@pancakesareelite:
You’re not going to tell me anything else about yourself?
@theanswerisno:
I am also my mother’s handyman.
For free, I might add
@pancakesareelite:
A man of many talents
@theanswerisno:
What do you do?
@pancakesareelite:
I’m still trying to figure that out
Was there such a thing as too much makeup? Based on how everyone’s eyes widened upon meeting me, I must have rivaled the Joker.
Which was less than ideal on my first day of the most competitive engineering internship in California.
Any civil engineering graduate would kill to be in my position. Every year, Simucon would invite only six graduates from across the country to participate in their eight-week internship.
This year, they hired seven. I was the seventh intern, and I know this because they listed us in order of acceptance in their welcome email.
But still, they accepted me. They created an extra slot for me. Whether that was a good or bad thing, I couldn’t tell. But now was not the time for spiraling as one of the directors, Mr. Anders, walked me through the office.
He marched around with his chest puffed out. Raised with money, raised to be confident. In theory, so was I. But it never stuck. To avoid being scolded for it time and time again, I became good at faking it, and that took me far enough. Sometimes in the wrong direction.
Parties. Drugs. Men.
Mr. Anders pushed open the next office door, pulling me out of my reverie.
“Carden!” he yelled.
While the room was the same size as all the others, it was far more spacious because it only housed one person, rather than two or three. The man who sat behind the desk scowled at his computer, unbothered by our arrival. Mr. Anders tapped on his desk, but the man, who appeared to be younger than him—perhaps midthirties with a head of pitch-black hair, brown skin, and dark eyes hiding behind a pair of glasses—lifted a finger on his left hand, silencing the director while his right hand clicked furiously. The fierce frown between his dark brows was noticeable from afar. After a second, he sighed, tore off his headset, and looked up.
He was rather handsome.
Like everyone else, his eyes widened for a second as he did a quick take of my suit coat, fitted pencil skirt, and heels—which I would never wear to this office again.
His gaze traveled back up to meet mine. Wait. No. It settled about a quarter inch above my eyes.
Is he looking at my forehead? Do I have a zit?
I lifted my chin, summoning faux confidence, and wiped my clammy palms across my skirt.
Mr. Anders gestured toward me, a coy smile on his face I didn’t quite like. “We have fresh blood! Meet Elizabeth.” For a moment, I thought he may not use my surname, that perhaps I’d be spared this one time, but it seemed he had only paused for effect. As soon as the man stood, taller than I’d imagined he’d be, and reached out his hand, Mr. Anders added with a flourish, “Elizabeth Gordon-Bettencourt.”
If the man was surprised, impressed, or disgusted, he didn’t show it.
I took his hand, and it swallowed mine.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, as if it wasn’t often used.
