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Slowly, I turn to leave when someone enters the room through an interior doorway.
“Enter. This way,” the man says, his deep, accented voice stopping me cold.
Turning somewhat sheepishly, I try to school my features. I don’t want him to see my fear, my uncertainty, so I plaster on a shaky smile, lifting my eyes to meet his. He stands beside the window on the raised platform. Sucking in a sharp breath, I freeze, my heart thumping wildly. I’m stunned—actually stunned—by his beauty.
At least six foot three, he’s young with dark brown hair and blue, blue eyes. He’s hot. Like, crazy hot. It takes everything for me not to squeak and run out of the room, which I would do, if I weren’t rooted to the spot.
He smiles and holds out his hand. “I’m Evan.” His smooth, British accent trickles down my spine and makes me feel a little light-headed. I blink, struggling to regain my faculties.
Then I totter up to him like a newborn foal, managing to climb down into the sunken living room, cross it and climb the two steps up to the platform to him. Quickly licking my lips and working moisture into my mouth, I take his proffered hand.
“Madeline,” I say in a strangled voice.
His grip is strong, and a weird jolt of energy rushes through me at the contact. I jerk my hand back. My cheeks flush hot, and I’m suddenly embarrassed, though he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
His spicy scent surrounds me as he pulls his hand back and slips both in his pockets. His smell is heavenly. I draw in a quick breath. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve never been this affected by a stranger before.
His eyes then travel—slowly—from my neck, down across my chest, my waist, lingering for a moment on my hips, till they hit my legs and the hideous skirt, skittering away immediately. I suddenly wish I was seated or cringing behind a table or desk somewhere, with at least a few furnished barriers between us.
Throughout this attentive inspection, his impossibly handsome features have remained impassive. That strange gleam in his blue eyes makes him appear conflicted until finally an almost bored look crosses his features.
Obviously he’s not much impressed with what he sees. Given my competition waiting downstairs, it’s not difficult to understand why.
Best to get this over with, then. My stomach sinks. All those wonderful hopes I’d entered the building with are now circling the drain.
I hold out my application and medical form to him. “I’m sorry, I don’t have my resume with me. My printer jammed this morning.”
A lie. The truth is I can’t afford the ink, so it now sits on my desk, a useless paperweight.
He eyes me, lids narrowing slightly before taking the proper paperwork and holding it near the window for the light in order to read the paper.
I lace my fingers together and mentally will myself to keep from fidgeting. How I wish he’d invited me to sit, damnit.
He shifts, and with each movement, I get another whiff of that smell and it gives me this weird sort of rush. Nonplussed, I resolve to try and breathe through my mouth for the rest of the interview.
God, this is awkward. But he is all cool confidence as he stands before me, large, designer-bedecked feet planted a wide shoulders-width apart. He shifts the focus of those baby-blues on me again with laser intensity, and I suddenly find it hard to breathe. “Tell me about yourself.”
I take a deep breath. This is always the part I hate. I’m more comfortable talking about other people, their lives, and their interests. I have no desire, whatsoever, to talk about myself.
“Well, I go to school at Caltech full-time. And I currently work in the campus coffee shop whenever I can get the hours.”
Interest lights in his eyes as he tilts his head suddenly. His gaze rakes over me, from head to foot, as though he can’t believe I’m a Caltech student. I get that a lot. “What do you study?”
“Engineering and Applied Science, specifically Aerospace.”
His eyes narrow, and he touches a finger to his chin. “And have you ever done work of this nature before?”
I’m too embarrassed to admit that I have no idea what the job description even is, so I do what any girl would do in my position. I bluff. “Not exactly,” I mumble. That stern, assessing gaze unnerves me. “But—but I’m a fast learner, and I’m confident I can do the work.”
He laughs, his gaze still lingering on me, heating my skin in all the places it touches. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
I frown, puzzled. Did I say something amusing? It’s clear by his reaction that I’d botched this already. Suddenly, I can’t wait to get out of here. This is clearly a waste of both our time.
My hands start to sweat, and I resist the urge to wipe them across my thighs over my skirt, as he again glances through my paperwork.
“It doesn’t say here whether or not you’re on birth control.” He glances up at me, expecting an answer.
My eyes widen as my jaw drops “I, um…” I’m searching for an answer. I’d deliberately skipped that question. It isn’t any of their business, anyway. “Is that even relevant?” Or for that matter, legal to ask?
