Was that the celebrity I’d be servicing? Bad choice of words. Was that the celebrity I’d be . . . personally assisting? I wasn’t too clear on what this job would even entail. I’d just been told to send my résumé and cover letter to Joe’s receptionist.

I sweated harder.

“You must be Mr. Monroe.”

I swung my attention to the guy behind the big desk and tried not to recoil. He was startlingly similar to Jamie Gallagher—my former boss and the man who’d put a full stop on my career. Same sleek hair, bright calculating eyes, and lithe build. Neither of them were as gorgeous as the blond cat on the couch, but they both had this . . . aura of power. And a way of looking at me that triggered both an urge to perform for their attention while worrying that they could smell the debt on me.

Or at least that was what had happened in the past. Before I’d been let go from Project SafeZone—an LGBT Youth Center where I’d interned—after having an affair with Gallagher. Now, my gut curdled and my skin prickled with automatic animosity.

My hands closed into tight fists.

“Yes. It’s great to meet you, Mr. Carmichael.” I moved forward on shaky legs and grasped his hand in a damp shake. He’s not Gallagher, I reminded myself. Stop freaking out. “Thank you for calling me.”

“We were going through our list again, and you made the cut this time around.”

“Uh. Oh. Well, I appreciate being given the chance.”

Joe nodded at the chair across from his desk without looking at me. “So. You just graduated from a state school on Long Island. You must know your way around.”

“Sort of.” I cleared my throat, shifting on the leather cushion, and focused on a point beyond Joe’s shoulder. Maybe if I didn’t look him directly in the eyes, this awful anxious feeling would go away. “I mean, I grew up in Queens. I mostly just know how to take the Long Island Railroad to my school, but I’m good with directions and I have my license if that’s necessary . . .”

I didn’t mention my lack of an actual car, and stole a glance at the golden god to my left. He’d stopped playing with his phone to stare. His eyes were even more brilliant when drilling into the side of my face. Despite the warm color, everything, from his expression to his slow once-over, was cold. He definitely was not pleased with my presence. But even so, he didn’t make my stomach sink the way men like Joe and Gallagher did. There was something reassuring about the realness of outright hostility.

Joe held a tablet and flicked through pages of a document while wearing a phenomenally unimpressed expression. “You have a bachelor of science in social work. Any reason why you’re here and not off somewhere working socially?”

I’d prepared for this question—well, a less sarcastic version of it—for days, and still my answer evaded me. The truth was that my initial position at one of the largest youth centers in the city had ended with a dramatic splash, and I barely had any references.

“I’m still trying to find a position suited to my long-term goals.”

“And what are those?”

“I’d like to be a caseworker, move up to administration, and eventually direct my own program. However, many of the open positions at centers around the city are for unpaid internships, admin work, or for teaching.” Lie, lie, and lie again. There had been positions open at Project SafeZone, but I’d burned that bridge with twenty-foot flames. “I plan to keep interning until something comes up. This position,” I said as I glanced at the brooding man again, “is perfect, because it’s temporary. In the next six months, I hope to find something on my preferred career track.”

Joe ran his thumb over his lower lip, staring at me without blinking. My old director had done that, and in the past I’d found it distractingly sexy. A sweat broke out on my forehead. I looked at the blond dude again, and wished he’d speak. Anything to keep me from having to look at Joe.

“This is a big city. I’m surprised you’re having so much trouble in that line of work.”

What kind of ungodly person called an interviewee out on their lies? Decent folks just ignored them and burned the résumé later.

“I want to work at a specific type of center.”

Joe waved his hand encouragingly. “Which is . . .”

The blond was still silently grilling me. Why was no one introducing him? He was definitely an athlete, but I couldn’t place his name or the sport. Maybe UFC? Hockey? Was I supposed to ask? I had no idea, but he was an ideal candidate for society’s irritating version of masculinity, and probably dudebro enough to just love my response to this irritating line of questioning. Just the thought of outing myself to these two made me want to vomit.

Tags: Santino Hassell The Barons Romance
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