“Olivia. That has to be it.”
And then it occurs to me. This is histhing, trying to guess the woman’s name as a cute, flirty icebreaker. I cringe and wonder if this opening set has ever actually gotten him laid before. Judging by his confidence, it must have at some point, and I curse the idiot bimbo who fell for it.
“It’s Violet,” I say, putting an end to whatever flirtation he thinks is happening here.
He grins, sheepish, and I study him a little. He’s not physically unattractive,what with his decent features, expensive haircut, and designer wardrobe, but his blinding ego definitely is. Plus, he smells like money. “Damn. Not even close, was I?”
My smile’s tight as I glance behind him for signs of Rachel. “No, not really.”
Taking a step closer, he sticks his hand out inches from my chest, giving me no choice but to shake it. “Christian McCoy.”
I stand, not missing the quick once-over he gives my body as I do, putting me a couple inches below eye level in my wedges. I give him a close-mouthed smile, removing my hand from his too-warm grip. Under normal circumstances, I see nothing wrong with a little harmless flirting. But not here, at my potential future place of work. Not now, when I so desperately need this job.
“I haven’t seen you around the club,” he says, “which means you must be a new member. And if not, I sincerely apologize for not having introduced myself sooner.”
I feel my nostrils flare as I take in the smell of his overbearing aftershave. “Uh, no. I’m not a member.”
“A guest, then?”
“Nope. Not a guest.”
“Well, I’m stumped.”
“I’m here for a job interview,” I finally admit, hoping he’ll get the hint that I’m here onbusiness. Not to play verbal racketball.
His face changes at my admission, but not because he’s taking the hint. His eyebrows shoot up, his eyes flicking over me again with a newfound appreciation, and his expression becomes less polite and more confident, something I didn’t think possible. He takes another step forward. “Is that so? What position?”
After much internal debate, I tell him, and he grins wider, his veneers practically glowing. “Well. Tell whoever’s interviewing you that Christian McCoy approves of the hire.” His eyes flick down to my chest and back, emphasizing his point. “Highly approves.”
“Let’s go, McCoy,” calls one of his buddies, and I glance over to see the group smirking at me.
“She’s cute and all,” calls another, “but we’ve got places to be.”
“Well, that’s my cue,” Christian says, backing up. Then he winks at me. I kid you not.He winks at me.“I’m sure I’ll see you around, Daisy.”
I sure as hell hope not.
Bristling, I sit back down and try to decide if he just gave me an obnoxious nickname or actually mixed up Violet with a different flower. Sure, I’ve been called worse, but it’s more the way he says it that sets me on edge. Patronizing.
When the group disappears through the doors, my shoulders relax. I scold myself for being so nice and wish I could will a backbone into existence. I don’t have much time to beat myself up, though, because seconds later, a tall girl with black hair enters the lobby, making a beeline straight toward me. I jump to my feet, smooth down my dress, and give her a genuine smile.
She gets straight to the point. “Violet?”
“Yes. Hi! That’s me.”
“I’m Brit.” She stares at me for a moment, her face unreadable. “You don’t look like a psycho.”
I blink at her. “I don’t?”
“No. You’re too...” Her eyes narrow a smidge, flicking down over my dress. “Yellow.” I have no idea how to respond to that, but thankfully, she keeps talking. “Rachel got caught up, but I’ll show you around.”
“Thank you so much,” I gush, trying not to stare at her too hard. Because while Sienna has a glowing tan, Brit looks like she’s never stepped foot in the light of day. Her fair skin—made paler by her jet-black hair and heavily-lined eyes—is almost translucent under the lobby lights, and I half expect to glimpse a pair of fangs when she starts talking again.
“Technically, I’m supposed to give you the enthralling ‘history,’” she’s sure to use air quotes, “of this place, but it bores me to tears, so I’ll give you the abridged version. Basically, four rich white guys built a golf course, got some other rich people to donate, and turned it into a members-only club. Riveting, right?”
“It’s pretty much what I expected,” I say with a laugh.
“After that, they added some tennis courts, a couple pools, and of course, the number one spa in all of Cartmen Coast.”
