“She’s not the right candidate, Shan.”
“How is that fucking possible, Patrick?” Shaking her head, she stood and opened the door. “Samuel Aidan! Get in here.”
We stared each other down until Sam strolled inside. His eyes swept between us, lighting with amusement as he digested our standoff. The runt always took her side.
“We’re in full first and middle name mode today, Shannon Abigael? Shall I fetch Matthew Antrim or Riley Augustin?”
She handed Andy’s résumé to Sam with a nod. “I want your gut reaction.”
He skimmed the document, his eyebrows lifting and his head bobbing while he read. I sank deeper into the seat, knowing I was dead in the water.
On paper, Andy was the picture of perfection for us. Unlike most candidates, including the ones she mentioned, she wanted to work in our preservation-meets-sustainability niche, and came with the experience to prove it. She was competent enough to dive into the projects specifically earmarked for this role, and would require less handholding than the majority of recent grads.
But if I had to inhale one more ounce of her light flowery scent, my head and dick would simultaneously explode.
“Hire. Immediately.” Glancing between us, he asked, “What exactly is the nature of the debate? Unless he kicked—”
“She,” I interrupted.
“Unlessshekicked a puppy in front of you, I’m unclear as to why we’d wait. It is mystifying that a candidate of this caliber isn’t already slated for an apprenticeship, and you should know that, Patrick Arden.”
I glared at him and his fussy gray suit with his pink shirt and pink tie. And the goddamn matching pocket square. He couldn’t look more the part of a sustainability specialist if he bought a Prius and started wearing feathered fedoras.
“She only wants this apprenticeship. She’s holding out for us, amazingly, but Patrick doesn’t seem to know what he wants anymore.”
I knew exactly what I wanted and I knew it in achingly precise detail. It was also ridiculous to think it would ever happen.
She snatched the résumé from Sam and slid it across the table to me.
“I’m giving you until the end of business today to figure out your issues. In the meantime, I’m writing a contract for Andy. I’ll call her at five to offer her the job unless you come to your senses or find one hell of a convincing argument to dissuade me.”
Looked like I had a long road of silent suffering or alcoholism ahead. More than likely both.
Chapter Three
ANDY
“To Andy’s newjob!” Jess squealed over the clinking of our shot glasses.
“Andy’s new job!” Marley echoed.
They knocked back their shots before turning their attention to me. Offering a weak smile, I downed the contents of my glass but couldn’t control the shudder of disgust shaking my shoulders. Jess and Marley high-fived and whooped, interpreting my reaction as an indication of the alcohol content rather than the artificial cinnamon and almond flavorings.
I hated mixed shots and the silly names attached to them—apparently this was a Cocky Motherfucker—but I intended to put that aside for the night. I was riding such an incredible high I wasn’t even going to comment on the severely elevated douche factor at the bar Marley selected either.
Shannon’s call came while I was admiring the brownstones along Berkeley Street. I didn’t want to go back to Jess and Marley’s apartment in Brighton after the interview, and decided to get my fill of Boston architecture while the January sun was shining. I was studying the panes of glass in double-hung window sashes on a gorgeous brick Georgian—I got that my hobbies tended toward weird—while we spoke, and her words still rattled around my brain.
So impressed with your work.
Clearly devoted to restoration and sustainability.
Perfect for our firm, perfect for the scope of Patrick’s work.
Such a strong base of experience.
We want you on board as soon as possible.
So many opportunities to grow here.
