He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. “I didn’t say I was fired either. Rather, I made myself an asset, worked my way up, and then moved on to something bigger and better.”
“Sounds like tenacity.”
“I have it in spades.”
“I don’t doubt that. To take a beating on the field and keep going back for more...”
“I give the beatings, babe.” He speaks with the confidence of ten men.
“Well, there will be none of that here.” He doesn’t intimidate me, but I trip over the wordintimidateall the same. He talks a big game about women, but I wonder if he actually dates. If he’s the kind of guy looking for a life partner. Not that I should care. It’s none of my business, but I need to get into his head to best figure out how to approach our lessons.
With an annoyed little harrumph, at myself for such frivolous thoughts, and at him for being so difficult, I open his file and the interview questions. “Date of birth?”
“April fifteenth.”
I tuck my chin. “When is your actual birthday, Mr. Wolfe?”
“I just told you.”
I try not to laugh because he’s obviously messing with me.
“There’s nothing funny about Tax Day. As I said, I come to collect.” He chuckles low.
I continue to resist the furrow trying to dig into my brow. “That’s your real birthday?”
He pulls out his license and slides it across the table. Sure enough, he’s telling the truth.
“I’m surprised you know about Tax Day, given we’re not in the US.”
“I don’t. That’s my birthday too,” I say plainly.
His lip curls with a smile and he points his finger at me. “Ha! You got me. There’s no way we share a birthday.”
“Well, we do. Moving on. You’re from North Carolina?”
Tucking his license away, he nods. If I’m not mistaken, a shadow crosses his features.
“That explains the southern accent.”
“Appalachian accent,” he corrects. Then mutters, “Which I thought was dead and buried deep in those mountains.”
“Perhaps it comes out when you’re under stress?” Like how my eye twitches? That’s something I do my best to ignore, much like the way he looks at my lips when I speak.
“Or when I get ticked off,” he mutters, as though wanting to have the last word. Noted.
“Brown eyes, brown hair, six feet—?” But if I were painting a picture, it would be tan skin, copper eyes, and hair the color of a chocolate hazelnut spread. And let’s not forget well-built and with a swagger that can take over a room, bringing less sensible women to their knees.
“Six,” he says, drawing me from my thoughts.
“Six what?” I ask.
His eyes narrow like we’ve switched roles and he’s concerned that I’m the one not paying attention. “I’m six foot six.”
“And will fill in a tuxedo nicely.”
Connor does a double-take. “What was that?”
That’s a very good question. One, I will not answer. I’m in charge here, except apparently over my thoughts and the nonsense that comes out of my mouth. Brushing past that blunder, I jump into the rest of the interview, asking him numerous questions, mostly about his education, career, and lifestyle. The purpose isn’t only to get to know him, but to determine his personality type as well.
