Page 77 of Breakaway Hearts

Because no, last night obviously didn’t get him out of my system. I’ve been replaying parts of it every time I close my eyes, and I can only imagine what a guy like that could do if given hours and a bedroom…

But I can’t.

Which I told him.

And his not listening just proves that he’s not someone I need in my life. Or want.

Even if that’s a fact I have to keep reminding myself.

The receptionist looks like the models in The Devil Wears Prada – no smile, all business, in an outfit that costs more than my mom’s rent and I would never think to wear to work – but she gives me a tiny visitor badge and I make my way up to the twenty-second floor, where I am immediately met with a waiting room of fellow candidates. One girl smiles, but it’s not friendly. It says ‘so nice of you to show up so I can crush you’.

While I might be intimidated by this place, I have never been shy, or backed down from something I wanted, unless a panic attack made me, so I give her my brightest smile back, hopefully conveying, ‘Game on, bitch.’

I don’t know if everyone else arrived way earlier than their interview time, or if it’s some mind game I got lucky with, but I haven’t even been seated five minutes before I’m called to a conference room with glass windows all around, including the exterior walls, through which I can see the city below. I always thought nature landscapes were the ones that took my breath away, but I could get used to this.

“Miss Finch?”

I nod and the woman offers me a seat, then waits to take hers until a man walks in a few minutes later.

“I had a call,” he somewhat apologizes, looking exactly like the pictures of him online. Mom called him a silver fox when I told her where I was interviewing, but he looks more like a wolf to me. Like you know he’s not soft, so you’re grateful he’s on your side.

“The clients come first,” I assure him. Not that I think it’s a test, but if it is, I’m going to ace it.

“It was my son,” he says, accepting what looks like my resume from the woman, who has yet to introduce herself. “I wanted him to go to Wynchester like I did, but he insisted on making his own name. My wife thinks he’s following a girl. Kids will be kids, you know?”

“It’s a great school,” I tell him. “Dean Simmons is⁠—”

“That still amazes me. Her father was our coach. He always gave these long, movie-worthy speeches to motivate us. A game plan might have been more useful, but I guess senior partner is just as good as the NHL.” He chuckles, but I’m not sure if he wants me to agree, or if he’s being sarcastic.

“Jason says his coach is a man of few words,” I say instead.

“Which sport?” he asks, perking up.

“My roommate is on the hockey team,” I admit.

“What position?” He looks intrigued, before he connects the dots. “You said…Jason Hargraves?” He looks impressed. “When Steele graduated, I thought we were done for, but your boy came out of nowhere and suddenly I’m blocking off a weekend in April, just in case.” He winks.

“I’m sure he’d love to play in the Frozen Four,” I let him know I’m aware of what he’s referring to. “But I see the internship starts in April, so I wouldn’t⁠—”

“Nonsense. If we make it again this year, I’m going. We have a pretty good record lately, but I can still remember back in my day, we made it to the final four twice, won the whole thing my junior year and I’m still riding that high…maybe another win will be enough to convince Devon to change schools.”

“I wasn’t really following the team last year, but I saw we won in the school paper. I’ve actually been writing articles for them this year. I brought a few if⁠—”

“I’m sure that’s all in your application. What’s Hargraves’ secret?”

I try at least a dozen more times over the next twenty minutes to steer the conversation to articles I’ve written, my goals as a lawyer and for this internship, why I think I would make an excellent candidate…but all he wants to talk about is hockey. Especially when I accidentally admit I used to play, and mention Whitmore isn’t going to win until they figure out how to get a player in the crease.

I rerun the entire interview in my head during the drive home and decide I’m either in the running because he wants someone to talk hockey with, or he knew there wasn’t a chance in hell they were hiring me, so he entertained himself with hockey talk instead of getting to know someone he was never going to see again. I appreciate the fact that he didn’t dismiss my opinions because I’m a woman, but needless to say, I am not in the best mood when I get home. I may have even stopped on my way for a few pints of Ben & Jerry’s – a perk of living in Vermont.

I get excited when there’s a book-sized package at the door; I finished the last dragon slayer book days ago and used the last of my birthday gift card to order the sequel.

Instead, I open it and find the next book in the Time Hunters series, which is a pleasant surprise, until I spot Owen’s name, and I see red.

First, he throws me off my game this morning, then I have to suffer through a half hour of talking hockey and how he might be the next Crosby, before coming home to find a fucking bribe when I clearly said I wasn’t interested.

I should let it go. I should have Jay return the book and explain to Owen he had no right. But I’m pissed, and it wasn’t like I could tell Mr. Pruitt the last thing I wanted to do was talk about hockey players, but I can certainly give Owen a piece of my mind.

I grab the book and drive to the hockey house.