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“1213 Oakdale,” I mutter to myself, checking the numbers on the buildings I pass by. After a few more blocks, I brake and hop my bike up onto the sidewalk, dismounting before locking the frame to the metal bike rack outside.
The guys all left for class about an hour before I headed out, which gave me ample time to fuss over my appearance in the mirror and change my outfit a few times before leaving for the interview.
As I stride toward the building that houses the law office Reese works at, I pull my phone from my pocket and find four text messages waiting for me.
REESE: Kick ass, Ems. I’ve been talking you up ever since you got the interview. They’re gonna love you.
TRENT: You’ve got this. They’d be fucking lucky to have you.
WEST: You’ll do great. I know it.
WEST: And we’re going to continue that conversation you started in the kitchen. Soon.
A flush of nerves and arousal fills me, and my footsteps stutter a little. This morning, still in a daze from that crazy-intense dream, I almost told West everything—nearly blurted out the truth that I don’t want to have to pick between him and his friends.
The doorbell saved me from saying something stupid that I couldn’t take back, but I said enough to pique West’s curiosity. He knows there was more to what I was going to tell him than a simple dream about flying or something.
Should I tell him? Tell them all the truth?
It was a lot easier to contemplate doing that this morning when I was still shaking off the hazy fog of sleep. But now that I’m wide awake and totally sober, it’s a lot more daunting to consider.
I text each of the men back, thanking them for the well-wishes. I evade West’s second text for the time being, choosing to brush right by it rather than admit to anything more.
Just as I’m about to slip the phone back into my pocket, it rings. I startle slightly, gazing down at the screen. I wasn’t expecting any calls, and the fact that it’s not one of the guys or my dad narrows down the possibilities a lot.
“Hello?”
I hold the phone in one hand and pull open the large glass door with the other, stepping into the cool, minimalist interior of the building.
“Ms. Holloway. Devon Clarke here.”
My brows shoot up. That’s the man I’m supposed to have an interview with for this very job. Why is he calling me now? Am I late? That shouldn’t be possible.
“Um, hi, Devon.” I speak with a smile in my voice, even though my heart is beating a little faster. “I actually just arrived at the office for my interview.”
“Oh. You did?” He sounds a bit surprised at that. I hear a rustling of papers
in the background, and then he adds. “I wasn’t entirely sure you’d show up.”
Not sure I’d show up?
I stop in my tracks, my grip tightening on the phone. “Of course I showed up. I need a job, and this one seems like it would be a perfect fit for me.”
“Yes, well.” He clears his throat. “As perfect as it may be for you, I’m afraid I don’t think you’re going to be a good fit for us.”
What?
My mouth becomes suddenly dry as I get the uncomfortable sensation that something is wrong. It’s the same way I felt at the restaurant when everyone’s cards got declined, and when Trent was pulled over and hauled in to the police station.
Leslie. She’s somehow fucked with my life again. But what did she do this time?
“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. “But I really don’t know what you’re talking about. How can you know I won’t be a good fit without even interviewing me?”
“I went over the resume you sent out. Everything looks good on paper, but when I called your references… well, like I said, I don’t think you’ll be a great fit for our firm after all.”
My heartbeat is a dull thrum in my chest as I reach into the bag I brought and pull out the resume I’ve been polishing ever since Clearwater kicked me out.
“I… I didn’t send out any resume. I have a hard copy here I was going to give you today.”
