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He stares directly at me but blindly types way more letters than the word “English” has.
“Just English?” he presses.
“Pretty much. With a minor in creative writing,” I shrug.
“Nice. Our clientele request girls who are intelligent.”
I smile, but I know the wattage doesn’t even come close to Dominic’s.
“Hobbies? Things you do for fun? Passions?”
I can’t remember the last time someone has ever asked me such a question. I suppose I had to state something of the sort in my college entrance essay. “I like to bake. And I sew. I’m passionate about music.” I used to like to sing. Dominic doesn’t miss a beat typing. He’s fast. “Travel. Although, I don’t get to do it as much as I would like.” I’m not sure the last part is necessary. Perhaps I am clarifying it to myself as to not delude my mind—or his—into thinking that I am a globetrotter or something. I wouldn’t want some client to expect something that I am not.
“Do you have a boyfriend right now?”
I can’t contain my huff. “No.”
His eyes show approval, crinkling and returning to normal. “Good. If you did that could be a problem.”
Nope, very single. And very okay with that fact.
“No crazy exes, right?” he chuckles.
Dickhead Russell is not even worth me referring to as an ex. He was a blip. A mistake.
“Angie?”
“None that survived.”
“Ha, nice. I like you, McFee,” Dominic says, glancing at his watch. “Well, I think the next step of the process is waiting for you on the third floor. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”
Dominic gets up and moves around his desk. He reaches his hand out to me and pulls me up. The feel of his warmth causes my stomach to flip-flop. Oh, how I miss that feeling—even if ever so brief. He is definitely easy on the eyes. I sling my purse over my shoulder, trying to hide my girly unease.
I walk through the door first at Dominic’s old-fashioned insistence. We walk side by side down the hallway, in the opposite direction of the reception area. We pass many offices. One plaque says Human Resources, others say Technology Division and Marketing. One room looks like a conference room, with privacy blinds on the windows. Through the blinds I can see a big table with about a dozen chairs around it. A meeting is in session with about half the chairs occupied—all men in tailored suits, except for one woman with pixie-length red hair, elegantly attired in a conservative dress. Shouldn’t Dominic be attending?
We stop at the elevators at the end of the hallway. Dominic hits the button to retrieve the car. “Whenever you are done, have someone page me and I can come down and get you.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I do not know how to address him. Calling him by his first name to his face still seems so unprofessional.
The elevator pings, and the doors open to reveal an empty car. I walk inside and push the button labeled with the three. I fill the idle time with thoughts of big fat needles and flashbacks to the time I was forced to watch the eighties horror movieHellraiser. That pinhead guy was one scary dude. Surely I can handle a few needles and some blood tests today. I have been through much worse pain and trauma.
Upon the sound of the ping, I anxiously take a few steps forward, trying to force feed my mind with thoughts of puppies and rainbows.
Hell! “Ow…”
My hand flies to my forehead in Olympic speed, rubbing at the sore spot which will undoubtedly leave a noticeable mark. I blink and slowly move my eyes up the wall of muscle and settle on curious crystal-blue eyes. He is clad in gray dress pants and a baby-blue dress shirt, no tie. Hands steady my shaking body, my breathing erratic from the unexpectedness. And the blatant hotness that only a strong man can produce. Graham Hoffman.
“Shit, sorry,” I mumble, my expletive slipping off my tongue in an instant. “I didn’t mean to run into you.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m not,” he responds with a serious tone, rubbing his fingers along the lace hem of the sleeves of my dress. It is strangely intimate for him to touch something that I created with my own hands.
“You are Graham Hoffman.” I sound stupid.
He chuckles. “Yes, Angela, I am.”
The heat from his touch warms me from the inside out. His scent permeates my nostrils in the most delicious way. A mix of wood, spice, and citrus. Maybe even leather? I melt into the hold, intoxication taking over.
The sparkling blue eyes stare down at me—pierce into me—flaming the heat running through my veins. His hands move purposefully, yet are gentle. The touch is reassuring. And soft? He is a complete contradiction to the rough version of him I met last time.
