Temp

We stop in front of the frosted-glass door. I can’t see through to the other side, but I can see that it’s darker than the rest of the gigantic space.

“You may go in,” sings the receptionist, turning on a heel and leaving.

“Okay.” I whisper. “Here we go. Project make Mommy and Daddy love me. So tragic.”

My left arm clutches the leather folder to my chest, my right hand pushing open the door. I step inside the spacious office and shiver. The temperature is noticeably lower in here…

All thoughts suspend when the man behind the desk stands up.

Matthew Borden.

Oh.

Oh, he’s taller than I was expecting. At least six three.

And the pictures didn’t quite bring across his…magnetism. His intensity.

Fine. I can understand women wanting a tête-à-tête. Who wouldn’t want to slip their fingers into that thick black hair? Mine would probably get tangled and we’d have to use peanut butter to get them loose, because I was born stupidly awkward. I’ve never been with a man in order to test my prowess with the opposite sex, but I’m just guessing this man is used to women with skill and grace. I have neither of those things.

But maybe, just maybe, I can learn how to be useful?

Maybe this will make up my lack of accomplishments to my parents?

A flash of self-directed anger rocks me down to the soles of my feet.

Matthew Borden sucks in a breath.

A long pause ensues.

He shakes himself.

“Ms. Grimm. Have a seat.”

When I was fifteen, my family went out on the yacht, hoping to have a nice afternoon before a storm hit. We didn’t get back to port in time and spent two hours pitching up and down on the waves. Matthew’s voice reminds me of the wood creaking under my feet. Smooth, cultured timber being tested.

“Yes, sir.”

I move to sit in the leather chair facing his desk, but he shakes his head. “Not there.”

I pause. “I’m sorry?”

He dips his chin, indicating a small, black leather couch in the corner of the office. Without waiting for my response, he comes out from behind the desk and crosses the room, waiting for me by the love seat. He watches me in silence while rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, movements very precise, eyebrows drawn. “Ms. Grimm.”

“Yes?”

“Have I already done something to offend you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Frankly? Because you’ve look pissed off since you walked in here.”

I jolt a little in my heels, clutch the leather case tighter in front of me, like a shield. “I’m not pissed off.” But I am. I carry the feeling around with me all the time. And it’s all self-directed. Why can’t I just stop obsessing over the fact that I’m a failure in the eyes of my parents? Why can’t I just move on with my life and be happy making tiny furniture and hanging mini chandeliers without hating myself for not being better? What they want? This angst builds and builds inside of me all the time and my only outlet is to scream into my pillow. It’s never enough, though. The pressure remains. “Just a rough subway commute.”

What happens next is kind of…alarming.

Matthew Borden points at the couch—and I go. I simply go. As if he has commanded something inside of me I didn’t know was there. My feet are moving before I know what’s happening and I’m sitting down in front of him, hands clasped together on my folder, my face level with his gold belt buckle. An odd impulse catches me off guard. I want him to cup my face. Stroke it. I want to drop everything on the ground, let my muscles go slack and let his single hand hold my entire body upright. Did I drink some bad milk with breakfast?

When he finally, finally, takes his seat beside me, I scoot back. As far away as possible. Because the impact of him is too potent. Too big. He smells expensive, like ice-cold gold. He’s large and powerful and already this interview is inappropriate. I’ve never been on a job interview and still, I’m well aware we’re not supposed to be sitting on a couch, facing each other, our knees an inch apart. What is the rapid pulse picking up speed between my thighs? Is that normal? Why is it happening now?

He’s staring at me. Frowning.

Needing a distraction, I take out my resume and place it in his hands.

He looks down, scans it in one swoop, then goes back to perusing me.

“Are you always so angry?” he asks.

“I told you I’m not angry,” I respond too quickly.

“Do you think there is something wrong with being that way, Ms. Grimm?”

“I…yes.” When I rehearsed for this interview with my father’s lawyer, our practice session went nothing like this. Is this typical interview conversation? “Obviously there is something wrong with being angry.”