Every bit of my nerves evaporate when the two dachshunds strut off the elevator, bums wiggling,
tongues hanging. I register the well-dressed silver-haired woman holding their leashes, but the fur
babies are the ones who have my full attention. As they approach, I drop to my knees on the cold
marble floors. “Hi, sweet babies,” I whisper, putting my fingers out.
It’s heaven. The wiggly bodies, the soft wet tongues, the excited little yips. I lean down and let
them sniff my hair and my face, laughing and rolling my lips in to avoid an eager lick at my mouth. I
stroke their smooth dark coats and touch their small paws, all the while whispering to them how
sweet they are. How wonderful.
A throat clearing snaps me out of the dog daze I’m in. I meet the eyes of the woman holding their
leashes in one hand and an ornate cane in the other. A flush heats my cheeks as I realize I’m sitting on
the floor in the ritzy lobby with her dogs still climbing all over me.
“I would stay and let you play longer, dear, but we’re on a schedule today.” Her lips are curled in
a small smile, and there’s warmth in her eyes. She’s laughing at me, but it’s not malicious.
“I’m sorry for holding you up,” I mumble as I gently place the dogs on the floor, carefully
untangling them from their leashes. “They’re beautiful dogs.” She smiles, murmuring her thanks, then
they continue on their way. I spin on the floor, eyes blinking furiously, and watch them leave.
Pulling my gaze from the woman’s back, I scan the ornate lobby, my eyes crashing to a stop at an
imposing sight.
I’m not sure how I missed them, the two large men staring at me. They’re immobile, standing in
the small seating area near the elevators. Zach and Jonas Lee. I recognize them both from my
interview. At the time, I was looking at four people crammed into a tiny screen, so somehow their
impact was lost on me. It’s not now.
They’re two of the most physically imposing men I’ve ever met. Both over six feet, with straight
dark hair. They’re dressed casually but somehow radiate the same kind of power that most men need
an expensive suit to pull off.
As I study them, they’re busy studying me. The one with the scruff, Jonas, is doing so obviously,
scanning me from top to bottom and back again. But he’s doing so without judgment, like he's
cataloging, deciding what mental box he wants to put me in. I get it. I do the same thing when I meet a
new person. I’m doing it to him right now, actually.
Zach, on the other hand, the man I’ll be directly reporting to for the foreseeable future, is unable to
