Wordlessly, I grab the key from the ignition and the rest of my stuff, then I hand the key to him. I follow him to the office where he searches through the messy desk until he finds a notepad and a pen. He peers over my head—too easy for him to do since I barely reach his shoulders. He's huge.
He writes my plate number on the paper and then asks me to write my phone number below it. I do as he says. He places the notepad back on the desk and tosses my key on top of it. My eyes unconsciously drift down to his body again and when he straightens up, I whirl around in haste.
I hear a rip.
And then I feel a breeze on my left hip.
My heart drops to my stomach. Slowly, too afraid, I look down to see a gaping tear that's probably seven inches long on the side of my skirt where my black lace underwear is now on display for his gorgeous eyes to see.
Oh. My. God. This. Is. So. Not. Happening. Right. Now.
"Woah… At least take me to dinner first before we get comfortable naked," says the man in a humorous tone.
I don't dare look at him. I can't. My cheeks are so hot and I'm shocked, I can't even move to cover myself until several seconds later when my brain catches up to what's happening. Can the ground please swallow me now? I'd like to die today, right now if possible.
He walks past me and I just stand there, unsure of what to do now. Do I just go out there and act like nothing happened? Should I just forget about the interview, hail a taxi, and call it a day?
Why? Just why now? Why me? Why today? Why!
While I'm contemplating my life choices, he comes back to the office and I gasp when he steps into my space and ties something around my waist. Then I realize, he's tying a white long-sleeved shirt around me—most likely his, tugging and securing it in place, making sure it's covering the tear.
"Don't you have an interview to go to? We should get going. You can still make it," he says in a voice that sounds a lot different than a while ago.
"B-But I can't go there looking like this." My voice sounds ghostly, surprised at what he's doing for me. It's as if he's actually concerned. I think he's a different person right now.
"It's either that or your ripped skirt, and flash everyone you pass by, including your soon-to-be boss. Don't you want that job? How else will you pay for your crappy car?"
My embarrassment instantly fades and I'm now back to being annoyed with him for calling Bee crappy.
And then he's ushering me out of the shop. I'm about to ask "what about you?" when he takes a brand new Gucci shirt with the tags still on from the backseat of the Land Rover. He rips the tags off and puts the shirt on him, buttoning it close–covering his torso–as he opens the passenger door for me. "Watch your head."
Can you go back to being an ass, please, Mister? I don't think I like you being nice. It's weird.
He reminds me to wear my seatbelt—which I'm already doing—as soon as he gets in the car. He's damn bossy.
When he pulls away from the auto shop and joins the traffic, he confirms the address with me. When I tell him, he looks at me for a second and then nods, not saying anything else after that.
His car smells like him. Leather, woodsy, and expensive. The luxurious dashboard probably costs as much as my Beetle.
Five minutes later, he pulls over in front of The Manor Club. "You're applying here?" he asks.
His voice is toneless and his expression is impassive, though I can't help but feel like he's judging me again just like he did with my car. I ignore it. "I hope so. Though it's a slim chance. I'm already so late and I look like this." I gesture at my outfit and he rakes his eyes down my body slowly. I shift in my seat.
He mutters something I can't hear and when his eyes come back to mine, they're hot and intense, making me swallow. He's about to speak when his phone rings. It's as if he snaps out of his trance. He answers it. "Pronto."
I wait for a few seconds and then decide I need to leave now if I want a chance at this interview. I try to catch his stare, which is directed to nothing in particular, and hesitantly wave goodbye while mouthing a "Thank You". He just looks at me and doesn't speak. So I get out of the car and head inside the club where my future—no, my life depends.
🖤🖤🖤
It's just as I thought, the interviewer isn't pleased with me because of my tardiness. He had introduced himself as Gael De Luca. Tall, dark, handsome. He fills his suit well. Very hot—though I think the guy from earlier is more my type.
'You only say that because you saw him naked!'
Okay, half-naked. But still. They're, admittedly, equally hot.
No! What am I saying? Definitely not my type. I don't have a type.
I'm now convinced that I've stepped into another dimension. What is with today? It's like I'm all out of luck and then I'm meeting a bunch of hot guys all of a sudden. Even the security guards I passed by earlier were good-looking.
That doesn't matter right now though. I don't think this interview is going well for me. As handsome as Gael looks, he's a prick.
Though, I also can't blame him, considering I'm twenty minutes late. My stomach clenches from anxiety. I need this job. I have to get this job no matter what.
He sits behind a dark, heavy desk in a small office that has a plate that says 'manager' on the door. I'm sure it isn't him though because the nameplate on the desk is a girl's.