He should have lied.
The minute Jared got a look at the man on the other side of the desk, he should have made up some excuse and got the hell out of there, but…
He had student loans to pay, and he was fed up with the short-term contract jobs, and he really needed to move out of his parents’ place —
“U of T,” Nicholas Allan Noyes, President and CEO said, reading from the resume in front of him. “Master of Arts in Ancient History.”
Jared didn’t add a sir to the yes because this wasn’t the military, he wasn’t a freaking boy scout, and — bullshit. He didn’t say sir because, oh God, he so wanted to.
“Latin?” Noyes asked. “Bet that comes in handy.”
“Not so far.”
That got him a smile. Fortunately, it was there and gone in a nanosecond because Jared couldn’t think when Noyes smiled at him. He was having enough trouble concentrating even without the smile. Concentrating on anything, but the fact that there was something about this guy that just flat-out did it for him. Something? Hah! Make that everything. The air of command, the stone jaw… God, even his hands—
“I see you’ve moved around a bit since graduation,” Noyes said, tapping the resume.
“Yes, contract work mostly. I’d like to find a more permanent home.”
With you, Jared thought, but he didn’t say that. He wasn’t psychotic.
Noyes sat back in his high-backed, high-tech, black leather throne, Siberian blue eyes regarding Jared across the expanse of the polished slab of wood between them. “And what makes you think you’d be an asset to MicroSource?”
Jared trotted out his customary spiel, trying to sound intelligent when all he really wanted to know was what Noyes looked like under that bespoke suit and if he had a chance in hell of finding out …