Page 3 of Hot for the Boss

That’s true. Nia has paid attention through every step of the negotiations my college buddy and current CFO, Sebastian Shaw, and I have taken with cash-rich Colossus Investment Corporation. I’ve declined their three offers. The first two simply failed to offer me market value for my cutting-edge data storage technology. The most recent buyout approached fair…but still wasn’t lucrative enough.

With a sigh, I give in to my assistant. I’ve never been good at saying no to Nia, especially when she presses on my weak spots. My stomach is definitely one. “All right. I appreciate the help and the meal.”

“While the gumbo is simmering, we’ll tackle some of the projects around your place and hopefully start getting your life back in order.”

“Thanks. I’m lucky to have you in my corner. Who knew that hiring a girl with moxie straight out of college would be one of the best things I ever did?”

Nia’s smile seems to brighten everything around her. “Who knew that taking a chance on a newish but growing company with a ridiculously intelligent founder would end up so great?”

For the first time in what feels like forever, I relax. “I’m assuming gumbo takes a while to cook. So what time should I leave here?”

“If I get all the ingredients prepped and on your stove by five-thirty, we’ll be eating about eight. That all right?”

Actually, it will be perfect. I can barely remember the last time I didn’t spend an evening alone. “Sure.”

“See you at your place then.”

“Thanks.”

If anything, her smile widens. “It’s my pleasure.”

When I arrive at home, it’s almost six. Nia is waiting in front of my door with bags of food and a big cooking pot at her feet. She’s dressed in a gray sweatshirt that clings to her shape, along with a matching pair of leggings that hug her from thigh to ankle. I stop. I’ve rarely seen her in casual clothes, and never in anything this formfitting. The effect is nothing like her usual suit with skirts and silky blouses. She looks relaxed. Female. Lush. I gulp. No wonder she’s never lacking for dates.

I shove the thought aside.

“Sorry I’m late.” I rush from the elevator, opening my door with one hand and scooping up bags of groceries with the other. “I’ll get those.”

I feel more than vaguely guilty that she carried everything up by herself. Becca always did the same, and I hated that I was never around to help. But Nia is volunteering to organize my life. I can’t repay her by being a slacker or seeming like an ungrateful asshole.

“No problem,” she insists as she follows me inside, then gasps.

I’m not surprised. The place looks like a hurricane hit it. She’s only ever been here to drop off work when I was sick. Becca insisted on personally keeping this place spotless back then; she couldn’t tolerate chaos of any kind and wanted control of her surroundings. After my OCD wife was gone, I didn’t have any clue or inclination how to keep the house the way she had.

I lead Nia to the kitchen. She sets the pot on the stove, then turns in a circle, hands on her hips. “You weren’t kidding. This is a wreck.”

I wince, aware that just about every dish I own is piled in the sink. The overflow clutters the counters. I probably shouldn’t spring my bedroom and bathroom on her, too. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Okay…” She sets her purse aside, gets the gumbo heating, then pushes up her sleeves. “Do you know how to start the dishwasher?”

“I’m sure I could figure it out.”

“But you haven’t tried?”

I shake my head. “No.”

Until a couple of weeks ago, I spent all my time at the office. It kept me from thinking about how empty my house was. Since the terrible April day Becca perished, I’ve spent as little time here as possible to avoid the reality that I’m alone. I plump up the pillows in bed beside me to mimic the feel of her taking up space in our king-size bed. I even downloaded an app to simulate the sounds of her breathing beside me. Lately, it’s working less and less. Most nights, I stare at the dark ceiling and try to come up with a logical answer to the emptiness around me. The wife idea still seems like the best solution.

“I’ll…um, look into that while you tell me where you placed my ad.”

Nia hesitates, then reaches for the faucet and flips it on. “I haven’t had a chance yet. Most dating sites want you to fill out a profile, not give them a couple of sentences about your prospective mate.”

“Profile?” That sounds tedious and time-consuming.

“Yes. After all, you’re not the only person selecting someone from the database; a woman has to choose you in return, based on your answers to the questions. Prospective dates looking at your information will want to know what your interests are, what you like to do with your downtime, what your religious and spiritual philosophies are, how your best friends would describe you and⁠—”

“I’m looking to hire a wife, not begin an actual romantic relationship. A dating profile would be a complete waste of my time.”

She shakes her head as she begins washing out the dishes in the sink. “Well, not doing it cuts down on your possibilities. Would you prefer an overseas mail-order bride?”