Page 3 of Faking It
“Hi, I’m Harlow Nicks. I’m here for an interview at eleven for the personal admin position. It was with a . . .” I dig in my purse for the email I printed out with the name of the person I have the interview with. Fully aware I look like a scatterbrain who I wouldn’t hire if I were in her shoes, I drop my hands and deliver my most sincere smile. “My apologies. I seem to have dropped it when I was in the elevator. My appointment was at eleven with—”
“It’s eleven-oh-five right now.” She raises her eyebrows in a way that tells me she’s also turning her nose up at me. “We have a strict policy that if you can’t arrive for an interview on time, then you most definitely don’t deserve the position. Timeliness matters.”
I stare at her with frustrated tears threatening and tell myself to slow down. “I understand,” I say as calmly as possible and then stop myself when I begin to shift my weight to the broken heel. “I was helping someone in the hallway find their dog. It took some time. My tardiness had nothing to do with me not being here on time.” I hate that I sound like I’m pleading, but I am.
“No exceptions.”
“But I really need this job,” I throw pride out the window and beg.
“Then you should have thought about that before you made yourself late.”
Tears swim in my eyes as I stare at her and her cold heart before she nonchalantly goes back to typing on her computer as if I’m not standing silently screaming at her that my bills are piling up and my luck has been shit lately.
I remain there a f
ew seconds longer, as if she’s going to change her mind when I know she isn’t, and I head out the door. Defeated because this is how my life has been going lately and pissed because I was just trying to do a good deed and help with the dog, I pull my shoes off. Standing in the hallway of the sixth floor, I press my fingers to my eyes to fight back the tears of frustration.
Immediately, my mind goes to the stack of bills sitting on my desk. To my bank account and its dwindling balance that had been padded nicely from my last modeling job that I thought would last me until the next one . . . but the next one hasn’t come. To my agent, who promised that the Victoria’s Secret catalog shoot would pave a pathway for me when all it’s done so far is to leave me standing in the weeds.
I really needed this job.
I fight back the burn of tears. The frustrated feeling of helplessness. The knowledge that I might have to give up this dream of mine.
“THERE YOU ARE!”
Talk about being snapped out of my self-pity party by none other than the Arrogant Aussie who was the cause of it.
“You,” I grit out with all the vitriol I have and shove my shoes at him as I point.
“Me?” he asks as he strides down the hallway in my direction, the green of his eyes on fire with temper. “What kind of dog walker are you? Smudge just pissed all over the office. Did you even take him out? Or did you get too busy posting Snapchats of yourself that you forgot about the one thing you had to do? It doesn’t matter. You’re fired.”
“Fired?” I screech at him, not caring about the business being conducted in the nice little office suites around us. “Fired? How does it feel to win Arrogant Asshole of the year?”
“Arrogant? How am I arrogant when you’re the one who screwed up?”
“I didn’t screw up! I’m not your dog walker. I’m not anything to you at all. Your real dog walker probably quit like I would if I had to work for a jerk like you. Is it normal for you to just assume that every woman is here to be at your beck and call?” I step into him and all but growl. “News flash, Zane, no one likes guys like you.”
His chuckle argues with me. “Yeah, they do.” I hate that his cocky smile is just as charming as the sound of his voice.
“No, they don’t. No wonder you suck at love.”
“Who said I suck at love?” he asks and I realize I just gave away that I was eavesdropping on his conversation.
“Oh.” I throw my hands up in mock horror. “God forbid that huge ego of yours takes a hit.”
“You’re just jealous.”
I snort. “Not hardly.”
“Besides, love’s a stupid emotion fabricated to define relationships.”
“Only when you date a prick like you it is.”
Zane angles his head to the side as he folds his arms across his chest. “Is that so?” he asks as a lopsided grin of disbelieving amusement widens on his face.
“Yes.” I nod for emphasis, more than irked that he’s finding humor in my anger.
“Please, don’t stop. I’d love to hear your reasoning.”
