Focus. You need this job.
Shaking myself, I continue into the office. The room consists of a couch, a desk and a chair. I take a spot on the couch because it looks the most comfortable. After a short hesitation, he drags the chair over in front of the couch and sits facing me, swallowing up the piece of furniture like Goliath sitting on a doll chair.
There are no lights on, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“You don’t have any paperwork, Craig,” I whisper, trying not to breathe hard.
He’s so close.
So huge and intimidating with those intense green eyes.
He could flatten me on this couch and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
“My name is Locke.” He looks at me hard, as if willing that name into permanence in my memory. “Craig is busy. And I don’t need paperwork. I know everything I need to know about you,” he says, his tone of voice like metal on stone. “I know you shouldn’t be here.”
“Already?” Panic bites into my gut. “We haven’t even started the interview.”
“I don’t need to interview you to know you’re too soft for Vegas.”
“I’m not,” I breathe, visualizing the last of my cash swirling down the drain. Seeing myself back at the farm, crawling back and asking for forgiveness from a man who has never shown me an ounce of compassion. Come on. Be convincing. “Just because my name is Sissy doesn’t mean I am one. I’ve worked hard my whole life, sir. Just last winter, I helped birth a foal in the middle of a blizzard. I’m pretty sure I can carry a tray and serve drinks.”
“I’m not worried about you serving drinks,” he responds sharply. “I’m worried about the men you’ll be serving them to. How they’ll react to you.”
Confusion mars my brow. “What do you mean?”
Very fleetingly, his attention drops to my breasts, then away, his chest puffing up and down faster. He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs it against his upper lip. “Men have polluted thoughts on a regular basis. Throw in gambling, alcohol, sex and the understanding that nothing they do here will follow them home? It’s a whole other story. You…” He can’t seem to look at me. “They will lose their minds over you.”
What is he talking about? “I’m still lost.”
“Yeah, honey. That’s the problem. You look lost.” He rakes the handkerchief down over his open mouth, his gaze tracing my knees this time. Then upward to my thighs, stopping on the place in between. “And someone with bad intentions is going to find you really fucking fast.”
My flesh tightens beneath his regard. Intensely. If I lifted my dress, I swear he’d be able to see it squeeze right through my white cotton panties. Why…why am I so tempted to prove that theory? To show him what’s beneath my clothing? I just might get the chance if I can’t convince him to hire me. “Do the other waitresses have to worry about being found by men with bad intentions?”
“Not the way you will,” he says, closing his eyes.
“Spell it out for me,” I whisper, goading him for a reason I can’t explain.
“God help me.” His nostrils flare. “You look like a virgin tied up on an auction block. Scared and confused. But very clearly built for…”
“What?”
“I’m not saying it out loud,” he growls.
“Then you’ll always leave me wondering.”
“A couple of days in Vegas and you won’t wonder anymore.” He leans forward in the chair, the wood creaking long and low beneath his bulk. “You’d be wise to get back on the bus to whatever little town you came from and run home to mommy and daddy.”
“Never.” I’m very annoyed at him and yet…I want to crawl into his lap and pout and incite him further. My urges seem to conflict with the situation. Shouldn’t I want to slap him, instead of crawling closer and getting right in his face? Because that’s where I am. Leaned forward, matching his pose, until our faces are very close together. “Tell me what I’m built for.”
“No,” he booms.
Though his raised voice makes my insides tremble a little, I stand my ground. Somehow I know he wouldn’t lay a finger on me out of anger. But how do I know that? “Then I’ll just go get a job at a different casino and find out.”
That’s a bluff. None of the other casinos answered my résumé submission—which I spent all day yesterday sending out from a Staples off the Strip. I don’t lie often, but again, there is something inside of me that naturally pushes this man’s buttons for enjoyment. Like I’m supposed to. Like it’s the right thing for us.
His gaze is locked on my mouth and he swallows over and over again. Audibly. That thick Adam’s apple sliding up and down in his muscular throat. His hands are in fists on his knees, knuckles white. “God forgive me for saying this.” His voice is uneven. “You have a girl next door face and…the kind of body men drag into dark corners, plagued by the need to fuck. You will have them in a frenzy. You will have them ignoring their consciences for the chance to get their cocks wet between the two sweetest legs I’ve ever seen. And here I am, ready to kill the next man who even looks. Do you understand? I will be in a constant state of rage. You cannot work the floor. For my sanity. For the safety of the population.”