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Becoming His Mistress
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Rose Sinclair counts through life in sixes. It’s how she gets by when she’s not in the company of her best friend and Tourette’s sufferer, Laurie, or focusing on her busy work schedule as the personal assistant and office manager for the extremely attractive and extremely married, Ezra Conti.
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His eyes and all their imperfections.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Conti,” I say, holding out my hand, turning it slightly upwards so he can see my perfectly manicured nails. I do them myself, a little hobby of mine. I think pretty, clean nails say a lot about a person, even men. Hygiene is so important. “I’m Rose Sinclair.”
His large hand engulfs mine, making me feel so very breakable. His grip is as firm and warm as his eyes.
Mr. Ezra Conti, an American-Italian megalomaniac lives to make other people feel so very breakable. I have spent the past three weeks of my life memorizing his life and his role at WhyTech. I know more details about his life, his business, and his family, than I know about myself.
Though that’s likely because he has more details in his life, family, and business.
He is the unattainable Mr. C.
From what I’ve read, women throw themselves at him despite his marital status. Once the most eligible bachelor in Rome, now a married man, smitten with his wife of twelve years, living in LA and not looking to slow down with his business responsibilities anytime soon.
To say he has travelled much in his life would be an understatement.
One of the main reasons I want to be a part of his personal team. The travel.
His handsome, gray eyes, heavy-lidded and narrowed in a way that is so sharp and assessing, look me up and down. It’s a general look, not a seedy lingering look and I’m glad of that. Though I am most unassuming, but that is for a reason.
I’m not here to look hot. Not that I could. I’m not even sure I know how. I’m here to work. Well… interview. But I know the job is mine so that’s a moot point. This job was meant for me. There isn’t a single thing on the list of duties that I cannot do with quickness and efficiency.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Sinclair, but I’m afraid to inform you that I already filled the position.”
I blink slowly, still holding his hand with a tight squeeze. “I’m afraid to inform you that you made the wrong decision.” Releasing his hand, I push my glasses up my nose, aware of the fact they make my eyes look almost half the size they are, but I’ve had them long enough to not care what people think. I’m legally blind without them.
He chuckles and continues smiling as he speaks, “Is that so?”
His voice is deep and gruff, but also smooth. It’s exactly as it was on the phone when I first called about the position almost a month ago.
He pushes his hair back, it’s neat, dark, trimmed, slightly longer than his last most recent picture. He is cleanly shaven, so smooth and kempt and he has clean fingernails. I can see why women throw themselves at him. The way he looks, plus his voice, his clearly good hygiene, and his incredible laugh. It’s a concoction for heartbreak.
Luckily for me, he’s not my type, so I won’t spend my days working for a man that I’m pining over, knowing he can never be mine.
“There is nobody better for this job than me,” I state simply but I know it’s true. I’m only twenty-three but I have been working for a position like this since I was fifteen years old. “Nobody.”
“Is that so?” he repeats, and I can tell he thinks I’m cute in the way one finds a puppy cute. “The man I employed has fifteen years’ worth of experience already. You have none. You have no connections, no ties in the business world, wouldn’t you be better suited doing a work placement in a less demanding position?” He waves his large hand in the air, still smiling kindly.
“That may be so, but I’m friendly and very persuasive, I don’t find it hard to make new friends. I’m never late. Never sick. I have OCD, I won’t lie, but I’ve taught myself to use it in the best kind of ways. I am excellent with numbers——”
“OCD? What kind of OCD?” he asks, and they usually find that interesting. There are so many misconceptions about OCD that I worry it might put them off, but the way my brain handles it only makes my job easier. So it’s always worth mentioning.
“If you hire me, you’ll see what I’m talking about.” I smile up at him. Up because he’s about a foot taller than me.
“Give me a bit of an insight.”
“Well, I’m organized, I repeat, I can’t leave a task unfinished and I can’t leave it less than adequate. This doesn’t mean I take more time though; I’ve trained myself to be super-efficient with it.” I grin at him, hoping it looks confident. “I can multitask. And… I also have a photographic memory.”
He raises his brows. “You do?”