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She stares at me in disbelief for a few brief seconds before relief makes her shoulders sag. Without a word, she turns and goes. And so, the process continues. Some make it through the door. Some even sit down and order a drink. Pumpkin spiced lattes, Frappuccino’s, and ridiculous over-the-top drink orders that are far too complicated for my liking. I dismiss one before she can even spit out half of her mile-long list of requirements for a caffeinated beverage. The others that make it to the table have their own set of flaws. Too meek. Too flirtatious. Too much perfume. Not enough experience. Unrealistic job expectations. Questions about the local nightlife in my city and if they’ll be drug tested. It goes on and on until my mind is sufficiently numb, and I’m beginning to agree that Gwen was, in fact, right. This is never going to work.
The door opens, and the last candidate comes through, but I’m already prepared to dismiss her. She was on the discard pile before she even arrived, because something about her background check seemed to prickle my senses. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but something felt off. It was too squeaky clean for my liking.
“You may leave,” I tell her without even glancing up. “I’m done conducting interviews for the day.”
I expect to hear her footfalls as she returns to the door, but instead, she approaches the table. I can feel her gaze on me, and it irritates me when I’m forced to repeat myself.
“I said I’m done. No more interviews.”
She still doesn’t move away, but I can hear her rifling around in her purse. I glance at her shoes out of curiosity, noting the black flats and gray tights that remind me of a schoolmarm. The slow perusal of her body only confirms my suspicion. She’s wearing a navy-blue skirt suit that favors the side of modesty, and her dark, cocoa brown hair is pulled up into a tight bun, matching the tense expression on her face. I take note of her features with equal parts annoyance and disdain. She possesses all the natural characteristics of beauty, though she’s done nothing to highlight them. Unlike the other women, it doesn’t appear that she’s wearing much makeup, if any. Her heart-shaped face has a youthful glow that belies an innocence I’m not equipped to deal with. Her lips are pillowy, and there’s a faint dimple on her chin that makes her appearance unique. But her positive attributes are offset by the shapeless clothing and silk neck scarf that reminds me of the housewives in the Hamptons.
I don’t know what she’s still doing here or why she’s not speaking, but she doesn’t seem to have any trouble maintaining my gaze. It’s somewhat surprising and a little disturbing. Most women seem to sense that I’m not the type of man you want to look directly in the eye. I’m not the man you want to challenge. But she is either too bold for her own good or too reckless to care.
She flips her phone screen around to show me a note she’s typed out, capturing my curiosity.
You agreed to an interview. I am here for said interview, and I intend to follow through. So, please do me the courtesy of keeping your end of the deal. I don’t appreciate my time or effort being wasted.
My lip tips up slightly as I read the words twice to ensure I’m not imagining them. I’m not sure why, but I find myself even more intrigued by who this creature could possibly be. On paper, she was the most boring of all the candidates, but she has managed to capture my interest in person.
“By all means.” I gesture to the chair across from me. “Take a seat. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
She sits down primly and nods at me before sliding a file folder across the table. Five seconds ago, I was eager to leave, but right now, I’m in no rush to plow through her file. I find myself wanting to know her secrets the way I know my clients’. What are her fears? Her insecurities? More importantly, what trauma gave her such a steely backbone?
The barista approaches again and asks for her drink order, and I arch an eyebrow as she types out another note in the same app. This time, she uses the text-to-voice feature to place her order.
“One espresso macchiato coming right up.” The barista makes a note of it and walks away.
I make a careful study of the woman I know as Natalia from her file. Natalia Cabrera.
“Do you not speak?” I ask her bluntly.
Her shoulders tense as she stabs a finger at the file folder before me as if to indicate the answers are all in there. I still don’t open it. Instead, I take the opportunity to study the visible scars on her hand and the slim forearm peeking out of her jacket sleeve.
