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Enough, man. Enough.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Let’s talk about the position.” I lead her to a window seat, the only spot we have to sit in the shop aside from the stool behind the counter. I make a conscious effort to keep my eyes trained on hers, not allowing myself to look how far her dress rides up as she sits on the cushion.
Just as we sit down, a loud pounding on the glass window makes us both jump. I look out to see a young girl being hauled away by one of my security guards.
“So, about the job,” I say, clearing my throat. “We’re really just looking for someone to help out. Part-time hours, probably somewhere between ten and fifteen a week. I looked over your resume, and it looks like you have no experience.”
Well, that could have probably been worded better, Bordeaux.
Isla brings her hand up to the top of her chest, brushing her fingers over her collarbone, landing on a simple silver chain that decorates her neck, a soft smile appearing on her face. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t have experience selling vinyl. I have experience in sales though, and customer service. If you know a product, and love and believe in the product, I think it’s just kind of like second-nature to sell it. And if you know your customers and you’re good to them, they’ll keep coming back. And I keep people coming back.” She shrugs and puts both hands in her lap. “Doesn’t really matter if you’re selling records or candles; it’s all the same formula.” She’s very matter-of-fact and to the point. I can sense her confidence but at the same time, there is something about her that screams shy, quiet girl. Almost like the act she’s putting on right now is a ruse, a mask she’s put on to impress us and score a job. If she is a shy, quiet girl, she’s far from my type—and that’s a good thing. “I’m studying music management in school actually,” she says, filling the silence as I scribble notes of no substance onto her application, buying my brain some more time. “I’m minoring in art. I’m a creative. Music. Art. I don’t know for sure what I’m going to do when I graduate, but I’ve kicked around the idea of working for one of the music venues or maybe even a record label. I think I would like to do their marketing or managing, or something like that. Behind the scenes.”
I’m curious about her. Maybe it’s the way she tilts her head to the side when I talk, or how she wraps her arms around her middle, like she’s trying to cover up the fact that this dress fits her like a glove. You cannot fucking deny that, Isla. Don’t bother trying.
I nod, noting that apparently, she loves music. I can’t help but wonder if she’s listened to mine. “Why do you want to work here?” I ask, unable to think of any questions right now. All thoughts leave my fucking pea-sized brain, and for the first time in a very long time, I’m left with nothing to say. I look back down, pretending to jot more notes down, angling the clipboard that her resume rests on toward me.
“The music.” She gestures around the shop like I’m an idiot. “I love music, and this shop isn’t far from my house. I’ve been here a few times over the years, and I like the atmosphere.” Her arms fall to her sides like she’s totally forgotten the need to protect her body from my eyes. “If I’m being honest, I could probably work in any record shop, but it’s just about the music for me. The way it can hit you and change you and turn you into a different person, even if only for three minutes.” I watch as she presses her lips together. She bites her bottom lip, tugging it into her mouth. Before I can say anything, an almost whisper escapes her lips. “Nepenthe,” she says, looking to the right of me over at the records. Her eyes are dark and sad, doe-like eyes that make me curious about her.
“Nepenthe?” I ask.
She startles and looks at me with a slight twinkle in her eyes. “Sorry. Yeah. Nepenthe. I have this thing... I like weird words. Words most people wouldn’t know. Did you know there’s like, this whole other universe of words out there that people just don’t know about?” She tilts her head subtly, but doesn’t wait for my answer. “Nepenthe means something that can make you forget grief or suffering. That’s music... well, for me, at least.”
“Go on,” I tell her. Because I sure as fuck know how music can take every single ounce of pain away. How it can extinguish every fucked-up thing in your head. When I’m on the stage with the lights shining down on me and the crowd’s energy radiating off them and onto me—it’s indescribable. I get it. Nepenthe. I roll the word around again in my mind. Sounds about right.
“You can listen when you’re happy and it makes you even happier. Or when you’re sad or empty, it can either amplify your sadness and emptiness, or it can pull those feelings straight from your soul and replace them with a feeling of wholeness. You can revel in your moods, or you can change them all to the tune of one song. You can get lost or get found or stay somewhere stuck in between. Wherever you want to be.” She runs her tongue along her bottom lip. “That’s what I love about it.” She nods, her eyes looking straight into mine, but it’s as if she’s far, far away. “I want to work here, Bordeaux, and I think if you give me a chance, you won’t be disappointed in me.”
It’s in this moment that I realize Isla Robles is about to cause me a whole lot of trouble. Isla, with her beautiful smile, mysterious eyes, skin-tight dress, and brilliant mind. She’s trouble.
Pure, fucking trouble.
* * *
“Dude. That girl is a fine piece of—”
“Kennedy Matthews, you aren’t about to say something as misogynistic and pig-ish as I assume you are, are you?” Frankie looks up from behind her turquoise-rimmed glasses, judging the shit out of him. I love her for it.
He quickly shakes his head, dreads swaying from side to side. “Absolutely fucking not, ma’am.” He goes back to organizing records, keeping himself busy.
“Good. Because I like her, and I don’t need you thinking with your dick and fucking this up. She seems like a nice girl. And don’t think you’ll be getting outfits like that often, she apologized to me on her way out.” Frankie looks back down at the monthly revenue report. “She just came from a family get-together.”
Frankie walked in when we were almost finished with the interview, and she and Isla had the chance to talk for a few minutes. It seemed like they hit it off, and Frankie offered her the job on the spot.
“Family get-togethers sure have changed since I was last at one.” Kennedy snorts, and I slap him on the back of the head.
“Let’s try to be a bit more professional, you basket case. The girl seemed smart. She knows what she’s talking about. She can probably outsell your ass, considering you’re on break more than you’re out on the floor.”
Kennedy shoots me a narrowed glare and I laugh at his dismay.
Under his breath, Kennedy says, “Don’t you even think you can woo her with that whole bad-boy, rockstar bullshit thing you have going on. I saw the way she looked at me, and the way you looked at her. Let me shoot my shot before you have her falling in love with you.”
It annoys me that Kennedy thinks, or knows, I felt any type of way for the new employee. He can relax, though. I don’t let women close enough to catch feelings. I keep them at an arm’s length, especially ones who look like Isla Robles. He can shoot all the shots he wants with her.
I’m going to keep doing the solo thing. Exactly how I always do. I’m not about to let some unbelievably gorgeous, intelligent woman with badass taste in record shops screw that up for me.
And maybe—just maybe—if I tell myself that enough, I’ll believe it.
Four
Isla
