Page 13 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

“Sorry, should I say, Sunshine?” Dawson emphasized the word. The nickname that she’d just christened from our conversation the night before.

Before I could respond, my mom was standing in front of me. “Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to make up for your rude behavior.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Now go hire her. I like her.”

“Rude?” Had she just accused me of being rude? How in the world could I have been rude when I was floating outside my body?

“You blanked her,” Dawson accused bluntly.

“I didn’t…I was just…” I shook my head as I tripped over my words as the entire scenario, and its consequences, became clear to me, as if my brain was a steamed-up mirror I was pointing a hairdryer at. At first it was a very small circle of understanding, but it quickly spread, expanded.

My mom had just interviewed Felicity for the event planner role, to sub in while Lydia was on extended maternity leave, and she wanted me to do the second interview and hire her.

That couldn’t happen. This was my workplace. More than that, it was my life, my family legacy. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by the effect she had on me. It was too powerful. I was used to control, especially when it came to the bottom line of our family ranch.

She was a walking, breathing, tempting liability.

I had final authority regarding employment. It had been one of the areas I negotiated when I took the position eight years ago, because my mom was a soft touch, she’d help anyone she could to the detriment of the ranch and our family’s security.

“I’m not going to hire her just because you like her,” I stated firmly, then walked down the hallway to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Having Felicity as a neighbor would be distraction enough, having her at the ranch every day, impossible. I just needed to get through the interview, send her on her way, and let my mom know she wasn’t a good fit after all.

Before stepping into the conference room, I felt something stirring low in my belly. It took me a good few seconds to realize it wasn’t food poisoning, I had the butterflies at the mere prospect of speaking to her again.

Butterflies. I’d never even gotten those as a kid, which would have been perfectly acceptable behavior. Now, I was a grown man, and this reaction belonged to a lovesick preteen.

As I opened the door, I took a deep, cleansing breath, then exhaled. When I lifted my head, I saw Felicity sitting at the table, her hands folded in front of her.

“How’s the roof?” I asked as I entered and shut the door behind me, the question coming out much harsher than I’d intended.

The corners of her mouth twitched, in what I could only assume was amusement. “It’s nice to see you, too, Dean Lockhart.”

She said my last name as if it was a secret I’d tried to keep from her.

“How’s the roof?” I repeated the question. I just needed to know they were okay before I could begin the interview. I’d planned on going over that evening to fix it, but I just needed to make sure it lasted through the night.

Felicity was a master-level room reader and she realized there was not going to be any small talk so she might as well get on with it. “It’s holding up so far.”

More relief than I should have felt flooded through me. I had an unearned sense of pride that I’d fixed the problem, even momentarily, for Felicity and Maverick.

I opened her portfolio. “Good, let’s get started.”

As I reviewed the contents, it struck me that I’d never conducted an interview where I wanted the candidate to fail. I’d also never conducted one where I suspected the candidate would put me in an early grave if she got the job. Yet there I was, sitting across from Felicity Foster, feeling both sensations in equal, nauseating measure.

She didn’t look nervous the way some applicants did—her fingers were steady, her posture open. The only sign of unease was the faintest tap of her thumbnail against the glass of water my mom must have set out.

I started with the basics. “You left your last event planner position four years ago. Why?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I had a baby, and the hours were so long and unpredictable it no longer worked, so I got a nine-to-five in customer service.”

“That explains the gap,” I reasoned, but she interrupted me with the tiniest lift of her chin.

“It doesn’t explain whether I can do the job. That’s what you’re really asking.”

I blinked at her bluntness. ”Can you?”

“I can,” she stated with a self-possessed confidence that left no room for doubt.

“Events management is…intense,” I said, reaching for a point of attack. “You mentioned the hours, it can be twelve-hour days. Weekends. Unpredictable emergencies. Why jump back in now?”