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“How did it go, anyway?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Not great. I thought the personal touch might help, but anywhere I’d want to work isn’t hiring. It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow, I’ll hit up all the places where I don’t want to work. A paycheck’s a paycheck when you get right down to it.”
Most importantly, I won’t be leaching off Lola. I refuse to live here without at least paying something.
Lola sighs. “Maybe I should give Dad a call. Give him a friendly nudge. He’s so in-his-own-head sometimes.”
“What do you mean?”
She smooths her fringe. “Basically, he’s immune to hint dropping. I was dropping some mega hints about the photography job, but all he wants to talk about is my college courses.”
“He’s a good dad,” I say. “He’s interested.”
Forgive me.
I’m not just thinking about the sort of father he is for Lola but also about the kind of dad he’ll be for our children. I’m thinking about the way he’ll smile at our first child when he or she takes their first steps, the pride beaming in his eyes.
“Yeah.” Lola smiles, laughing lightly. “And a crappy boss, apparently.”
“You don’t need to drop hints,” I tell her. “It’s fine, honestly.”
My hands smooth over my belly, clawing on as though I can feel my core getting ready for what we’re going to do…or not do since it’s clear Felix is doing his best to forget about me.
He probably feels like we’re pressuring him into hiring me for the job.
“But it’s not a handout,” Lola says as if reading my thoughts. “I just want him to give you a chance. That’s all.”
“It’s like you said. He’s probably moved on to another project. I can’t just sit around in the meantime.”
My cell phone rings from my pocket. I take it out quickly, thinking it might be one of the stores or businesses I gave my resumé to earlier.
“Who is it?” Lola asks.
“I don’t know. I don’t recognize the number.”
“Let me see.”
I flash her the screen, and she grins. “It’s Dad. Or boss. You better answer.”
I’m achingly aware of Lola’s eyes on me as I swipe the answer button and hold the phone to my ear.
“H-hello,” I say, cursing the stutter, cursing the sensations sizzling all over my body when I hear him breathing down the phone.
“Faye,” he says huskily.
“Mr. Fallon.”
I remember the last time I called him that, at the dinner table, how he sat up in his chair like he was about to flip out. He was swelling up like he was going to do something, something that makes my core hot and steamy just thinking about it.
He laughs gruffly. I think he’s about to correct me again, but then he lets it pass.
“Sorry it’s taken me so long to reach out,” he says after a pause. “I’ve been busy. Are you still interested in the work?”
“Yes,” I tell him.
Very.
“Okay. I’m going to send you an address. Be there tomorrow morning at 10 A.M. There will be a few folders of photos waiting for you. The criteria for selecting the ones to move onto the second stage will also be there. Once I’ve assessed your work on this task, we’ll see if….”
