Once he’s gone, I check my phone, but there’s nothing.
Not a single message from Colt, even after I had to reschedule our session for yesterday. Just a thumbs up.
I tell myself this is normal, since he’s twenty-seven. Maybe we have different communication styles.
He’s probably at the gym doing ridiculously hard things with his ridiculously perfect muscles.
I put my phone face-down so I’ll stop being pathetic.
Next candidate: Matt Dolstrom.
The folder stares at me with terrible energy.
“Who even names a child Matt anymore?” I mutter, flipping the file open.
I force myself to read over his resume and pretend to be a functioning adult, since this one will be in person.
When I’m halfway through, a soft knock hits my door.
“Come in,” I call, not looking up. “Thanks for coming in, Matt. Have a seat.”
I catch the presence of someone in a suit, and the chair scrapes on the ground. I let in a soft inhale.
I keep reading aloud automatically, in a haze. “So Matt, why don’t you start by telling me a little about?—”
I finally look up.
And the sentence doesn’t just die.
It collapses, combusts, and ascends into Heaven.
Colt.
COLT.
In my corporate chair.
In my corporate office.
Wearing a fitted button-down and suit coat that should be federally regulated.
And he’s smiling.
Actually—no. He’s smirking.
“Hi,” he says, leaning back like he owns the place. “I’m Matt Dolstrom.”
My jaw unhinges. “Wh—why are you—how—CO?—”
He raises a hand. “Shh. I’m starting a new line of work.”
A beat passes, and I’m tongue tied, to say the least.
“Corporate. You inspired me.”
I blink so hard I might pull a muscle.
“You’re WHAT?”
