RUSH (City Lights, #3)(20)

Lucien frowned and then put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll return in forty-five minutes. You have my number should things wrap up quicker. Noah, s’il vous pla?t être gentil.”

“Toujours,” Noah muttered. His accent was almost as perfect as Lucien’s

Lucien sighed and gave me a parting smile that was both hopeful and pitying, then left us. I heard the front door close, and then I was alone with Noah Lake.

The afternoon sunlight suffused the room with warm light. Some of it caught in the gold of his eyes and my stomach flipped. I thought I could stare at those eyes all day, become lost in their beauty. Incredible. And to think, they’re only a sort of decoration now.

“Not much in the way of manners, eh?” Noah said, jerking me from my thoughts.

“I’m sorry…?”

“Staring at the poor blind guy is bad manners,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a dense child.

“I wasn’t staring.” I shifted on the leather couch. “Well, maybe a little. You’re not what I expected. And besides…”

“Besides what?”

“Nothing,” I said, cursing my loose tongue.

“Besides what?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “If you insist, I was going to say you don’t have much room to complain about bad manners.” I tensed, ready to be evicted from the interview before it had even begun.

Instead, Noah shrugged. “No argument there. And you said I’m not what you expected. What did you expect?” His sneer returned. “Sunglasses and a cane?”

“I’ve been working at Annabelle’s since before you began ordering from there. I thought you were older.” And less visually stunning.

“I’m older than you, aren’t I?” he asked. “You sound young. Twenty?”

“Twenty-three in October.”

“Have you ever been an assistant before?”

“No. I’m a musician—”

“Good,” he said, sitting back. “The more experience these so-called professionals have, the more f*cking irritating they are. So let’s get to it. I’m going to tell you the requirements of the job. The actual job. Not whatever goodwill, compassion-outreach bullshit Lucien might have given you. What I’m looking for and what he or my parents want are two different things. Got it?”

I nodded.

He sighed irritably. “Did you just f*cking nod? Because I can’t see nods. Or head shakes. Or shrugs. Or middle fingers. Or interpretive dances. When I ask you a question, you need to actually speak.”

“Okay, sorry,” I said, and heaved a breath. Don’t let him rattle you. Think of the private living space, the peace and quiet…

“And don’t say sorry,” he snapped. “Christ, if there’s anything I hate more than nodding, it’s apologies.”

“I got it, but you’re making me nervous as hell.”

“Am I? And I’m having one of my good days.”

This was a good day? Maybe Lucien was right. Maybe I’m in over my head. I shrugged out of my light jacket before I started sweating. “I’d like a glass of water. May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Thanks. Would you like some?”

I wasn’t trying to score points with the offer. Contrary to what Noah might think about my manners, my parents had raised their children to be polite. But the question seemed to throw him slightly. His intense hazel gaze sought me and missed; he locked on to a space just to my right. So close. I had only to lean a little and our eyes would have met.

“Uh, no,” he said. “No.”

I started to nod and caught myself. “Okay. I’ll just…”

I rose and went to the kitchen. I found a glass in the rich, dark wood cabinets to the left of the sink, and took my chances with NYC tap water. I wasn’t about to go rummaging in the fridge for bottled or filtered. All the while, I felt Noah’s keen attention on me just as strongly as if he’d been staring with working eyes.

I took a long pull, mentally fortifying myself. He’s rude but he’s in pain. Remember that. But I also decided that if he crossed the line, I would walk.

But with free rent and a livable salary, would I know the line when I saw it?

I resumed my seat on the couch and put my glass on a coaster that had the Eiffel Tower on it.

“Better?” The cutting tone to Noah’s voice was back. “Can we start now?”

I found my head nodding, and said quickly, “Yeah. Yes. I’m ready.”

“All right, I’ll make this quick. Being my assistant means keeping the hell out of my way and making sure that everyone and everything else does too. You’re here to clean up after me, ensure I have what I need to survive, and that’s it. Do the dishes, take out the trash. You’ll mop the floors and if you’re not a sadist, you’ll warn me ahead of time they’re still wet. You’ll dust and vacuum, do my laundry, fold and put my clothes away, and maybe even iron. I hate wrinkles, and God knows I want to remain presentable to the scores of nobody I’ll be entertaining. Do you cook?”

I blinked at the sudden question. Noah spoke in a sharp, rapid-fire manner, his brain firing on all cylinders. But the last question was an opportunity to score some points toward getting the job. Or so I hoped.