What could it hurt? He can’t tell me what to do, no matter how much he seems to think he can. “I have an interview.”
Tyler slowly lifts his hands from the keyboard of his laptop and turns to me, revealing a full-frontal of his muscled chest. He’s lighter than I am, the dusting of hair on his arms a golden brown above a faint tan. His shoulders are wider than they were in high school, his chest chiseled and defined. Tyler was a beautiful boy back then. I try not to focus on how devastatingly handsome he’s become, but sometimes I can’t help it.
I swallow, forcing my gaze to his eyes. He seems too focused on interrogating me to notice my distraction.
“Where’s your interview?”
He’ll find out eventually, whether Gen mentions it, or he figures it out because he reads me. Never thought I’d think it a pain in the ass to have a guy be so observant.
“Blue,” I tell him, and check my phone for the time. The last thing I want is to be late for my interview.
Because I can’t resist another glimpse of his chest—or his reaction, which I anticipate to be colorful—I glance up. He’s frowning, his shoulders and the muscles in The Chest taut and lightly bulging.
Can’t he wear a T-shirt? How am I supposed to concentrate with him dressed like that?
“Mira, we talked about this. You can’t work at Blue,” he says calmly, though his posture and the tension radiating off him tell another story.
“Sure I can.” I apply lip gloss and press my lips together. His eyes focus on my mouth, his attention momentarily distracted.
Good. I’m glad I’m not the only one. I was beginning to think I was the only female Tyler Morgan didn’t want to take home.
Tyler turns back to his computer and begins typing rapidly.
That’s it? No argument?
Well, that was no fun. Thought I’d get a bigger rise out of him than that.
I roll my eyes. He’s hot, he’s cold, he’s pissed, he’s distracted. This new Tyler is all over the place and I can’t keep up. So I won’t even try. I grab my things and slip out the door.
I’m not sure what I thought an interview at Blue Casino would be like, but I didn’t think it would resemble a television casting call. The sheer number of people in the waiting area is making my head hurt. I don’t like to be alone. But crowds make me woozy. I think it has something to do with people getting too close. Freaks me out.
I smooth a lock of hair away from my face, as though I’m not bothered by it all. The guy next to me smiles. One of those smiles. The kind that says, I’d like to know what color your panties are.
He’s in a tailored suit, a shoulder briefcase resting beside his fancy leather-clad feet. He pulls out his phone and scrolls the screen, glancing every few minutes to see if I’m watching. I’m not, but I sense his gaze landing on me every time he does it, and it’s not helping my paranoia about fitting in.
The woman next to me, about my age, but way classier in a flared skirt with a matching cropped jacket, is modern and sophisticated. I’m self-conscious in my too-large pencil skirt and nicked-up purse.
I tuck my bag under my seat with my heel and fold my hands in my lap. What the hell was I thinking, applying for this job? Everyone waiting for an interview is out of my league. Stupid, stupid…I shouldn’t be here.
The hiring manager scheduled appointments close together to screen for candidates in rapid-fire ten-minute interviews. I arrived early, and I’m seriously tempted to leave. No way will the director call me back after he meets me and sees the way I’m dressed. And once he goes over my background experience? It’s all over. I had no business applying for this job. This was a waste of time.
“Mira Frasier?”
My shoulders jerk at the sound of my name. Like most Washoe, my last name is as European as the people who stole our land. It’s all I’ve known, familiar, yet never fitting. Like me, here, now.
For a moment, I sit, considering my options. Flee? Which isn’t really my style. I’m more a face-it-down-no-matter-the-consequences type of person. But at the moment, fleeing seems like a good alternative to the humiliate-self-in-extreme-fashion-and-lose-what-little-pride-you-have-left option.
But then I remember the money I owe…and why I’m living with Tyler. Yeah, I will grovel to get this job.
I take a deep breath and stand, smoothing out the ripples in my skirt. Flirty guy rakes his gaze over my body, staring at my ass as I bend to grab my purse off the floor. I ignore him and every other polished yuppie in the waiting area. I hold my head high as I follow the receptionist down a wide corridor.
The receptionist is wearing a tailored navy suit that hardly sways when she walks, but her hair is this crazy, deep red—almost violet—color. She fits the environment. Professional business thinly veiled by casino smut. We round a corner and a woman stands at the entrance of a large office, greeting me with a kind smile. I’m surprised. In my experience, most managers are men who sit behind overlarge desks, expecting to be waited on.
The manager is about my height, so average, with a slightly fuller figure, but curvy in all the ways guys appreciate. Her hair is a shiny, dirty blonde, her eyes a golden brown. She has great coloring. I always thought blond with brown eyes was pretty.
“Hi, Mira. I’m Hayden Tate, the new human resources director.” She holds out her hand, and I shake it. I follow her into the office and sit across from her moderate-sized and unpretentious desk.
Large shelves on either side of the room line the walls, filled with books, with more books stacked on the floor. There’s a colorful abstract on the wall that doesn’t fit the rest of the Blue décor, and I wonder if it’s something Hayden Tate brought in from home. The painting is a red, shadowed abstract of a woman’s torso as she holds herself, her shoulders curled in. None of the Blue paintings contain figures. They’re all squiggles or blotches, or whatever paint spread on canvas passes for abstract art. This painting is raw somehow. I can’t decide if the woman is holding herself together, or falling apart.
