Maybe if Mary got to know me she’d be okay with—
“We’re not hiring.” She smiles in a way that looks painful to her as she hands the paper back to me. I’m too stunned to even lift my arm and take it back.
“But there’s a sign in the window. It says you’re looking for a receptionist.” Emotion bleeds into my voice. Anger? Frustration? Pleading? It’s some combination of them all.
Her head flips toward the window and the plastic sign leaning against the glass. “Oh.” That oh is all it takes for me to know Mary is full of shit.
“I must have forgotten to take that down.” On platform sandals, she totters over to the front window, swipes the sign, and brings it back to the front desk. “There,” she finishes brightly.
I can barely make eye contact with her, but I force myself to do it because I refuse to be anything less than kind, level-headed, and professional. That way, people can say anything they want about me, but they’ll never have proof.
They can say my family is rotten. They can refuse to hire me. But the onus will always be on them, because they’re the ones who have to live with knowing they hate me for no good reason.
“Thank you for your time,” I say evenly as I turn toward the door. It’s when my palms press against the cold metal push bar that I turn back and add, “You’ll want to take the online ad down too. Since you filled the position.” My lips tip up, but my head tilts in a way that tells her I can smell her bullshit from here.
I push out the door, and as soon as I hit the street, my smile falls away.
The sun is bright. The pavement is hot. And for some stupid reason, I thought wearing a pantsuit I bought at the thrift store would make me appesar more hireable.
Sometimes I’m adorably naive, even to myself.
“Ugh!” The noise comes out angry and sharp as I tug at the top buttons of my blouse. I buttoned it to my throat—as though that would make me look less like a harlot—to cover the hickey from the man who was already up and gone to work on the ranch this morning.
Someone walking by literally flinches as I undo three fucking buttons so I can breathe, get a little airflow.
I’m tired and frustrated and on the verge of tears.
Had I been tired the night before?
Yes.
Had the most electric kiss of my life been the magic ticket to put me to sleep?
Hell no.
I’m more tired than I already was, and I need a coffee. I shove into Le Pamplemousse, the quaint Parisian café. Ellen, who owns it, is always kind to me. I’m sure she’d hire me, except she doesn’t need anyone. She works the place exclusively with her husband. I think it’s adorable they can work together all day and not want to kill one another.
I feel flustered as I enter the bustling space. My skin heats to volcano levels as I get in line and sense eyes on me, but I keep my chin up, staring ahead, pretending to be oblivious.
“ … dad is back in town.” When I hear the whisper from a table beside me, I absorb a full-body flinch.
My dad is in town? Not that it matters. He’s never paid much attention to me, other than blaming me for shit that wasn’t my fault as a child. In adulthood, though? Hasn’t had much use for me. The only useful thing he does is keep my brothers in check.
Someone cuts in front of me. As if I’m not in line at all. As if I don’t even exist. I shift my focus away, as though the art available for purchase on the wall has suddenly piqued my interest. If I were someone else, I’d tap this guy on the shoulder and give them a piece of my—
“My dude.” My head snaps toward the voice I recognize. Willa, Cade Eaton’s fiancée, is standing beside me. She has her baby slung on her hip, wild red mane flowing around her stunning face, and indignation rolling off of her in waves. “I know you did not just cut my sister-in-law off and pretend like you didn’t see her.”
Her voice. It’s loud. And everyone hears it. I swear a pin could drop in the place. I want to fold in on myself, like a tidy little piece of origami. Transform into something else entirely. Something that no one can see or recognize. Maybe even with wings so I could fly away.
“Seriously?” The guy gives Willa an annoyed look. “She’s a Jan—”
“She’s an Eaton. But further to that, she’s a human. A woman. And you, my friend, are an asshole.”
The man’s brows shoot up on his forehead. First Mary and now him. It never fails to impress me that in a small town big enough for me to not know everyone’s name, they all know mine.