Night Owl(29)

"Matthew," she said. She glanced at me and I shrank. I was an eyesore next to Matt and this fierce-looking lady, and again I had the distinct impression of being in a tiger enclosure.

I thrust out my hand.

"Hannah Ca—"

"This is Hannah." Matt spoke over me. "Good friend of mine, new to the city. Look Pam, I don't have a world of time and I'm sorry to spring this on you—"

Oh, my god. He said Pam. Pamela. This was Pamela Wing, in the flesh.

"It's so unlike you to spring strange requests on me," Pamela said. She gave Matt an iron smile and he returned it. They seemed so familiar with one another, and yet so restrained. A horrible thought jabbed at me. Were they ex-lovers?

"Long story short, Pam, Hannah's looking for work. I'm not asking you to move mountains or do me any favors. She's a smart girl, though. MA from Kenyon College, business and English major. You can read the rest in her resume." He waved a hand. My god, he was practically talking down to Pamela Wing, a literary agent who ate souls for breakfast. "Do you get what I'm saying? That is, keep her in mind, would you? I wanted you two to meet."

My hand had been hanging limply in the air the whole time.

Pamela finally grasped and shook it. My fingers crumpled in her grip.

"Hi Hannah," she said. "Pam Wing. It's great to meet you. As I was just telling Matt on the phone, my secretary, in her infinite wisdom, recently eloped in Vegas and telephoned informing me of her immediate resignation."

Pam's eyes glittered. I would not want to be that former secretary.

"No promises, but if you're not opposed to secretarial work and shadowing me a bit, and if you're as capable as Matthew suggests, the job is yours. I'm a firm believer in providence. Drop off your resume as soon as you can. We'll be in touch. Matthew." Pam gave Matt a curt nod and breezed out of the building. Her perfume bit at my nostrils.

What the f*ck... had just happened?

I hadn't said a single coherent word in the whole encounter, and I had basically just been offered a job. That, or I had been brushed off in the most diplomatic fashion. I blinked and shifted my purse on my shoulder.

Matt was watching me.

"Don't overthink this," he said softly. "She won't care if you never drop off your resume, but the job will be gone in days. And don't thank me, either. That woman is a shark. You'll be out on your ass if you cross her once. There is no margin of error."

Matt ruffled my hair, a sweet gesture that unfortunately emphasized my feeling of childishness, and strolled toward the exit.

I rushed after him, my flip-flops slapping the floor.

"Who are you?" I said as we headed back to the car. "What do you do? What was that?"

Matt didn't answer until he was comfortably ensconced in his car.

"I'm a businessman." He sighed. "Can we leave it at that?"

"Do I have any choice?"

I didn't know what to feel. I was angry—angry at Matt for ambushing me with that impromptu interview, angry at myself for going mute—and elated at the job prospect, and quietly in awe of the man beside me. Ugh, he was so f*cking infuriating. And he was so f*cking delicious, and mysterious, and impatient.

At the moment, Matt was driving like the grim reaper.

"My place next," he said as he glared ahead.

"That itinerary update would have been nice before you hauled me in front of one of my literary heroes."

"Mm, I take it you believe the gossip about that agency?"

"What, that they represent M. Pierce? I don't know."

Matt smirked.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a fan girl, Hannah. Don't believe every tale you read. I'm sure that hack has some glitzy New York agent licking his boots."

"I'm not a fan girl, unless appreciating the books makes me one. And I happen to think the author is entitled to privacy. What makes you say his boots anyway?"

Matt went quiet for a moment.

"His or her," he said. "Probably her, come to think. So sentimental."

"So sexist!"

Matt flashed one of his sense-melting smiles at me.

God, was I in over my head with this guy?

Matt had a sprawling, high-rise apartment in downtown Denver. I probably should have guessed. The rooms were clean and modern, harshly white, with light hardwood floors and gorgeous area rugs. The fixtures were all of matching brushed metal and the décor was spare but tasteful. I recognized a framed John Singer Sargent print on the wall.

Matt loomed as I padded through the neat, quiet rooms. Each time I smiled at him, I thought I caught a glimmer of anxiety in his expression. Why would he be nervous? Was my opinion really that important to him?

"This place is lovely," I said. "It's amazing. I can't believe it was ever messy."

"Oh, I had a maid come through," he said.

"Laurence!" I squealed when I saw the rabbit's hutch in the living room. The hutch was as swanky as Matt's apartment, made of beautiful varnished wood with little gold knobs.

"Your lady love is back," Matt said to the rabbit.

We watched Laurence hop around his hutch for a while. Matt's hovering was making me uneasy—and strangely aroused. He hadn't touched me yet, but I knew he planned to. I assumed his bedroom was down the hall.