He stepped beneath the spray considering the very real possibility Crickitt hadn’t been grateful for his butting in. She could have been lying about her work experience, or about her intentions of showing up for the interview. And while he’d like to think her tears were genuine, she could have played up the damsel in distress routine for attention. If she had, she’d be no different from a handful of other women who had done the same in his presence. In a way, that might be simpler. He could handle a woman who wanted something from him. One who was genuinely interested in him was unpredictable.
As the steaming water pounded against his taut neck muscles, he thought of how being prepared for the worst was wiser than being blindsided.
That was one lesson from his childhood he didn’t have to be taught twice.
Chapter 3
From the moment Crickitt had landed on the August Industries website and read their motto, she had known she was going to show up for the interview—even if it turned out to be a bust. In bold blue and silver lettering, the site proclaimed “Business owners, keep doing what you love. Leave the rest to us.”
The mission statement spoke to her heart. Crickitt loved entrepreneurship. Wanting to model her own career was the reason she’d gone into direct sales in the first place. No one needed to tell her she was good enough to run her own business, she knew. And she’d deflected her criticizers with her own hard-won confidence.
Seven years ago, Crickitt’s former business started in an unlikely place. Sadie held a Celebration home party and Crickitt had gone, expecting an evening of catching up over drinks and spending a chunk of her recent bonus check.
Then the woman representing Celebration swept in and extended a hand in introduction. She looked relaxed, successful, put together. Crickitt remembered glancing down at her own uninspired wardrobe and wondering if she had her own business whether she’d take the time to pick out coordinating jewelry or buy nicer shoes. Then later that evening the representative shared how much she earned, nearly four times Crickitt’s annual salary, and the fact that she made her own schedule, and Crickitt was sold. Shortly thereafter, she’d quit her corporate climb into the ether and joined the Celebration family.
For the last seven years, she’d worn her Entrepreneur Badge with pride.
Which might explain the morsel of contention as she walked into August Industries’ high-rise building Monday afternoon. She’d finally dredged up her fight, rallied her courage, and for what? An interview? After she’d clawed her way out of corporate America, now she was vying for an anonymous seat in a gray cubicle? She fervently hoped she wasn’t here because a good-looking guy had salved a gaping wound Saturday night. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Stumbling into a 401(k) because, in some capacity, a man had given her some attention.
Where was the part of her psyche that knew what she wanted, knew who she was? Was it dormant, or had she lost that in the divorce as well?
The elevator doors dinged open on the twelfth floor, and Crickitt stepped into what looked like a contemporary art museum. A woman with short black hair, wearing an A-line royal blue dress reminiscent of the days before computers, gave her a broad smile. Crickitt approached the modern glass desk, stopping short of touching the shining, fingerprint-free surface.
“Welcome to August Industries,” the woman greeted in a thick accent.
Russian? Swedish?
“I have an interview with, uh…Shane for the personal assistant position,” Crickitt said, praying the woman didn’t ask for his last name.
“Your résumé?” she asked pleasantly.
Crickitt dug through her plain canvas bag, lamenting never having purchased a posh leather briefcase. She handed over the single sheet of paper, smoothing a creased corner as she did. A button gapped at the front of her shirt and she straightened it, wishing she had gone to Nordstrom instead of Target. She felt like a Clampett in Beverly Hills.
The receptionist glanced over her résumé before studying the sleek white computer in front of her. “One o’clock?”
Crickitt nodded.
“Have a seat. He is running a few minutes behind,” she said, folding her hands neatly.
White and pale blue chairs formed an L-shape on the far wall. Crickitt took an empty seat next to a curved concrete statue of…something. She frowned up at the arced shape. Whatever it was, it was tall.
A woman in a creamy yellow suit sat in an adjacent chair flipping idly through a magazine. Crickitt twisted her mouth as she took in the matching butter-colored heels and handbag. Probably not purchased at a store with a bull’s-eye for a logo.