P.S. You're Intolerable （The Harder They Fall, #3）
Julia Wolf
Chapter One
Catherine
This interview was practice.
It didn’t count.
It wasn’t like I would get the job anyway.
There had to be someone with a far more impressive résumé.
I needed the job. That wasn’t up for debate, but I wouldn’t be disappointed if I didn’t get it. It wasn’t as if being an executive assistant was my dream. Honestly, I didn’t know what my dream was, and figuring that out was on hold for now. What I did know was money was required to fund just about every possibility.
I stepped up to the bathroom mirror, barely recognizing myself. A few months ago, I’d been building houses in Costa Rica. I’d hardly spent time running a brush through my hair, let alone ironing my clothing. Truth be told, I hadn’t even owned clothes that required ironing.
Now, here I was, flat-ironed, starched, and prim. If human resources was hiring based on looks alone, I was a shoo-in. I sold responsible and organized really well.
“Okay. You’ve got this, Kit,” I whispered to my panic-eyed reflection. “This doesn’t count. Who cares if they laugh you out of the room?”
Since that was the most likely outcome, it was better to expect it.
Grabbing my iced coffee from the counter, I walked out of the bathroom, humming a random Miley Cyrus song that was stuck in my head, my chin raised high.
Too high.
Much, much too high.
If I’d had my head at its normal angle, I would have seen what was right in front of me. I wouldn’t have collided with the tall man in the charcoal suit. My coffee wouldn’t have defied gravity and the laws of physics by busting through the lid and shooting up like a geyser before raining down on my formerly pristine white blouse.
“Oh no!” I yelped. “Oh no, no, no. This absolutely can’t be happening. Not today of all days. I refuse to believe it.”
This was what I got for drinking coffee. I was supposed to be cutting back on caffeine but had told myself one cup wouldn’t hurt. I’d even Googled to make sure before letting myself indulge.
After today, coffee and I were broken up.
The remains of my ex-favorite drink dripped down the inside of my blouse, welling at the waistband of my trousers. The cup and ice splattered across my cute little chunky loafers—the barest nod to my punkier days.
How had half a medium iced coffee managed to drench me so completely? There was even a sodden chunk of hair stuck to my cheek.
I closed my eyes. This was a very bad dream, complete with “Party in the USA” as background noise. When I woke, this would all be over.
“That won’t work.” Abrupt and deep, the clipped statement drew me out of my fantasy.
My eyes flew open, taking in the man in front of me, who was holding me by my elbows. His head was dipped, studying the disaster at our feet. It was then I noticed the drops of creamy iced coffee on his leather shoes.
His very expensive-looking leather shoes.
“What won’t work?” I asked instead of apologizing. It really should have been the first thing from my mouth, but I was flustered, not thinking straight at all.
His hold on me fell away, and he slowly lifted his head. I barely held back a gasp.
Not because he was one of the most attractive men I had ever seen—he was—but because I recognized him from his company’s website.
His. Company’s. Website.
Elliot Levy was the founder and CEO of Levy Development, where, up until this moment, I had been hoping to land a job. Now that I’d butchered his shoes and made a coffee-scented massacre of his lobby, he’d more likely have me banned from the building.
His chin lifted slightly as his nostrils flared. “Closing your eyes to disappear. Everyone can still see you and the mess you made.”
My cheeks flamed, and with my deathly pale skin, I glowed. There was no hiding it.
“Actually, I’d been hoping this was all a bad dream. No such luck, but it was worth a try.” I sucked in a breath. “I apologize for running into you. I’d offer to replace your shoes, but I have the distinct impression I wouldn’t be able to afford them.”
“No. I don’t think you would.”
He could have hesitated even the slightest amount, but he hadn’t. I guessed the origin of my discount-rack blouse was obvious. We did not exist in the same socio-economic strata.
“I can grab some towels from the restroom for you,” I offered.
“No.” He raised a hand, waving at someone behind him, though it was impossible to tell who since his eyes were on me. “I have a change of shoes in my office.”