“Are you here for the interview?” she asked.
“Yes, I am. Natasha Lewis. And I’m late.”
“Mr. Marshall’s expecting you. And don’t worry about being late. He’s had his nose in files all morning. I don’t think he realizes what time it is,” she said.
“Okay. Where would I find him?” I asked.
“The door behind you.”
I turned around and looked through the glass door. The man was sitting at a sprawling mahogany desk, but I couldn't take my eyes off him. I walked towards his office door and opened it, letting myself in before the glass door closed behind me. He didn’t move a muscle as I took a few steps towards him, his face buried in mounds of paperwork.
Did he not hear me?
“Miss Stacey, can you get in touch with my one o’clock and tell them I’ll be a little late? I’ve got some other pressing matters that-”
He lifted his head and his dark green eyes connected with mine. The man was breathtaking. I’d heard Logan talk about Carter for years, but it wasn’t like I’d ever met the man before.
“You’re not Stacey,” he said.
“No. I’m Natasha Lewis.”
His eyes fell to his computer as a stern rose in his brow.
“You’re late.”
“I am,” I admitted.
“Take a seat,” he said.
He motioned for me to sit in the seat in front of his desk as he stood.
My eyes watched him tower over the desk as his long legs carried him around it. His body was strong. Chiseled. But in the way a runner’s body might be. His fingers were long and dexterous, and his suit was tailored tightly to his body. His raven black hair was swept off to one side, perfectly gelled and not a lock out of place.
He leaned back onto the edge of his desk and crossed his legs at his ankles.
“I hear you work with children,” he said.
“I do.”
“In what capacity?”
“My specialty is working with underprivileged children and aiding them in their development,” I said.
“Have you had any nannying experience?” he asked.
“I babysat a lot as a teenager and kept the practice up through college.”
“Logan tells me you have a degree in Early Childhood Education.”
“And a teaching certificate, yes,” I said. “I have my resume with me, if you want to see it.”
He held out his hand, his palm outstretched and waiting for my prize.
I drew in a deep breath as I pulled my resume from my purse. I was trying not to concentrate on how absolutely gorgeous this man was. With his chiseled cheekbones and his silent demeanor and his powerful stance and his languid features.
I kept my eyes locked on the view around his waist as he studied my resume.
“Africa,” he said.