“I don’t know.” His lips twist, but I don’t push because it’s clear he’s thinking it over. “Maybe the aptitude test? But I think it’s mostly the not knowing that’s bugging me.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they made it vague as hell just to torture us.” I smirk. “Watch, it’ll be something completely ridiculous, like memorizing the office coffee order or fetching lunch.”
He shudders. “Let’s hope not. I’d fail the hell out of that.”
“Says the guy who somehow got an entire pan of peanut butter brownies from Daily Grind between morning practice and his eight a.m. class.” I curl into him, relaxing as the scent of sandalwood and citrus settles over me. “You never did tell me how you managed it.”
He laughs and snakes an arm around my waist, the comforting weight of him pinning me to the mattress. “I see how it is. Trying to unlock all my secret hacks before the interview tomorrow?”
“It was worth a shot.” Which reminds me. “Did you talk to Mac about getting accommodations for the broadcast portion of the interview?”
During our mock broadcasts in class, we had the scripts ahead of time, but that probably won’t be the case tomorrow. Not if they want to see how we perform under pressure.
Fifteen years of competitive gymnastics should be proof enough.
But not all the interns are athletes.
“No,” Devin says, bringing me back to the moment. “I didn’t see the point.”
“What?” I sit up and he pulls his arm back. “Why not?”
“I don’t need accommodations. Or pity.” He gives me a meaningful look, which is crap. I’ve never pitied him because of his dyslexia. “I can do this on my own.”
The man has got to be the most stubborn human I’ve ever met.
“Okay, first of all, no one is pitying you.” He opens his mouth to protest, but I swipe a hand through the air, shutting him down. “Accommodations exist for a reason. Using them isn’t a reflection of your ability to perform the job or an indicator of future success. They’re a tool in your toolbox. No more, no less.”
“Easy for you to say.” He shoves his fingers through his hair and my thoughts must be written all over my face because he adds, “I’m not ashamed, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Good.” The word comes out more fiercely than intended and his brows shoot up. “There’s no reason for you to be embarrassed.”
So what if his brain works differently? That doesn’t make it lesser.
“Over the years,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve dealt with enough snide comments to know that some people don’t handle accommodations well. They see it as an unfair advantage or an inconvenience or a combination of the two.”
Anger flares red-hot and molten, incinerating every other emotion his words have evoked. “That is complete and utter bullshit and you know it.”
“I do.” He nods slowly. “But I don’t need those kinds of distractions tomorrow, so I’m going to go in there and do my best, just like everyone else.”
“Doing your best means setting yourself up for success, not hoping things go your way.”
We stare at one another, deadlocked, neither of us willing to concede.
Did I push too far? Too hard?
It’s not my place to tell him what he should and shouldn’t do, but I can’t stand by and silently watch him roll the dice with his future because he’s worried about what other people might think.
“Look, I know you’re just trying to help, but I’m good. I know my capabilities and my limits. You need to trust me on this, okay?” He’s so sincere, his eyes pleading with me for understanding that when he cups my cheek, his calloused fingers molding to my skin, I cave. “I don’t want you worrying about me. You need to stay focused on you tomorrow.”
That was our deal, after all.
I nod. “May the best candidate win.”
“Thank you. I plan to.” A slow smile spreads over his face, and my heart flutters in response. Devin’s smile is a thing of beauty and no matter how many times I see it, it still has this effect on me. Probably always will. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, can I please eat your pussy?”
Heat floods my core, every nerve in my body tingling with anticipation as I match his smile with a wicked grin of my own. “I thought you’d never ask.”
39
