Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“Seriously, though. You look amazing.”
“Looks like you had as rough a night as I did,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Oh?” she asks, looking more curious. “What happened to you last night?”
“It’s stupid,” I lie, even though I know she’ll see through that. “Just some asshole who got a little grabby. And another customer stepped in and pulled him off me.”
She smirks. “Was he hot?”
“The asshole?” I stall.
She shoots me a knowing look. “The customer who stepped in,” she says, point-blank. “You’re blushing, so he must have been a dreamboat.”
“Fine,” I mutter through my fingers. “He was hot as hell.”
She cackles. “I knew it! Did you get his number at least?”
I pause for a second, wondering if I should tell her the truth. But it’s Becca. If I don’t tell her, she’ll pry it out of me one way or another. I reach into my bag and pull out his card.
“Sort of,” I say, handing it to her.
She stares at it for a moment, confused, and I can see the gears turning in her brain. The moment understanding dawns, her face lights up, and she bursts out laughing.
“Shut up,” I whine. “It’s not funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious,” she corrects. “You finally meet a hot guy in the wild, and he’s probably going to be your boss.”
I let out a mortified groan. “Tell me about it.”
“Well, at least you already made an impression.” She laughs. “Knock ’em dead.”
I check my phone and realize I’m going to be late if I don’t leave soon. I give her a quick hug, and she wishes me luck one more time as I walk out the door.
Once I’m in the cab, I keep checking my bag to make sure I have everything. Resumé. Portfolio. Breath mints. No matter how many times I confirm they’re all there, I still panic and worry I’ve forgotten something. My knee bounces the entire way.
When I get to Integrated Solutions, I check in at the front desk, my voice cracking slightly. The security guard doesn’t even blink as he issues me a visitor badge and directs me to the elevator.
I ride it to the top floor alone, watching my reflection in the mirror-polished doors. When I step into the reception area, the receptionist smiles at me politely.
“Lyra Taylor?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
She gestures. “He’s ready for you.”
Part of me hopes he is Damian. The other part is hoping it isn’t because it fears I might spontaneously explode.
My legs feel like lead. I smooth my suit jacket one last time and follow her down the hall, every step echoing. My palms sweat and my heart hammers.
All I can think is, please don’t let me have blown this before I even walk through the door.
4
DAMIEN
I’m standing at the window of my office when my receptionist buzzes me. I press the button on my desk, and her voice comes through clearly.
“Mr. Morozov? Your ten o’clock is here.”
I glance at the clock. It’s 9:57. I can respect that.
“Send her in,” I say evenly.
I turn from the large window overlooking the city and sit behind the massive oak desk, folding my hands on the polished surface. Everything in here is designed to intimidate, especially new hires.
I pull out the candidate’s resumé, but before I can really look at it, the door opens. I look up, and my perfectly crafted veneer nearly cracks.
It’s Lyra.
Her strawberry-blonde hair is freshly tamed, though I already see a curl fighting to escape near her temple. Her green eyes lock with mine, and I can tell she’s having the same realization.
Or is she? If she’s as shocked as I am, she certainly hides it better.
She’s wearing a gray fitted suit that I’m sure is meant to make her look more professional, but it does nothing to hide the curves beneath. If anything, it makes her look even more tempting than her waitress uniform.
I feel a slow, hard burn start in my chest and sink low in my gut. It’s a good thing I’ve had decades of practice keeping my face neutral, because all I can think about is how easy it would be to lean across this desk, drag her onto it, and find out exactly what color her underwear is.
She stands in the doorway for a second, eyes flicking over the office. Her gaze lands on me, and she hesitates just slightly. Then she squares her shoulders, walks in, and sits in the chair opposite me without being asked. It’s bold. I like that.
She smooths her skirt, adjusting the way it sits over her thighs. She clears her throat.
“Mr. Morozov,” she says, voice steady enough that I’m impressed.
I lean back slightly in my chair, steepling my fingers. “Miss Taylor, I presume.”
Her cheeks color faintly. Good. She’s not as calm as she wants to appear.
“Can we start over?” she blurts.
I raise an eyebrow. “We haven’t even started the interview.”