ONE

EVE

Uncle Ryder is hot.

No—okay, that came out wrong. Let me backtrack before you get the wrong idea.

He’s not actually my uncle. He’s just been one of my dad’s longtime friends—part of the inner circle since I was a kid.

When I was little, he’d always show up at our backyard BBQs, the summer weekends at the lake house (back when we could afford one), and every over-the-top birthday bash I had with tiaras and cartoon piñatas.

He always acted like the parties were ridiculous. “Why spend money on something just to smash it?” he’d say. But he was always first in line with the bat, laughing the hardest when the candy exploded everywhere.

Back then, I thought the world of him.

He gave the coolest presents every Christmas, took me to the SpongeBob movie when my parents were too busy working, and hoisted me onto his shoulders during hikes when I got tired. As “little Ivy,” I was his sidekick.

In my memory, he was funny, warm, larger-than-life. A guy who always lit up the room.

So imagine my shock when I walked into the interview... and saw him.

I knew Sky Rider Studios was his company. But I thought I’d be interviewing for a PA job under some mid-tier exec—not the head honcho himself.

The man who apparently turned into a total jerk.

“Brad, buddy,” he says into the phone, clearly in no rush to acknowledge me. “Appreciate the invite, but I’ll skip poker night. I’ll win your money some other time.”

I clear my throat, irritation blooming. “Sorry, we’re in the middle of something here?”

He lifts one finger. That’s it. No apology. Just a “wait” gesture like I’m invisible.

Part of me wants to walk. But the other part—the more dangerous part—wants to stay. Because I’m curious.

It’s been over a decade. And I doubt he recognizes me.

I mean, why would he? I was quiet, forgettable. A soft-spoken little girl with nothing to say.

But time—and life changed me.

The divorce, the chaos, the mess... it hardened me. I dropped the nickname, took my mom’s last name when I turned eighteen, shoved Dad’s into the middle slot. Now I go by Eve.

I sit taller, legs crossed, silently watching him.

He’s big. Muscular. Towering, though most people are to me. His shoulders are broad, his chest solid, and his jawline... razor-sharp.

His dark brown hair is streaked with gray now, especially near the temples, and that hint of silver in his beard? Kind of devastating.

Then there’s the shirt—tight against his torso, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off those powerful arms, his hands, and a tattoo that peeks out at his wrist.

The top button’s undone, offering just the barest look at the ink hidden beneath his collar.

It’s wrong. Completely wrong.

And I still kind of want to lick it.

I clear my throat again and speak up, this time firmly. “Mr. Vane, if you wouldn’t mind letting Mr. Pitt know you’re currently busy—I’m parked at a meter.”

Normally, I wouldn’t be this blunt, but this interview’s already dragging on. I’ve always believed people should be treated the way they treat others—serve them a little taste of their own attitude.

And if Ryder’s going to act like a rude, entitled jerk, then fine. I can match energy. It’s not like I was a top contender for this job anyway. Nothing to lose.

His gaze lifts. There's a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes as they sweep over me. Not quite angry, but irritated for sure.

Still, there’s an intensity behind it, like he’s silently challenging me. And suddenly, my pulse kicks up, an unwanted heat blooming low in my belly.

I shift in my seat, thighs pressed tight together. This is wrong. I know it. Ryder might be gorgeous, but that doesn’t give me a free pass to fantasize.

Not with everything that happened between him and my dad.

“Brad, I’ll call you later. Something’s come up,” he says smoothly before ending the call. He places the phone on the edge of his desk, then picks up the resumé I gave him earlier. He barely glances at it.

“Eve H. Stone,” he reads aloud.

His voice rumbles deep and low—like a bassline vibrating through speakers. A little gritty. Definitely commanding.

“You’re the tenth person I’ve interviewed for this position,” he says. “What makes you the best fit?”

I smirk. He has no idea who I am. “I doubt I’ll say anything the last nine haven’t.”

His brow lifts. Hard to tell if he’s entertained or just annoyed. “Try me.”

I shrug. “I’m always on time. I work hard, I’m detail-oriented, and I know my way around LA better than most. That’s useful if you need someone who can run errands quickly and efficiently.

Though I guess that’s the whole point of the job, right?”

He considers me for a beat. “Where’d you grow up?”

“Right here in LA.”

He doesn’t believe me. “Really?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because no one’s actually from LA.”

“Well, I guess I’m the rare unicorn.”

He sets the resumé down and leans back in his chair like a king on his throne, while I sit across from him like some commoner petitioning for scraps.

“What kind of qualifications do you have? Any previous PA experience?”

I bite my bottom lip, thinking. His eyes drop to follow the motion, and my breath catches. “I’ll be honest. Not much in terms of assistant work. I just graduated from UCLA with a degree in bioscience.”

He frowns. “Then what the hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be elbow-deep in research at some lab?”

“Internships don’t pay. And I need…” I stop myself. He doesn’t want my sob story. Doubt he even cares.

“What’s your availability?” he asks, like he’s already over it.

“Wide open.”

“Weekends too?”

“Every day of the week.”

“Transportation?”

“I borrow my roommate’s car. She works remote, so it’s basically mine most of the time.”

Ryder rises and strolls around the desk until he’s directly in front of me. Leaning casually against it, he looks down, towering over me.

I can’t even imagine how tall he must be standing upright. Especially this close. Way too close.

His cologne hits me—subtle, clean, and thank God, not overwhelming. Most LA guys bathe in department store fragrance, trying way too hard to impress. It always gives me a migraine.

But Ryder’s scent is just… nice. Soft. Controlled. Like him.

Everyone around here is loud, attention-hungry, and desperate to stand out. They drive flashy cars they can’t afford, wear high-end labels they scrounged from consignment shops, and chase any opportunity for a sliver of the spotlight.

But not Ryder.

He doesn’t reek of desperation like the rest. He smells like clean cotton or the earth after rainfall—fresh and grounding. His wardrobe’s refined, but nothing screams for attention.

The most extravagant thing on him is a silver Rolex, gleaming subtly at his wrist. Everything else about him is understated. Controlled. Effortlessly composed.

His confidence isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. He’s already living the life the wannabes outside only dream of.

His eyes are still on me, locked on my soft curves. The crease between his brows hasn’t moved—like it’s sculpted there, carved into his chiseled features.

“The role pays two hundred,” he says coolly.

“A week?”

“No. Two hundred thousand per year.”

I blink, cheeks heating. That’s more money than I’ve ever had. My voice wavers. “Oh. That’s... a lot.”

“You’d be dealing with highly sensitive material,” he continues. “Movie scripts, celebrity communications, acquisition deals. I pay well for loyalty and silence. You’d have to sign a strict NDA.”

“And if I’m not comfortable with that?”

“Then there’s the door.”

“And if I am?” I meet his stare head-on, my chin tilted up.

A flicker of something crosses his face. He doesn’t get challenged often. His nostrils flare just slightly. “This is a 24/7 kind of gig.”

“So when you call, I drop everything?”

“Exactly.”

I feel the current between us again. Something about it is dangerous in the best kind of way. His gaze trails over me, slow and intense, like a flame licking across skin.

“What if I’m caught in traffic?”

“You floor it.”

“That’s illegal.”

He folds his arms, smirking. “I practically run this town. The rules don’t apply when I’m involved.”

I laugh under my breath and roll my eyes before I can stop myself. “Only half of Hollywood? I expected more.”

He pauses, assessing me. “You’re not dazzled like the others.”

“I don’t see the point,” I reply evenly. “Being starstruck doesn’t exactly help me do the job.”

He squints, eyes narrowing. “You look really familiar. Have we met?”

I sigh. “Finally. Took you long enough.”

Ryder snaps his fingers. “Rihanna’s birthday bash last year. You were one of the dancers.”

My jaw clenches. That’s it. I rise from my seat. “You know what? I think I’ll pass. Thanks for the offer, Mr. Vane.”

He looks at me, eyebrows lifted. There's a strange mix of humor and disbelief in his face. “You’re walking away? Do you even know who I am?”

“Oh, I do,” I say with a calm smile. “But clearly, you have no idea who I am.” I hold his stare for one beat longer. “Good luck finding someone who’ll put up with your crap… Uncle Ryder.”

I’m just about to turn and leave when his hand shoots out, fingers curling around mine, stopping me in my tracks. The look on his face is absolutely priceless.

“Eve Halloway Stone,” he breathes out like he’s just seen a ghost. “I knew there was something…” His whole expression softens in an instant.

There’s nostalgia in his eyes now—warm, almost tender. But there’s something else buried beneath it, too.

Something that looks a lot like hunger.

He doesn’t let go of my hand. “Ivy? It’s really you?”

“Yes,” I reply quietly, “but I go by Eve now.”

“Eve…” he repeats, eyes lingering. “You’re—God—you’re beau…. You’ve grown so much.”

“That’s what happens when someone vanishes for over a decade.”

“I didn’t vanish. Thomas and I—”

The second he says my father’s name, I yank my hand back and take a step away.

“I should go.”

“Don’t you want the position?”

“I did,” I admit. “But I didn’t realize you were the one hiring. My dad would totally lose it if he knew I was here. He’s not exactly a fan of yours—or your studio.”

Ryder’s jaw tightens. “Do you even know why that is?”

I shake my head. “No clue. He never explained. Just said you weren’t coming around anymore and we weren’t to talk to you.”

He lets out a dry, bitter breath. “Classic Thomas. Always knew how to twist a story.”

My brows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he mutters. “Forget it.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, not sure what to do next. “Sorry for wasting your time. I’ll go. Thanks anyway, Mr. Vane.”

“Eve, just—wait a min—”

But I’m already out the door before he can stop me.