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Candidate number two is a beautiful Latina girl. Nia returns to my office with her in tow and introduces her as Camila. After we shake hands, my assistant leaves us alone with the quiet snick of the door. The woman sits in the chair opposite my big desk, crosses her slender legs, and looks everywhere but at me.
“Hello.” I prompt. “How are you?”
She pastes on a smile. Despite the expression being completely false, it transforms her face from pretty to stunning. I might believe she was happy if her eyes didn’t say something else entirely.
“Fine.”
It’s a polite lie. I don’t pry. I used the same BS line after Becca’s death when I didn’t want to answer questions or be reminded about my loss.
“How are you?” she adds, seeming to remember that she’s here for a job interview of sorts and she should engage me.
“I’m all right, Camila. Thanks for asking.” I don’t have any interest in marrying this woman, but she seems as if she’s sad and clinging to her composure by a thread. “Tell me why you answered my ad.”
“I’d like to get married, and I’m not interested in romance. We have that in common.”
A week ago, that was true. Then, she would have seemed perfect.
Not anymore.
“Why are you against emotional entanglements?”
“Why are you?” she counters.
“I’m a widower. I need companionship and assistance. I’m not ready for more.” I lean forward. “I was blunt in the ad because I didn’t want any misunderstanding.”
“Thank you for explaining. I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll be equally honest. I was supposed to marry my high school sweetheart next month. Three days ago, I found him in bed with my sister.” She laughs bitterly. “If I hadn’t mistaken the time of my wedding dress fitting, I would never have caught them.”
Ouch. No wonder she’s taking the nuclear option. “So, you’re looking for a husband and revenge all at once?”
“Do you blame me?”
“No.” But this has disaster written all over it.
“He keeps calling and coming by, telling me how sorry he is, that he still loves me and wants to marry me. If I make that impossible, he’ll go away.”
Maybe. I don’t know this guy, but I do know this situation is too much drama for me. I don’t have the time or inclination to deal with it. Besides, Camila would eventually regret jumping into matrimony with a stranger before she’s resolved her relationship with her fiancé, and we’d wind up divorced.
“I think that’s something the two of you need to work out before you bring a third party into the situation.”
“So you’re rejecting me, too?”
She looks both stunned and near tears. I doubt she cares about me, but she seems too fragile to handle more emotional upheaval now.
Across the desk, I take her hand. It’s uncomfortable. I’m not much for extraneous touching, but she needs human contact. I’m the only other person in the room.
I don’t know why I’m not a “hugger.” I have vague recollections of my mom holding me as a kid. But after she died, my various foster parents over the next seven years didn’t show much affection. That suited me. Even Diana, as kind and jovial as she is, isn’t terribly touchy-feely.
Growing up, I wondered if Barclay Reed, my biological father, would have loved me. After meeting my half siblings, I gather the answer is no. Maxon especially has nothing but contempt for the man. If he’s truly guilty of bilking clients out of their money for decades, then I’m glad he wasn’t a part of my childhood. I hope he’ll get what he deserves in his upcoming trial. I’m all for making a buck, but not by stealing it.
“I’m not rejecting you,” I say softly. “I’m preventing you from making a mistake. If I married you, I would be doing you a disservice.”
I don’t know her personally, but I know her type. She’s the sort of woman who wants to marry for love, not as a fuck-you to her ex. It would never work.
She’s gone less than five minutes later. This interview was even shorter than the first, and when I escort her out of my office, Nia’s desk is empty. I curse. We need to talk, damn it. I have to tell her what I’m thinking, but I’m beginning to suspect she’s dodging me.
Stratus Solutions’ offices aren’t massive, so I go in search of her, only to discover she’s already fixed the copier and moved on. I text her. No answer.
Grumbling, I make my way back to my office. There she is—with another candidate, a pretty redhead with a chip on her shoulder. That meeting lasts less than ten minutes—I’m getting faster at dismissing women I don’t want—but Nia is gone again. A glance at my calendar tells me that I’m finally free for lunch after the next potential wife. She turns out to be a blue-eyed brunette waif who looks too much like Becca. Strike one. She’s ten minutes late, then somehow blamed me for her tardiness. Strike two. She spent most of our seven minutes together Snapchatting with someone and barely giving me an “uh-huh,” even when I didn’t ask a yes-or-no question.
