Mira

I take a sip of water to soothe my dry throat.

"You are bold," Diane says, her eyes sparkling.

"And late," a man's voice declares.

I turn sharply toward Elliot Vale, nearly spilling my water. I'm about to shoot back that he is the one who isn't on time, but I suddenly forget the entire English language the moment my eyes land on him.

Elliot Vale in a suit is the embodiment of my businessman fantasy. Today, the royal-blue fabric of his custom-tailored clothes hugs his body as if someone sewed it directly onto him. The material highlights the curve of every muscle, like waves I want to dive into. His brown hair is perfectly styled, and at this early hour, there isn't a trace of stubble on his face.

A small sigh escapes me. His secretary smiles at her computer screen.

But my attraction to Elliot vanishes the instant his hard gaze meets mine. The shadows in his eyes extinguish the small flame that had just ignited in my chest.

"I was on time, wasn't I?"

I look at Diane, hoping she'll confirm it. She remains silent, completely focused on sorting through her inbox. Traitor.

"Follow me."

Elliot Vale steps aside in the doorway to clear my path.

I stand and pick up the backpack I left on the floor. His gaze lingers on my puffed tulle sleeves before examining the rest of my dress as though he wants to set it on fire. When he notices my cherry-red sneakers, his expression darkens even more.

I click my heels together twice, a broad smile on my lips. His head snaps up, and I blush.

Is that desire in his eyes or deep dislike? I'll hope it's the former while expecting to face the latter.

When he blinks, every trace of emotion disappears. Looking irritated, he turns around and gives me an excellent view of his firm ass. I pause to admire that part of his anatomy because, after all, I'm a warm-blooded human being.

No man in power should have a body like that. Looking this good in a suit should be considered a crime.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts before following him into his domain. Elliot's office is a complete contrast to his personality. The vintage space reflects Wondervale's romantic charm with ceiling moldings and pale-yellow walls. It reminds me of a room in one of my Regency-era historical novels, decorated with white paneling and wooden furniture covered in artistic carvings.

Elliot stands out like a brooding cloud in a summer sky. He stops behind his desk and presses his clenched fists against its surface.

"Sit down," he orders before taking his place in a wingback leather chair.

The authority radiating from him makes it hard to breathe. Once I'm settled in the chair across from him, I cross and uncross my legs while he pulls papers from a file drawer.

"Do you need to use the restroom?"

"What?"

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?" he growls, pointing to a door in the corner of the room. "You won't stop fidgeting."

"Oh, no!" I reply, my cheeks burning. "I'm just trying to get comfortable."

"Not too comfortable, I hope."

A giggle escapes me. One corner of his mouth lifts slightly for a second.

Seriously, what does it take to get a man like him to smile? Stealing candy from children? Performing blood sacrifices? Making him watch families get evicted live on television? I need to know.

He slides a folder toward me.

"This is your new contract. It's fairly similar to the one you signed to work at The Magic Baguette."

"Excuse me, a contract?"

I gape at him. When Wondervale employees are fired, do they draw up a contract to make sure they never come back? How does that work, exactly?

He lets out an exasperated sigh.

"You're joining the Creators team, effective today."

"I'm... what?" I exclaim, suddenly dizzy. "I'm joining the Creators team?"

"That annoying habit you have of repeating everything I say is a waste of time and oxygen."

"Excuse me?" I cry, recoiling in my chair. "First of all, I have every right to be confused. I thought you were going to fire me!"

This time, he shifts from one neutral expression to another, which probably means: You are the stupidest woman I have ever had the displeasure of meeting in my life.

"You're being promoted."

How did I go from writing an essay mocking the Nebula Land attraction to being offered a position among the most prestigious employees in the entire park? This must be some kind of revenge because I wasted everyone's time with my disastrous submission.

"How?"

A vein in his forehead starts to pulse.

"Do you always feel the need to ask this many questions?"

"Do you always feel the need to be this evasive and abrupt?"

Elliot remains silent, proving that he does. I'm tempted to smack him on the head like an old, temperamental vending machine until answers fall out. He starts tapping the top of the folder, then says:

"Your submission for Nebula Land was rather bold. Few people dare criticize a billion-dollar investment."

"I was drunk when I sent it!" I blurt out.

He stares at me in stunned silence. The only sound I hear is the blood pounding in my ears.

Oh my God... Why did I say that? I rub my face with my clammy palm. Elliot gives me the faintest smile. I'm so embarrassed that I want to curl into the fetal position.

"Is that going to be a habit during working hours?"

I shake my head so vigorously that I make myself dizzy.

"Oh, no! It was stupid. I thought it would help me relax,"

He raises a hand to interrupt me.

"That's enough. Spare me the monologue. I don't care."

Now it's my turn to stare in disbelief. Elliot may be a man of few words, but they achieve their goal: making me feel like an idiot without saying so directly. That must be his superpower.

I smile in an attempt to ease the tension between us.

"I assume you liked my idea, or you wouldn't be offering me this position."

"My feelings on the matter are irrelevant. I make decisions based on facts and years of expertise."

The air leaves my lungs like a deflating balloon. Seriously, did no one hold this man enough when he was a baby? I can't think of any other explanation for his coldness.

That's not fair. You've heard the stories about his mother...

Emotion tightens my throat.

"You want me to join the Creators permanently?"

"Nothing here is permanent. Everything will depend on your results: if they're up to standard, you'll keep your position."

Holy crap. This definitely wasn't part of Elise's plan. Doubt about my abilities floods back in and erases my happiness. I was only supposed to submit an idea and gain some courage in the process, not get hired as a full-time Creator. I'm inventive, yes, but not that inventive.

Wondervale's Creators are legends. Their inventions made history, and they were even invited to the White House a few years ago. I've done nothing to deserve a place on this team. Besides, I don't fit the profile of a typical Creator at all. They're people who graduated from the best universities and completed internships around the world,a mix of architects, artists, engineers, writers... I have a two-year degree from a state college and work in a children's beauty salon. I could never work on a team made up of the greatest talents in the world.

There is no way.

"I'm sorry. I can't accept your offer."

"I didn't ask for your opinion. You can take your time and read the paperwork, but you aren't leaving this office without signing the contract."

Elliot slides the papers to my side of the desk.

I stare at my hands, wondering whether they could fit around this man's tree-trunk neck.

"It's the twenty-first century. You may be my boss, but I'm not going to let you tell me what to do!"

"That sentence is contradictory."

I clutch the fabric of my dress to keep from doing something stupid, like punching him in his handsome face.

"Are you always this cold?"

Impassive, Elliot runs one hand along his well-defined jaw. The gesture draws my attention to his full lips. Butterflies erupt in my stomach.

Hello! Earth to Mira!

I refocus on the contract. Elliot Vale has every right to fire me after my so-called submission, and instead, he's offering me the most coveted job in the company. Turning him down would be truly stupid.

Not that I have the option anyway.

Defeated, I pick up the papers.

"Sign on the dotted lines," he says, taking a pen from the glass holder on his desk.

When I reach out, our fingers brush. A flash of heat immediately shoots through my arm, as if flames are licking my skin. I jerk back, and the pen slips from my grasp.

Elliot looks at his hand as if offended.* Great. Glad to know that's how I make him feel.*

It shouldn't matter anyway. He's your boss.

I retrieve the pen and give the contract my full attention again. My heart pounding, I reread the large numbers at the top of the document until they blur.

At last, I turn the page toward him and point to the salary.

"Is this a typo?"

"Do I look like the type who makes typos?"

"But it's a ten-thousand-dollar raise."

"At least your eyesight is more reliable than your judgment."

The insult should make me angry, but I can't do anything except laugh. His seriousness when he delivers this kind of comeback impresses me. I'm strangely attracted to his gruff nature, probably because I read Pride and Prejudice at a young and impressionable age.

He stares at me, his eyes wide. His expression makes me laugh again. Apparently, I find cracking Elliot's icy exterior very entertaining. I don't know what's wrong with me, but I find his cold remarks rather funny: they're awkward and stiff, as if expressing himself in any way other than barking orders makes him uncomfortable.

Yes, there is definitely something wrong with me.