I pauseoutside his door and stare at it for a few seconds, and I hate myself for the hesitation. I hesitate anyway, just long enough to calm my pulse, because the outcome of this meeting matters. Then I knock.
“Come in,” the deep voice says, and I enter, my eyes finding the man behind the desk.
And for a second Roman looks relaxed, even bored, but when his gaze falls on me he sits up straight. His blue suit coat is perfectly in place, but he adjusts it anyway, and his eyes sparkle as they trail over me.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he says, his lips twitching. He sounds like he means every word.
I am less pleased to be here. Unfortunately, I can’t think of any other options.
“Hi,” I say. Because I’m not sure, I add, “Sir.” When he raises one brow, I change tack. “Mister?” Then I shake my head. “Whatever.”Get it together, Aurora. “I need to get in touch with Denice to discuss something in my contract.”
“Oof.” He leans back in his chair and shakes his head, sending some of his perfect golden-brown hair over his forehead. “Sorry. No can do,” he says, folding his arms in a way that emphasizes his broad shoulders. “I am under strict orders to handle everything here or Denice will—and I quote—‘make you change the next twenty poopy diapers in the middle of the night, Roman, and you can see what it’s like trying to balance babies and work and severe sleep deprivation at the same time.’”
He says this last part in a voice uncannily like Denice’s, which makes me think it’s not the first time he’s mimicked her.
And I wince, because he’s good at it; I can hear my boss in every word he’s just said. So I take a deep breath and try again, once more pushing down my anxiety. “All right. I understand that. But I’m not sure you can help me.”
He kicks his feet up on the desk at this, grinning cheekily at me. “Why don’t you ask and find out?”
“You are wildly unprofessional.” The words escape without my permission, but I can’t help it. Despite his crisp appearance, the navy suit coat over the white button-up, the tan pants and brown wing-tips on display, there’s something about him that still screamsease—relaxed and carefree in a way I don’t understand, confident from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.
He doesn’t seem upset by what I’ve said, though; if anything, his smile widens. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment,” I say while wondering how his teeth can be so straight and so white.
He lets out a dramatic sigh. “While it is true that I’m more of a babysitter than an actual boss”—he waves around the cramped little room—“I may still be able to help. Give it a shot.”
I smooth my hands down my pencil skirt, tighten the bow at the collar of my silky white blouse, and Roman watches—his eyes track every nervous habit that emerges as I steel myself for the conversation ahead. Then I grit my teeth and, remaining calm and businesslike, I speak.
“My contract dictates that I’m only allowed to work this job,” I say. “But a situation has arisen—” I break off and swallow as flames of embarrassment try to lick over my skin. Then I set my pride aside, because that’s what a grown woman does, and I go on—although this time I can’t quite meet his curious gaze. “A situation has arisen where I really need more work, if at all possible. I’m hoping to get an evening or weekend job that wouldn’t interfere with my work here at all, something in a totally unrelated field.”
“Hmm.” All humor fades from his expression until he just looks thoughtful. “What kind of situation are we talking about?” he says.
I don’t answer. I can’t. I cannot make myself tell this man about the hot water I’ve landed in.
“Fine, fine,” he says after a second. He waves one careless hand. “None of my business. Got it. What kind ofjobare we talking about, in that case?”
In his position it’s a valid question. And if anyone else were asking, I’d still be embarrassed, but it wouldn’t feel like this. Why am I so humiliated I’m starting to sweat, just because it’s him? Is it because he saw me in that holding cell?
“I’m not sure what kind of job yet,” I say, clasping my hands in front of me as doubt tries to squirm in my gut. “But probably something in food services. Or customer service. Call centers.” I swallow. “Either way, unrelated to my work here.”
He hums, his eyes still thoughtful as he looks at me. “All of that sounds very boring.”
“Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do.” My voice is dull, tired, because it’s becoming very clear that this conversation is going nowhere. It was stupid to think it might?—
“Well,” Roman says, the word halting my thoughts. He exhales, removes his feet from the desk, and sits up straight. “That all seems reasonable. I have no problems with it.”
I stare at him and try to keep my shock off my face. “I—really?” Then my eyes narrow. “Are you allowed to make that decision?”
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “I don’t see why not. Even if I need to run it by Denice…I’m very persuasive.” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine, and the faintest hint of laughter returns to his expression, a ghost of those dimples. “I do wonder about that kind of work, though. You might be better suited to something else.”
I wait for him to go on, my hands clenching each other tightly now, my palms sweaty.
“As it so happens,” he says slowly, “I’m looking for someone to help me get my home in order.”
What?
I don’t speak the word out loud, but it must be clear on my face, because he nods.
