When I introduced myself, I pasted on the prettiest smile I could find, one that had never felt so brittle or fake.
Especially when my lips were coated in the same rose-petal pink lipstick that Maxon had just paid for, swooping in like some kind of devil or deliverer, I couldn’t be sure.
Something about it felt ironic.
The man being there to buy me a stupid tube of lipstick and not when I’d needed him most.
“Oh, hello, Isabel. You can go right in, down the hall, second door on the right. She’s waiting for you.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, pulling in a deep breath and hoping it would pull in a load of confidence with it.
“Good luck.”
“I’m gonna need it,” I said.
On wobbly legs, I moved down the hall, trying to refrain from reaching out and letting the wall help me along, my heartbeat still a clatter, running wild from the mere sight of him.
Didn’t even want to admit the way I’d been struck by his touch.
The overwhelming rush of lust that had slammed me from out of nowhere.
So gorgeous I’d momentarily lost function when I’d found him standing there, like a vapor in the recesses of my mind that had suddenly materialized.
Foreboding and arrogant and imposing.
That was all mixed up with that charm and the stupid adorable dimple in his cheek, those two things far more dangerous than the others.
When I made it to the second door, I drew in a steeling breath.
I could do this. I’d have time to fall apart later, but right then, I needed to focus on what was important.
I peered inside to find a woman sitting behind the desk, dark, frizzy hair and readers perched on her nose.
I lightly tapped my knuckles on the jamb.
Her head popped up.
“Hello, I’m Isabel Lane. I believe I’m up next.”
I wondered if my smile was wobbling as badly as my knees.
“Come right in, Isabel.” She stood and extended her hand over the desk. I tried to remain steady when I edged inside. “I’m Helen Montoya, the office manager and head of HR.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I told her, voice wispy and thin. I was searching all over for confidence as I returned her handshake.
She almost laughed, her attention dropping to where our hands were connected. “You don’t have to be nervous.”
“Oh.” I jerked my hand away, realizing it was sweaty, and wiped it on my skirt.
Wow, was I ever making a great impression.
Light laughter tinkled from her. “Or maybe it might be this humid weather. It’s so thick, I thought I was going to have to swim to work,” she said, sitting down and gesturing to the seat across from her.
Fumbling, I sat down, adjusting my skirt and clasping my hands tight on my lap. “Oh, yes, that might be the humidity. I’m also a little nervous,” I added, peeking over at her.
She smiled a soft smile. “No problem at all.” She glanced at my resume on her desk. “So, I see you previously worked in a dental office in Idaho?”
“Yes,” I said, probably sounding a little too eager.
“And what were your responsibilities there?”
I shifted forward, my knees angled to the side. “I did scheduling and appointment confirmations, checking in patients, answering phones, all the typical things in the office.”
“Good, good,” she said, glancing at my resume.
I sat forward a little farther, nerves rattling through my senses. “On top of that, I handled the office’s marketing . . . managed the website and some of the promotional flyers and graphics. Illustrations and that sort of thing.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Thank you. I enjoy the hustle of the office, but I have to admit, I was really proud of that part of the job.”
She lowered the sheet of paper, one side of her mouth lifting at the side. “You’re an artist.” It wasn’t much of a question, and my thundering heart decided it would be a good time to give a little kick.
“I . . . well . . .I . . .” I stuttered.
Goodness, I sounded like a blabbering fool. I clenched my hands tighter like my own personal reprimand. Do not mess this up.
“I guess I would have liked to have been,” I murmured.
God, that was probably stupid, too. The last thing you were supposed to do in an interview was admit that you’d prefer to be doing something else.
“But you don’t have to worry about me doing a good job here. If I’m doing a job, I’m committed to it. One-hundred percent.”
I was inching forward again. At this rate, I was gonna fall off my seat.
She chuckled again and took off her glasses. “It’s okay, Ms. Lane. I totally understand. I think it’s safe to bet most of us might have different dreams or goals that we missed.”
A somber, appreciative smile pulled at my mouth, my chest squeezing and pulling, all the emotions I battled to keep down trying to break their way free. “Thank you. But I really do enjoy working in an office.”