitely not because the wolf inside me is hungry to scent her again as soon as possible.

Fuck, stop thinking about her like that.

Surprisingly, Samantha doesn’t sound annoyed by the time. “Okay. Text me the address and I’ll be there. If you’re serious about the job. I don’t want to waste my time getting my hopes up.”

“I’m serious. Bring your resume.”

That earns a scoff. “I know what to bring to a job interview.”

“And leave the attitude at home.”