My full pitch takes thirteen minutes, and I feel good as I wind down. Mr. Valentine, who has been leaning back in his chair to listen, now pushes forward to cross his arms on his desk. “Very impressive, Miss Porter. I have a few questions, although I doubt you’ll have any problem answering them.”
Already at a pretty good level, my confidence soars even more. I straighten in my seat. “Of course.”
Mr. Valentine opens his mouth, but his attention is diverted—as is mine—when his office door unexpectedly opens. My stomach knots when I see Carrick Byrne, his gaze going to Mr. Valentine.
“What’s up?” Mr. Valentine asks with a smile, indicating an informal, friendly relationship.
Stepping farther into the office, Mr. Byrne closes the door and moves to the chair beside me. He unfastens the three buttons on his suit coat and sits, casually crossing one leg over the other. “I briefly met Miss Porter last week and I also know her sister, who owns a great art gallery down on First. I thought I’d sit in on the rest of the interview.”
“Not a problem,” Mr. Valentine says and turns his attention to me, presumably to ask another question.
“But why?’ I blurt out, glancing briefly at Mr. Byrne before giving my attention to Mr. Valentine. His eyebrows are lifted high in surprise and I don’t need to look back at the other man causing me such intense and sudden angst because I can feel the weight of his hard stare.
“Because I own Olympic Dreams,” Mr. Byrne says. “And it’s my final decision as to whom grant monies are disbursed.”
And just like that, every bit of confidence I’d been feeling fades away into nothingness. My hands shake, my stomach pitches, and I get the distinct notion if I were in a private place, I’d probably puke as I watch my dreams start to vanish along with my morale.
In fact, every one of the qualities that make me independent, fierce, and strong take a beating, and I fear tears might come next.
My eyes lock onto Mr. Valentine, one last-ditch hope he’ll perhaps speak up on my behalf and tell Mr. Byrne what a great pitch I just made.
Later, I’ll try to analyze it. I’m sure I’ll conclude my emotions were in such complete disarray, I couldn’t lock down my defenses. I groan in dismay, knowing the scary things I try so hard to avoid, day in and day out, are not going to be avoided at this moment.
There’s a burst of what feels like tiny bubbles running through my bloodstream, then Mr. Valentine’s handsome face seems to dissolve, to fade as if the outer layer of skin covering it is leached of all color and substance. As his likeness starts to vanish, another form begins to appear in its place.
Over the years, I’ve learned that when this happens, I could be looking at something grotesque and terrifying or something almost angelic. Neither seems to matter… both scare the shit out of me, and these delusions have played havoc with my life. I can’t afford to let them get out of control again.
With Carrick Byrne’s appearance having discombobulated me so badly and scrambling all the defenses I’ve built up over the years, I simply can’t control my abilities. I can’t stop the transformation like I often do by concentrating hard on closing the door to it. My eyes go round in shock as he transforms and with all my heart, I want to turn away. I absolutely do not want to see what Mr. Valentine will become, and yet my gaze stays helplessly pinned to him.
His skin starts to turn blue, iridescent, and a thin white glow surrounds his countenance. His irises morph into what might be cut crystal. The structure of his face—bones, contours, curves—start to bubble and shift, and I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I cry as I bolt from my chair, my portfolio falling to the floor. I leave it but make a successful grab of my purse before making a hasty retreat to the office door.
I can hear Mr. Valentine’s chair roll back so forcefully it hits the wall, and he calls after me, “Miss Porter… what’s wrong?”
But his words cut off abruptly as I open the door, dash through, and slam it shut behind me.
CHAPTER 6
Finley
My chest is constricting so hard I can barely breathe as I rush down the hallways, trying to remember the turns to get back to the lobby area. I burst through the door so violently the receptionist shrieks.
“Sorry,” I mutter before running to the double doors that will lead me out of Olympic Dreams and to the bank of elevators to get me the hell out of this building.
I pull the right door open, then dash through, but I don’t make it more than two steps before something clamps down on my elbow and brings me to such a quick stop that my low heels slip on the floor. One leg goes up, then the other, and I know I’m going to come crashing down hard on my ass, but I’m somehow miraculously pulled into a standing position by the strong grip on my arm.