The Bucket List

1.2 The Accident

I can imagine many scenarios in which we might come to an agreement, most of which include handcuffs and blindfolds and a truly deplorable amount of lace and leather. I lick my lips, somewhat enticed.

But—no. I purge it from my thoughts. Maybe if he made the offer after a long shift behind the bar...I might have said yes, might have even tolerated his oversized ego. But we're not at the bar, and unfortunately for us both, I'm stone cold sober.

I lift my chin, stubborn to the last. "I'm so not fucking you for a new ride."

A dozen emotions flicker behind his eyes. Shock. Indignation. Embarrassment. Spots of color paint his alabaster cheeks. "I...that is not—" He rubs the back of his neck, clearly flustered. "This is not a sexual favor."

"Sure," I whisper conspiratorially, reveling in his discomfort. Finally. A chink in this man's otherwise perfect armour.

"You..." He trails off with a bemused laugh that catches me by surprise. I'm expecting anger. Not this. If anything, he sounds pleasantly surprised. "You have a foul mouth. But my offer still stands."

"What offer?"

"Work for me. As my personal assistant," he says quickly, catching my growing smirk. "I've been without one for a month, and the office is in shambles."

Personal assistant. My smile falls. "I thought we were talking about court."

"We're talking about how you can avoid court."

"By working as your personal assistant?" This sounds like fifty shades of illegal. "What do you do, exactly?"

He stares at me, aghast. "You...don't know?"

Oh, please. I lift my hands and turn to leave. "Nevermind. Goodbye."

"Wait." He reaches for me and then thinks better of it. Smart man. "Ivanov Industries," he says slowly. "You've heard of it, I'm sure."

Ivanov Industries. The name definitely rings a bell. I pause long enough to shoot him a furtive glance. That face. The accent. And those eyes.

I've seen those eyes before, on countless magazine covers. Forbes. People. Us Weekly. Vogue.

Nicholai. I scramble to connect the dots. As in Nicholai Ivanov. Heir to Ivanov Industries.

"Oh," I say, a bit breathless. Oh no.

I didn't crash into the son of some up-to-do luxury car dealer. This jackass is the son of Luca Ivanov, the notoriously foul-tempered tech mogul who built an empire from the ashes of his father's mistakes—an empire that now controls most of the western seaboard.

"You do know it," Nicholai confirms, satisfied.

Yes. I know all about his father's empire. I also know about their glossy high-rise downtown: a gaudy, lavish thing that pierces the Los Angeles skyline like a black diamond. Opulent. Overwhelming.

Just like their family.

"Work for me," Nicholai repeats. "Just for the summer. Until I can find a suitable replacement. If you do this, I will not pursue legal action for today's...mishap. And I'll throw in a car of your choice once your contract is at an end."

I smother the spark of hope that flickers to life at his words. Nicholai Ivanov has been labeled many things over the years. A fashion icon. An enigma. A playboy. An alcoholic.

Philanthropic is not one of his labels.

I test the air between us, breathing in deeply. Aftershave. Cologne. No hint of liquor.