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“Mr. McLaren?” she asked. “I’m Amy, the shift manager.”
“Hi, Amy,” I said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she said. “Umm. Miss Brewer is waiting for you in her office.”
“Her office?” I asked. “I wasn’t aware this place was big enough to have offices for everyone.”
“Oh, it doesn’t,” she said. “There’s just the two. She shares it with the other managers, I guess, but I always think of it as hers, you know?”
“Other managers?” I asked. “Wait, does Miss Brewerworkhere?”
Amy blinked at me for a moment and slowly nodded her head.
“Yes,” she said. “Usually the afternoon shift. Right this way.”
Add that to the list of things I didn’t know about this place. A list that grew so much larger when the door opened, and my eyes widened.
Being five years younger than me, we hadn’t been in school at the same time, so while I knew the Brewer name, I didn’t know Melanie. I was not prepared for what I saw. In front of me was a perfectly made up, gorgeous, capable-looking woman. A woman who was also clearly angry as a hornet.
4
MELANIE
Pacing back and forth in the office for a half an hour was probably not good for me. Being on the floor with customers who had some exceptionally dumb questions today wasalsonot good for me, though, and at least locked away in the office, there was less of a chance that I would start throwing things and dropping more f-bombs.
But being locked away in a small room and not know exactly when this Victor McLaren guy was going to show up was way worse it felt like. I was like a caged tiger, full of rage and frustration and indignation, and every time the door opened because Amy had to get something or the safe needed to be opened, I already had my mouth open ready to launch into him. I was edging myself emotionally, and it was exhausting.
So, when the door finally did open and it wasn’t Amy or another cashier, it was almost a relief. I could finally blow up the way I had been waiting to do all damn morning. There was only one problem.
He was stupidly hot.
Like, really, way, way hotter than anyone had any right to be.
He was tall and handsome, and his jaw looked like you could break ice with it. He had big, wide shoulders, and the way his suit fit tightly over his biceps gave the impression that he was deliciously cut underneath those clothes. He had bright blue eyes and dark hair, parted smartly to one side. I half expected him to tear the buttons off his dress shirt exposing a giant red S to be underneath.
My brain short-circuited. All the words that had been building up at the back of my throat like cannonballs were suddenly gone, leaving nothing more than an empty, dry feeling in my mouth and a blank brain. I literally was stupefied.
Then I rallied.
All the anger flooded back, and I felt my blood warm almost to boiling. The fact that he was stunning and somehow only a handful of years older looking than me made it worse. I expected a balding, middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit and a bunch of belly fat. This guy was the opposite of all of that.
When I spoke, instead of the shouting anger that I felt radiating out of my soul, my words came out cool, even, and low, grumbling like a motorbike launching out of hell. Covered in the knives of vengeful assassins.
“What you did was really low.”
He blinked at me and stood there in the doorway for a moment before holding up one finger and then turning his back to me as he closed the door. On top of everything else, I hated that gesture. I hated having someone tell me to wait with a finger. Like I was some child.
“Now,” he said as he turned back toward me. “Hello. My name is Victor McLaren. I presume you are Melanie Brewer?”
“You presume right,” I said, feeling like it sounded smarmy and full of the well-deserved indignant rage I felt.
“Well, good then. It’s nice to meet you.”
He held out his hand for a shake, and I just looked at it. Awkwardly, he pulled it back and motioned to my chair.
“Would you like to sit and talk?” he asked.
I cocked my head to one side, completely blown away.
