I hear him before I see him—the sound of someone standing up, the groan of wood. Then a growly voice calls out, “Come in.”
I do as I’m told, nerves buzzing as I push open the door and step inside the office.
Someone is waiting for me.
I freeze.
Holy crap.
The man standing behind the desk is a giant—at least six and a half feet tall. He’s broad and muscular, with wide shoulders and biceps that bulge beneath his green flannel shirt. His sleeves are rolled up, dark ink running up both forearms, and I suck in a breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
He’s stupidly handsome. Of course. Early forties at least, with striking gray eyes and a light brown beard threaded with auburn, accentuating his sharp jawline. His brows are drawn down, mouth serious and unsmiling, but the grumpiness onlymakes him more attractive. He looks like a walking fantasy, and I suddenly feel a lot more nervous than I did a second ago.
“Hi,” I stammer awkwardly. “I’m Willa. I’m here for the interview. Are you Flint Calloway?”
The man is silent for a beat too long. He stares at me, sizing me up, making my cheeks heat beneath his gaze.
“Yes,” he says eventually. “I’m Flint Calloway.”
Goosebumps erupt on my arms at the sound of his voice. It sounds even deeper than it did on the phone—a low rumble from his sternum that seems to fill the whole office.
“Nice to meet you.”
I approach the desk, forcing myself to remember where I am and why I’m here. If I want this job, I need to act professional—not gawk at my potential new boss like a schoolgirl with a crush. I reach out a hand across the desk, heart fluttering when I catch Flint’s scent, like pine and woodsmoke. He takes my hand, his calloused palm engulfing mine, the contact sending a shiver up my whole arm.
I let go and take a seat. Flint mirrors me, his broad shoulders taking up most of the desk space as he sits. He doesn’t bother with small talk.
“Your application says you work at Creekside Diner.”
“Yes.”
“And Fireside Lodge.”
My fingers twist in my lap. “Night shifts.”
“And you want to add this on top?” Flint frowns.
“I can handle it.”
He doesn’t argue. Instead, he talks me through the role: admin, crew schedules, supplier orders, invoicing sawmills. I concentrate, nodding along as I cast a glance at the office. It’s organized chaos: papers stacked in neat piles, ring binders everywhere, a whiteboard covered with indecipherable notes, and a filing cabinet that looks like it’s from the seventies.I’m willing to bet that half the stuff in here should be on a spreadsheet instead of in a pile on the desk.
“You ever worked a job like this before?” Flint asks once he’s done explaining.
“Not officially, but I’m very organized. I’m confident I can sort all this out.”
He surveys me for a moment. “Good.”
I ask about the hours, relieved to hear the shifts are pretty flexible. Then the talk turns to salary. I’ve never had the luxury of being coy about money, and when Flint names a significantly higher number than what was listed in the job posting, my heart leaps.
“That’s the starting salary,” he says. “You manage to drag this office into the twenty-first century and it’ll go up.”
“Perfect.” I try to hide my eagerness. Stay calm. “I can do that.”
A pause. Then Flint says, “When can you start?”
“Tomorrow.”
He nods. “Tomorrow.”
