by Katie Fox
What did this woman do, bathe in it as if water were in short supply?
Rolling my pen between my fingers and tapping the end of its cap against my desk, I straightened myself, pressing back into my oversized leather chair, and stared at the hopeful candidate sitting a few feet in front of me.
She sat confidently, her brown hair twisted in a stylish updo—not a strand out of place—and a black leather folder clutched loosely between her fingers as she answered the questions I’d spent the last twenty-five minutes throwing at her.
Truth was, I should have ended this interview after her third response and hired her on the spot. Her knowledge of the publishing industry was far superior to any of the other potentials I had already encountered over the last two weeks, and when it came to experience, she had a long list of accolades and recommendations that landed her résumé right at the top.
Figuratively speaking, she was everything Caldwell Publishing needed, but there was something about her—something about the cocky smile she wore and the way she flicked her hand every time she laughed—that made me internally cringe.
Maybe I was being overly critical, analyzing every little habit, but for now, I’d heard and seen enough.
“Ms.”—I flicked my eyes away from her perfectly powdered face and down to her résumé, more specifically her name, which I’d forgotten almost immediately after glancing at it the first time—“Travers. I've asked all that I needed to ask, so unless you have any questions for me, this concludes our interview. I have a few more I need to get through today, and once I have spoken with everyone and have had a chance to check everything over, I'll make a decision and be in touch.”
She smiled politely, pushing out of her chair at the same time I stood and pressed the call button on my phone’s receiver.
“No. You've answered all of my questions. Thank you so much. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Extending my arm out and smiling tightly—knowing damn well I wouldn't be calling her—I shook her hand and gave a curt nod of my head before gesturing toward the door. “Millie will see you out.”
She smoothed her hands down her thighs, making sure her skirt was in place, and then scampered away. The sound of her heels clacking against the marble floors grew more and more distant as Millie, my personal assistant and the woman who kept me sane on a daily basis, ushered her from my office and into the hall.
A click of the door handle and the absence of noise signified I was finally alone, and I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
This was exhausting, and I wasn't sure how many more of these interviews I’d have the patience to sit through. If the right person didn't end up in front of me soon, I'd tell Millie the hell with it and continue like I always had. Millie was my assistant, sure, but I needed someone who could take on more meaningful tasks and reduce my overall workload. Hiring extra help made sense.
Tossing the pen down on my desk, I dragged a hand through my hair and turned around, walking toward the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my suit pants, I stared out at the skyline. The morning sun peeked through the pillows of white clouds, and the surrounding buildings, dressed in walls of glass, glittered against the warm rays. It was a sight to behold, and when the sky was clear on a morning like today, I found myself lost in the beauty of the canvas.
“Let me guess...” Millie’s voice sliced through my peace, and I resisted the urge to turn and look at her, knowing she’d be standing by my side soon enough. “Absolutely no experience and cares more about a chip in her nail polish than the importance of literature.”
I cracked a smile. “Not exactly. Her résumé was quite impressive, and the experience was most definitely the best I've seen so far, but I think you may be right about the whole nail polish thing.” I pinched my lips together as a wash of disappointment soared across my chest. “She wasn’t right, Mill.”
“Well, you refuse to listen to me, but I could have told you that the moment she stepped out of the elevator.”
I cocked my head to the side, amused at her confidence. “Oh? Is that so?”
Millie nodded. “Yep, and speaking of the elevator, ours seems to be out of commission for the time being. I've already put a call in to maintenance, but Lord knows how long it will be before they decide to do anything about it.”
I lifted a brow. “What the hell happened to the elevator?”
“No idea.” She shook her head. Her salt and pepper hair brushed against her shoulders as the corners of her lips tugged slightly, and a hint of sadness swept into the delicate lines of her face. For nearing almost sixty, Millie was a firecracker, her spark brighter than a room full of sparklers on the Fourth of July, but when she looked at me like she was—that flame of hers dulled to a pale, blue glow—I hated the idea it was I who was responsible for extinguishing it.
An uncomfortable silence settled between us, and our eyes remained glued to each other's for a few beats before she spoke, her voice low.
“You don't have to do this, you know.”
I didn't have to do this? Of course, I had to do this. Not like I was given much of a choice. Besides, she had been the one who insisted on it.
Swallowing, I cleared the thickness from my throat and feigned ignorance. “Do what?”
“This.” She swung her arm around my relatively bare office and then glanced at the glass window that overlooked the city. “You should be out skydiving or mountain climbing or doing something else insane and ludicrous.”
I almost laughed at her absurdness. “Says who? Society? There is still work that needs to be done. I can’t brush it all under the rug as if it doesn’t exist.”
Placing a hand on my suited forearm, she ran it up and down in a comforting gesture before squeezing it gently. “Give yourself a break, that’s all I’m saying. Put work aside and enjoy your life, Owen. You deserve that, sweetheart.”
I huffed out a weary breath and dropped my chin to my chest, my brows knitting together as I contemplated her words. She was right. I needed to start living. Just not today.
“Is my nine thirty here yet?”
Millie rolled her lips between her teeth, as if to hide an expression she didn’t want me to see, and gave me a small nod.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
She gave her head another little shake and wiped any trace of a reaction from her face. “No reason. I’ll go get her.” She disappeared not even a breath later, and I stood for a bit longer before pacing the floor between my desk and my windows.
My mind was not in the right headspace for a day full of interviews and business-related talk. I should have canceled them all like Millie had suggested and left the office. She knew as well as I did that I needed a break, my body and my muscles filling with exhaustion these days much faster than they ever had before.
Perhaps I would clear my schedule and take the rest of the afternoon off.
Hearing the usual morning bustle from the hallway spill into my personal space, I turned to see Millie standing in my doorway, once again, a manila folder in her hand, which housed the résumé and application of my next interviewee.
“Mr. Caldwell, this is Elle Callihan, your nine thirty.” She flashed me a wry smirk and stepped to the side, allowing the woman who had been hidden behind her to come into full view.
Jesus Christ.
My mouth fell open and I quickly clamped it shut to stop the words from tumbling out.
Was she serious?
I stared at the woman in equal parts shock and disbelief.
Her blonde hair lay in wet, strangled strands around the delicate curves of her face, and smudges of mascara dabbed the corners of her stunning blue eyes—eyes that from even across the room pled for me to look past her outward appearance and give her a chance. Coffee soaked her white blouse, the silk material clinging to her petite frame like a second skin as the outlining silhouette of her bra had me blinking and shaking my head to rid it of my inappr
opriate thoughts.
Sue me. I’m a man, after all, and what else was I supposed to think when a beautiful woman who looked like she’d had the worst case of bad luck stumbled through my door?
My gaze traveled the length of her body, over her long slim legs wrapped in sheer, nude stockings and then down to her feet, the cause of her stilted posture coming to light as my eyes finally settled on the broken heel of her shoe.
My brows narrowed.
Who the hell comes to an interview looking like that?
Someone desperate.
The small voice whispering around my conscience snapped me out of my daze, my head nodding curtly at Millie and my arm gesturing toward the leather seat in front of my desk. I gave Millie a warning look that silently said she and I would be exchanging words later.
“Thank you, Millie. Ms. Callihan if you'd please have a seat, I'd like to get started.” I grabbed my chair, rolling it out and sitting myself on it as I watched her free the folder from Millie’s hands and limp nervously across the distance, her head bowed and shoulders hunched. How I was supposed to take this interview seriously was beyond me, but I steeled my expression to the best of my ability, emanating nothing except professionalism as she passed me her file and sat down. Our fingers brushed in the process, and while I tried to ignore the unusual sensation our physical connection created, I heard her inhale a shaky breath. Flipping open the folder, I scanned the freshly printed sheets of paper lying in front of me, and a frown twitched at the corners of my mouth.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Not a single line filled in under experience despite her impressive education. There was note of a short-term internship for a small magazine company, but two months of filing paperwork was hardly considered experience.
I glanced up at her. “There is nothing listed under experience, Ms. Callihan. Am I to assume you’ve forgotten to fill this section out?”
She swallowed slowly, tucking a lock of wet hair behind her ear, before dropping her hands to her lap and absentmindedly twisting the silver band on her middle finger. “No, sir. It is blank because I unfortunately do not have any.”
Doesn’t have any? For fuck’s sake.
Annoyance and something else I didn't know how to classify swam through my veins, and I swept a hand down my face to prevent it from spilling into my expression. I didn't have time for this. “Is it a habit of yours to waste people's time?”
“Excuse me?” She lifted her chin until our eyes met, and the incredulousness painted across every one of her beautiful features had me unintentionally holding my breath.
“The job listing clearly states we are in search of someone with at least a minimum of five years’ experience in the publishing industry.”
“Yes, but is that not for the ideal candidate? Surely, not every person you interview will meet every single qualification listed, and everybody needs to start somewhere, don't they?” The smallest of hopeful smiles played across her pink lips, igniting an electric current in the air that traveled straight to my dick.
Shit.
Irritated with my body’s natural reaction to this woman, I forced my attention away from her mouth and back to her résumé. “Yes. Yes, they do, but that is what small vanity presses are for: entry-level graduates with little-to-no experience. Caldwell Publishing is a major player in this industry and, therefore, is only interested in hiring people with the aforementioned experience and requirements.” I flicked my gaze to hers. “I appreciate you taking the time to come in today, but I'm afraid you're not what we’re looking for.”
The look on her face sank, and her reaction tightened the muscles in my chest.
Jesus, you'd think I kicked her puppy or something.
“With all due respect, you've taken one glance at my résumé and have already decided I'm not a perfect fit based on my lack of experience, but you haven't even given me a chance to tell you what it is I might have to offer.”
“Actually…” Closing her file, I rolled my chair out and stood. “I've taken two glances. I'm sorry, Ms.—”
She rose to her feet, desperation in her tone. “I'm dedicated. I'm a hard worker and a quick learner. And I'm passionate. I'm passionate about reading and writing, and I'm passionate about my dreams.” Leaning forward, she found my eyes once again—hers so bright and blue—and that constricting in my chest was back. “Do you know what it's like to have a dream, Mr. Caldwell?”
She paused, as if waiting for my response, but her question was rhetorical, so I didn't answer. Why the hell did it suddenly feel like she was the one conducting the interview? And why did I find myself wanting to make an exception to the rules for this woman, rules I had established for this company and up until now had been adamant to follow?
“I may not have the exact experience you're searching for, but I have goals and a dream I will stop at nothing to achieve, and I think that alone puts me far above the rest.”
“Dreams.” I scoffed at the implausible notion, the muscle along my jaw ticking as I fought against whatever this was: her reverse psychology bullshit. “That's cute, real cute.” Picking up the folder sitting on my desk, I held it out for her to take. I admired her confidence and her drive, but I needed someone who knew what they were doing, not someone who needed monitoring every second of the day. “Thank you for coming in today, Ms. Callihan. I trust you can find your way out of my office.” The bitterness accompanying my words burned the tip of my tongue, and I lifted my gaze, following the gentle slope of her neck until it settled on those big blue eyes. A sheen of tears glistened on their surface.
Fuck.
Her otherwise stoic expression never faltered as she reached out and took ahold of the folder, speaking through a forced smile. “Thank you, Mr. Caldwell. I'm so very sorry to have wasted your time.”
Turning around and leaving me with nothing but the glorious curves of her ass and the sway of her hips, she hurried in the direction of the door.
I watched every one of her steps like a starved man desperate for his next meal, and it wasn’t until she disappeared completely that I realized I’d been left with nothing more than a stomach full of guilt and regret.
“EVERYTHING OKAY THERE, sweetheart?”
Pushing around the toasted flakes on top of my coconut cream pie, I sighed wearily and set my fork down. My stomach felt sick, and everything about my ego had been bruised.
Immediately after my ninth failed interview—and what I had deemed the worst of them all—I headed to Rosie’s, where I remained for the next four hours, drowning out my sorrows by binge eating her array of sickly sweet pies. I wasn't ready to return home and deal with my sad excuse of a life.
The small shop, named after the owner herself, was like many of the other eateries you'd find in and around the city, only less crowded. The homey feel of the place reminded me of my parents’ coastal side restaurant in Maine. It catered more to the locals than the tourists, and the patrons mainly consisted of regulars, whose usual orders were memorized by each member of the staff. Smiles and an all-around cheerful atmosphere made it one of my favorite go-tos, especially when I felt exceptionally shitty.
And today, I felt exceptionally shitty.
“Everything's good,” I lied, not wanting to get into a “woe is me” conversation about my life. I lived it every day. There was no fun talking about it. “Can I have the check, please?”
Rosie wiped her hands clean on the black apron tied around her petite waist and gave me a knowing smile. “It's on the house, dear.”
I looked at her, a frown creasing my brow. “Are you sure? All four of them?” Four slices of pie. Damn it. I’d regret that later while lying on my bed trying to get the button through its hole on my jeans. Setting my briefcase on the barstool beside me, I started to pop the locks to retrieve the little bit of cash I had with me. “I can pay.”
I couldn’t pay, not really.
Every penny I earned was accounted for, and seeing as I hadn’t returned home ye
t to assess the damage to my apartment, there was a good chance I was in the red. The far, deep, dark red.
She waved me off. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to take what is left of them to the shelter tonight anyway. We always replace them with fresh pies on Tuesdays.”
“That’s right. I forgot you guys do that. It’s very sweet of you.”
“It goes to a good cause. Not to mention, it keeps the inches off my husband’s waist.” A smirk tipped one corner of her lips.
“Hey!” Rick’s voice boomed from the kitchen. “I can hear you, you know!”
Sitting there, I listened to their banter for a few more laughs until my phone buzzed across the countertop in a vibratory dance. My sister’s name flashed across the screen, and I scooped it up, tossing a few bills down in its place, before giving Rosie an appreciative grin. “Thank you, Rosie. Have a great night, guys!”
“You, too, Elle!”
Their voices followed me out of the door as I stepped back into the city that had been my home for the last nine years and slid my thumb to answer the call. My voice was cheery and upbeat despite my crappy day. “Hey, Kimmi!”
“Hey, Elle. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No. No, of course not. I’ve finished early for the day, so I’m on my way home.” I bit down on my lip against the lie and quickly changed the subject. “How’s the wedding planning coming along? You haven’t turned into Bridezilla yet, have you?”
She chuckled, a sound I wish I could hear in person and not through a static line. At twenty-two, my younger sister had found love and the man of her dreams. Her life was exactly where she wanted it to be, unlike mine. “No. I haven’t. Chris might disagree, but I think everything is coming along as planned. Mom and I finally figured out the centerpieces for the reception, and Dad is making a trellis arch for the ceremony.”
“That sounds great.” Guilt stung my chest as I rounded the corner of my block. My apartment building stood less than fifty feet away, and I stopped as a world of regret wrapped itself around me. “I’m sorry I can’t be there. Work has had me busy, but as soon as I can manage a weekend away, I’ll come home and try to help. I promise.”