Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I squirm in my seat. My mind races as I try to figure out what she wants to hear.
“Don’t overthink it,” she says nicely. “Just tell me a little about yourself. Give me an idea as to how you, as a person, would fit in here.”
Toni’s eyes shine with sincerity. I still don’t know how to answer this question, but I have to say something.
“Well,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, “I just turned thirty a month ago, and I’ve found myself at an interesting place in my life. I’m not where I thought I would be, if I’m being honest. Not that I ever really knew where I would be. I wasn’t the kind of little girl who knew what she wanted to do with her life when she was ten. My mom thought I was going to be a vagrant, I think.”
I force a swallow. I know I’m word vomiting, but I can’t turn it off.
“I’m motivated,” I say, trying to read Toni’s reaction. “I love setting goals and exceeding them. I’d love to find a business where I can settle down and meaningfully contribute. Make a home, so to speak. And then go to my actual home and rest a little bit.”
Toni’s head tilts to the side. “Thank you for your honesty.”
“You’re welcome.”
She watches me for a long moment, and I fight an urge to squirm. I can’t tell what she’s thinking—only that she’s thinking something.
Finally, she picks up the papers in front of her. “I want you to meet someone.” She gets to her feet. “Just sit right there, please.”
“Sure.”
My face heats as I watch her leave the room.
The song overhead reminds me of the Dua Lipa song that’s been stuck in my head all morning. I try to focus on that and not how I might have just ruined my chance at this job.
I knew the Tell me about yourself question was loaded. It’s some magic trickery that interviewers use to get to know you. I’ve read dozens of articles about it and how to prepare an answer ahead of time to dazzle them.
“Now tell me a little about you, Ms. Brewer.”
I had it until that moment—until it turned to me.
My eyes fall closed. I consider emailing Mr. Monroe, my old boss, and asking if he’s looking for anyone. He liked me. I’m sure of it. He just couldn’t wait on me to get my shit together after Luca passed away almost three years ago. I couldn’t blame him for that.
The door handle clicks as it swings open.
I heave in a deep breath. But instead of settling me down and helping me prepare for the second part of the interview, something else entirely happens.
My senses are overloaded with the warm scent of amber and tobacco.
I gulp.
With every cell in my body on high alert, I turn my head toward the door.
I gulp again—this time harder.
Oliver Mason, the man I hit with my car only yesterday, is standing in the doorway looking like nothing less than a magazine cover. A pair of khaki pants hugs his thick thighs, and a leather belt showcases his trim waist. A black button-down shirt shows off his broad shoulders. A plaid tie with subtle hints of yellow ties the entire look together.
He shuts the door behind him, keeping his eyes trained on me.
I can’t help but look anywhere else.
The air crackles around us, getting thicker and hotter by the second. He’s one item in the room, but somehow, it seems like he fills it. Everything else takes a back seat to his presence.
“Hello, Shaye,” he says, wrapping his voice around my name.
“Hi, Oliver.” My statement is much more a question than a statement. It’s a why in the world are you here more than a hello.
He walks to the table and stops at the chair Toni was sitting in. He grips the back of it with both hands. There’s no confusion in his eyes—just pure confidence.
Damn.
“I … I’m confused,” I admit.
His lips twitch.
My brain scrambles to understand this situation. How could I run into this man again? It’s not possible—not by coincidence.
Then slowly, it occurs to me.
“You are a cop, aren’t you?” I ask, lifting my chin.
His brows pull together.
“I thought it yesterday with the zip ties.” My face flushes as—snap, snap snap!—the pieces fall in place. “But then you played that off really well, and I didn’t think much more about it. Because I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m a law-abiding citizen. I only went along with not calling the police yesterday because you suggested it. So, if you’re here to arrest me for leaving the scene of a crime …” I swallow back a lump in my throat. “Please don’t. I have enough problems.”
His lips part, and a solitary laugh escapes them. “What on earth are you talking about?”