Page 43 of Slow Burn

Still, we’ve been keeping a healthy distance from each other, because nothing has changed in terms of who Beck and I are to each other, and what I’m at Wild Sage to do.

He’s off to work by the time I go in for my own coffee, so I sit with the elder Hollis most mornings, and most afternoons for lunch. I’m perfectly content with that, and Wade is good company. He shares funny anecdotes about each of the Hollis kids growing up, my personal favourite being the time Beck thought it’d be fun to climb the big oak tree, and fell out into a pile of manure.

Beck only comes home for supper, at which point I call it a day and retreat to the guest house for my own. I haven’t accepted any of Wade’s invites for dinner yet. Beck and I have been making some progress, and I don’t want to overstep again like I did when I showed up for breakfast. It took him a while to get his panties out of a knot over that, and I’m worried I’m going to lose ground with him again.

I didn’t tell anyone I was going back to the city for a job interview, not even Wade, despite his offer to watch Critter for me today. I certainly didn’t tell Beck.

Instead, I told him I had a gyno appointment. Men hate talking about gyno appointments. It’s like how I used to use my period to get out of gym class, and the teacher didn’t ask any questions.

There isn’t much point in announcing anything unless I need a reference, and I haven’t been at Wild Sage long, so I figure I should put my head down and do the work until it comes to that point. Then, maybe Beck will give me a good one.

Shirley asks me a question, but I miss it, my mind drifting out the window, over the prairies, back to Wild Sage. To Beck and the thick biceps that are tanned from working outdoors.

I do indulge myself from time to time with a peek at him in his black leather chaps and snug fitting black t-shirt when he comes through the front door after his day of work. Beck Hollis is easy on the eyes, I’ll say that. And I don’t hate the fact that my office has a direct line of sight to the front door when he walks in. It’s like I’m Pavlov’s dog, I practically start salivating at 4:55 on the dot.

“Pardon?” I shake my head, bringing myself back to the present moment, and what I’m here to do. Nail the interview, get the job, and leave Sage Valley. The thought causes a sharp pang in my chest.

“I see on your resume that you have a new job,” she points out. I gave her the updated copy that included my work at Wild Sage, although I don’t have any data to show I’ve made a difference there yet. It’s fine. I’m hoping it will distract her from my embarrassing departure from Apex.

“I do,” I answer. “I’ve been working for Wild Sage Ranch for about a month now.” Ok, I’ve only been there for about three weeks, but a bit of an exaggeration won’t hurt.

“What made you leave the job before that?” She asks.

My hands go clammy, and I inconspicuously wipe them on my black dress pants, but my heart still thunders in my ears.

“Oh, it wasn’t a good fit for either party. Our values… didn’t align.”

She nods, peering down at my resume through thick rimmed tortoise shell glasses. To my surprise, she doesn’t end the interview then and there. Something in my answer must have given her enough satisfaction that she continues.

Shirley asks me about all of my previous clients, what kind of companies I’ve consulted for, and I have an entire folder with various stats and data that support how fucking awesome at my job I am.

She seems genuinely impressed by the numbers. She even gives me a tour of the office, and points out the corner office that I would call mine if I got the job. I feel like I have it in the bag, and I breathe a sigh of relief as we return to talk logistics.

When she finishes by telling me they have several other candidates interested in the position, my heart drops. This is far from over.

“I’ll be in contact once the interviews wrap up in a couple weeks,” she says. “Of course, we’ll have to get a background check and references if you are the successful candidate,” she adds.

I smile and shake her hand, all while nerves and disappointment war in my gut.

I’m packing up my things, gently sliding my folders back into my tote, when my eye catches on a small framed photo sitting on her desk. The photo is of a young girl, no older than four or five, with a wide gap toothed smile, holding two bunnies proudly in her lap. She’s been caught mid-laugh.

“Cute kid,” I say. First impressions have never been my strong suit, but there’s no time like the present to practice. Besides, everyone loves a compliment on three things: their pets, their kids, or their appearance. I have limited time to try and earn brownie points here. I’m pulling out all the stops.

Maybe I should test that theory on Beck one of these days, compliment him on those chaps of his and see where it gets me.

“Thanks,” Shirley says, her face lighting up. “That’s my granddaughter.”

Perfect, I can comment on her adorable grandkid and on her youthful appearance in one shot.

“I would have never thought you’d be old enough to have a granddaughter,” I add.

Shirley chuckles, a flush warming her cheeks.

“Are those her pets?” I ask. I’m doing it, I’m going for it. Three for three—looks, kids, pets.

“No no,” Shirley says. “Her mother would never let her have bunnies. Those were at an event we went to, a retirement party for a friend of mine. She did a fundraiser for this rescue organization.” Her voice goes wistful. “She had so much fun.”

“Looks like it,” I beam.