The Fine Print (Dreamland Billionaires #1)(13)
“My general feelings on the matter are irrelevant. I make decisions based on facts and years of fine-tuned expertise.”
The air escapes my lungs like a deflating balloon. Seriously, was this man not held enough as a baby? There’s no other explanation for his coldness.
That’s not fair. You’ve heard the stories about his mother…
I choke on the weird feeling squeezing my neck. “You want me to work as a Creator permanently?”
“Nothing here is permanent. Your job is contingent on your performance, so as long as it meets my standards, then you can consider yourself employed.”
Oh my God. This was definitely not a part of Claire’s plan. Self-doubt trickles in, erasing my happiness. I was supposed to submit a proposal and earn a stripe of courage, not be hired as a full-time Creator. I might be creative but I’m not that creative.
Dreamland Creators are legendary. They’ve made history for their inventions and were even invited to the White House a few years back. I haven’t earned the right to serve as part of the team. Plus, I don’t fit the typical Creator formula. They’re people who graduated from expensive universities and attended specialty internships across the globe—a mix of architects, artists, engineers, writers, and more. I’m a woman with a community college degree who works at a kid’s salon. I couldn’t work on a team filled with the best talent around the world.
There’s no way I could do this. “I’m sorry. I can’t accept your offer.”
His eyes narrow. “I didn’t ask a yes or no question.”
My jaw drops.
He slides the contract toward my side of the desk. “You can take your time and review the paperwork but you’re not leaving this office without signing the contract.”
I stare at my hands, wondering if they would fit around Rowan’s tree trunk of a neck. “This is the twenty-first century. You might be my boss but I won’t let you tell me what to do.”
“That in itself is a contradiction.”
I fist the fabric of my dress to avoid doing something stupid like punching his pretty face. “Are you always this cold?”
Rowan stares at me in silence. He rubs his sharp jaw in a way that sends my stomach into a flurry of butterflies. It draws my attention to his plump lips.
Hello! Earth to Zahra!
I glare at the contract. Rowan has every right to fire me after my mockery of a proposal. But instead, he offered me the most coveted job in all of Dreamland. I’d be stupid to turn this down.
Not that you have an option anyway.
I swipe the contract off the table in defeat.
He plucks a pen from the glass holder. “Sign on the dotted line.”
I reach out for the pen. Our fingers brush, and heat shoots up my arm like flames licking my skin. I pull back and drop the pen.
Rowan looks down at his hand like it offended him. Great. Glad to know I elicit that kind of facial expression from him.
It shouldn’t matter either way. He’s your boss.
I grab the pen off the desk and refocus my attention on the contract. My heart slams against my rib cage as I reread the bold numbers at the top until they blur together.
I turn the page toward him and point at the salary. “Is this a typo?”
“Do I look like a man who makes typos?”
“But there’s a ten-thousand-dollar raise.”
“At least your eyesight isn’t as impaired as your judgment.”
I should be angry at his insult but all I can do is laugh. The kinds of things he says with a straight face impress the hell out of me, and I can’t help feeling oddly attracted to his blunt nature. I blame my exposure to Pride and Prejudice at a young and impressionable age.
He stares at me with wide eyes. His expression has me going into another fit of laughter. There’s something about breaking through Rowan’s icy exterior that I find entertaining. I’m not sure what the hell is wrong with me, but I find his matter-of-fact comments funny rather than off-putting. They’re awkward and stilted like he isn’t comfortable doing anything besides barking out orders.
Yeah. There’s definitely something wrong with me.
7
Rowan
I take the opportunity to observe Zahra while she’s distracted with reading the contract. This weird feeling in my chest hasn’t stopped since she walked into my space, and the way she looks at me makes me feel alert.
Her feet dangle an inch above the carpet, with the edges of her shoes irritatingly grazing the floor. From the offensively cheery strawberry fabric of her dress to the way she laughs, I’m somewhat disarmed by her presence.
I hate it. There’s nothing I want more than for her to be gone from my eyesight and olfactory range.
I pull at the tie wrapped around my collar to relieve some of the tension in my neck. My eyes drop to the stupid pin located above the curve of her breast.
Bloom even when the sun doesn’t shine.
She’s an uncomfortable bright spot in my office, and I’m tempted to shoo her out the door.
She frowns as she turns the page. The gesture brings my attention to the red coloring on her lips. It stands out against her golden-brown skin, and I find myself uncharacteristically focused on the way her tongue darts out to trace her cupid’s bow. Heat trickles down my spine as I imagine those lips doing something else.