Evie has been temping for a few years now, and the bosses never look like Misha Meserov.

He’s about thirty, give or take, and over six feet tall, with the sort of aggressively v-shaped body that is only achieved from spending every spare moment at the gym, and his expensively understated charcoal-grey suit is tailored to show off every one of those angles. The suit looks bespoke; Evie would bet it cost more than her first car. Despite that, Misha looks like he’s been partying for the past week: golden-tinted skin faded to sallow, and dark circles under the most arrestingly blue eyes Evie has ever seen. The areas around his pupils are ice-pale but the outer edges of the irises are ringed darker. The effect is startling, almost predatory.

His hair is dark brown, nearly black, and surprisingly long for someone who works with one of the snobbiest white-shoe law firms in Manhattan. It is caught in a low twist at the back of his neck, but a few strands have fallen loose and Evie watches as he reflexively tucks one lock back behind his ear. It lasts there for approximately three seconds before slipping forwards again across his high, aristocratic cheekbones.

She would have preferred the Walter Matthau jowls and the Jim Beam in the bottom desk drawer. Or the ex-Fed who’d eventually spill stories to her about Brighton Beach mobsters and jurisdictional fights with the NYPD. Not this pretty-boy Eurotrash who probably reeks of cologne and wouldn’t know a real problem if it bit him in his unfairly perfect ass.

It’s a job, Evie tells herself. It’s a job. It wasn’t as good as interning at the magazine, but unlike the magazine it would pay, and it would use some of her actual skills. She thinks back to her all-time worst temp gigs: the Canadian venture capitalist with an untreated short-term memory disorder that everyone in her firm had chosen to ignore because her name was on the door. She would give Evie three contradicting instructions in the same morning, and once called her at 4am on a Sunday to scream at her for not being in the office. Or the one she walked out of: a bond trader with hair plugs and a habit of sneaking so much vodka in his morning orange juice that it became almost translucent. Every morning he’d leave his sweat-and vomit-stained shirts from the previous night’s client entertaining on her desk for her to dry-clean. She bore with it for three weeks and finally bailed when he dumped a pair of his chinos on her chair, and she picked them up to discover he’d shat in them. She takes a deep breath, and tells herself that everything is up from here.

Evie watches Misha Meserov watching them, those strange pale eyes raking slowly over the three women in the room as he takes into account how they’re sitting, what they’re doing. She forgets to smile when he gets to her, too lost in staring back at him, trying to figure him out.

He raises an eyebrow at her. She quickly plasters on her happy face.

The corners of his eyes crinkle and he makes a little huff of amusement. He doesn’t look very thrilled to be here either.

Abigail thwacks Meserov in the chest with a manila folder. He flashes Abi a surprisingly wry smirk, then the mask of boredom descends again. “Who wants to be first?” he drawls, opening the folder and perusing its contents, before glancing up through lashes so dark that Evie briefly wonders if he’s wearing mascara.

“You’re seeing Gemma, then—” Abi begins.

“It’s fine, I’ll go now,” says Evie, sliding off her perch on the reception desk. She feels odd; Meserov makes her anxious somehow, his very presence knocking her off balance. Sitting around waiting will only make it worse.

Gemma’s eyes widen momentarily in surprise, and when she says, “Okay, good luck,” she almost sounds sincere.

Abigail smiles gratefully to her, then says, “I have an 11:30 upstairs. I’ll pop back once I’m done to see who you’ve decided on,” and closes her laptop.

“If I decide,” Meserov says, arch.

Abigail puts her hands on her hips and steps forwards. She’s almost a foot shorter than him, soft and round, her dark skin set off by a pretty wrap dress in an ivory and green print, and she is giving zero quarter. “Misha, you’re picking one and that’s final. Look at this mess. I am not dealing with Don and Dee bitching to me about where your files are, or how they can’t get anything out of you before 11am. It is not my job.”

Misha glares at Abi, and Abi glares right back, until the sound of a stack of files cascading off the reception desk and scattering onto the ground distracts them.

Abigail looks pointedly at the jumbled mess of papers on the floor, folds her arms, and looks back at Misha. She raises an eyebrow.

“Fine,” he growls.

“Good,” Abigail counters, just as steely. She tucks her laptop under her arm. “I’ll be back later.” In the doorway, she points at Meserov. “Play nice,” she says, her voice a mix of fond and scolding, as if he were a reckless nephew.

Meserov tilts his head and pouts, the brat. “I always do, Abi.”

Abigail snorts in derision and shakes her lavender braids as she strides out the door.

Evie walks the few steps across the outer office to where Meserov waits, and lifts her head up to look him in the eye. Nope, no mascara, she thinks. Just lashes that girls like Gemma would maim for. She sticks her hand out. “Evie Cross. Hello.”

Evie is close enough as Meserov takes her hand to realize he doesn’t reek of loud cologne at all. What she can smell is very quiet, limes and old leather. Rather than shaking her hand, Meserov just holds it, pressing gently with his thumb on the back of her knuckles as he inclines his head. His hands aren’t as soft as she expects, and for a moment Evie has the weird feeling he’s going to raise her hand to his lips. But then he lets go, and turns towards the office. “Miss Cross,” he says, indicating for her to follow with the file in his other hand.