As I leave the room, I hear Kylie Clerkwell whisper, “She’ll be out in five.” Somebody laughs grimly.
I make a mental note to pin up her magazine cover to my wall when I get home and make a dartboard out of it. Or, since I’m not very good at darts, perhaps I’ll just tear it to pieces instead.
Witch, I think, welcoming some of that anger and fire into me as I follow Janine down the hallway toward the giant doored office.
It’s like whoever designed it did so with maximum intimidation in mind so that Janine has to use both hands as she pushes it open. She smiles at me and waves me inside with a short nod.
On jelly-like legs, I walk into the office, looking around the vast room, the floor to ceiling windows making it seem like we’re floating above the city. There’s a small workout section in one corner, a seating-slash-television area in another, a desk the size of some bedrooms, and then a punching bag hanging above some gym mats. Add to that the cushion fluff that’s scattered like snow across the floor and the room looks thoroughly strange.
Colton Crew is sitting behind the desk, a squirming caramel Basset Hound in his arms. The dog bucks and writhes in its eagerness to come over and greet me – to make sure I’m not a threat or to play – but for long moments my gaze is glued to Colton.
I feel my breath catch as I take him in, a sight all the photos in the world couldn’t prepare me for.
Even sitting he seems to loom, all six foot six of him wrapped in layers of muscle, muscles that his steel suit can do nothing to hide. His hair is iron peppered and slightly spiky, but naturally so, without any product. And his jawline is square and firm, his lips smirking only slightly, as though he doesn’t let himself smile often. His eyes are a penetrating earthy green and they never leave me as I walk across the room, getting closer to the desk, my heart stampeding crazily in my chest.
“You can let him go if you like, Mr. Crew,” I say, surprised at how steady my voice seems.
Colton stares at me, looking suddenly grim, as though I’ve already angered him. He narrows his eyes and sweeps his gaze up and down my outfit, cheap but clean, but suddenly I know he can see how tacky it all is. His eyes linger on my shirt, my breasts straining against the fabric, and a shiver moves visibly through him.
He’s disgusted.
I have to push on, otherwise, I’ll just crumble in embarrassment.
“Are you sure?” he says, voice firm, gravelly.
It’s like he hates me, the way he talks, his tone brimming with intensity.
Perhaps he thought Kylie was going to be interviewing first, with her dyed blonde hair, perfect teeth, athletic build, and classical good looks. Perhaps he resents having to talk to a full-figured twenty year old whose clothes, frankly, are far too freaking tight.
I tug back any desire I feel for Colton – my body already buzzing at the sight of him, the proximity – because the idea that Colton would ever feel the same about me is up there with flying pigs and frozen hells.
Even as electricity surges through me, his suit hugging tightly to his thick muscled arms, I stomp on the desire. I wring its neck.
You have no place here, I tell it. Men like him would rather die than be with girls like you.
“I’m sure,” I say, realizing I’ve just been standing there, gawping.
“He’s quite rambunctious.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I say, focusing on the dog because it’s easier than looking Colton in the eye. “What’s his name?”
“Scrappy,” he murmurs.
I smile. “Well, that’s a lovely name.”
I take a few steps back and stand up straight, projecting as much power and confidence as I can. Part of training dogs is remaining calm, no matter what happens, so you can create a foundation of tranquility for the dog. I’m glad to have to make this effort. It lets me quiet down the raving nerves surging through me, and just focus on my work.
“Okay,” I say. “Let him go, if you don’t mind, Mr. Crew.”
I don’t know if this is part of the interview or if I’m drastically overstepping the mark, but then Colton Crew lets Scrappy go and the dog comes bounding over to me.
He leads with his nose, lost in the stimulation of my new scent, ending up near my shoe and then sniffing up my tights. He jumps up and I let him, just once, leaning down and allowing him to lick my face in greeting. Then I take him by the shoulders and gently but determinedly push him away from me.
When he makes to leap up on me again, I click my tongue, loudly, a noise intended to jolt him from his playfulness.