Almost Read online

  “No sir, Mr. Foley. Not a chance. Nice to see you again.” Gray steps forward and shakes the man's hand.

  My heart feels like cards have just been shuffled under it. I recognize my instant disadvantage. How does Gray already know Mr. Foley, the CEO!?

  I reach up to make sure my bun is holding and take a couple steps in their direction while I staple on a confident smile of my own.

  Mr. Foley saves me by speaking first. “You must be Jessica Jordan.” He shakes my hand. “I heard you had quite an interview yesterday. My product development manager says you're fantastic. She hasn't been this fired up about new products since we put unbreakable Plexiglas on the Dragon-Fire Sword replicas! Can't wait to get a look at your geek-girl book bumper stickers. I hope you brought them back.”

  I shoot Gray a smug smile. “Of course. It's an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Foley.”

  “Yes. Good,” Mr. Foley says and seems to be giving me the once over.

  I hope he approves of my carefully chosen Geekstuff.com outfit: the Ultimate Long-Safari-Skirt. Color: Puce. Sale price: $42.95. I've combined it with the Peter Pan Office Shirt, color: bright-white. Price $34.00. An item that has never been marked up or down for the past two years. A point I can't wait to bring up during my interview.

  Mr. Foley's smile and small nod shows he's recognized that I'm not only an interviewee, but a valued customer, as well.

  Let my points roll in. Fifty—zillion for me. Take that, Porter!

  “Do you two know each other?” Mr. Foley gestures between us.

  “Oh yes,” Gray says in what sounds like a sarcastic tone.

  “No.” I blast Gray with a look. He better cut the games, now.

  “So you do, or, you don't?” Mr. Foley asks again, scratching the top of his balding head.

  “Sort of,” I say.

  “Yeah…that's what I meant,” Gray says. He breaks my gaze and flushes.

  “We're in the same school,” I add.

  “Good. That makes what I have to tell you less awkward.” Mr. Foley smiles.

  I have to force myself not to roll my eyes.

  If this morning gets any more awkward, I could easily self-combust.

  Mr. Foley continues, “Our order fulfillment servers went down and I'm helping Q.A. review a temporary hack. It's why I'm so late. Might take awhile before I can get to the interviews. Can you hold here until the fire's out?”

  “No problem.” I nod, hoping my expression is a perfect mix of concern and absolute hire-me, NOT HIM, sparkle.

  I risk another glance at Gray and note he seems supremely uncomfortable about the new plan. We've sort of exhausted all bizarre topics possible. I'm guessing he's not looking forward to the next round of being alone with me.

  Hanging with him is not at the top of my list either, but I'm not going to let anyone know that with a crappy poker-face. If Mr. Foley notices Gray's reaction, I'll simply gain another point for my side.

  I shoot Gray a taunting, deadly smile as I continue, “I have all day, Mr. Foley. Please take your time.”

  “Yeah, as long as you need,” Gray says.

  Gray responds to my challenge with a head-shake and an odd half-smile. The guy is whacked, that has to be it.

  “Are we the only people expected for the final interview?” Gray asks. He's turned his back on me. I think he's trying to block my view of Mr. Foley with his giant…giant self!

  “Yes. You two are the best of the bunch. Wish I had the budget to keep you both. This is not going to be an easy decision.” Mr. Foley sighs and removes his glasses to polish them on his shirt.

  I step around Gray so I can be in Mr. Foley's view, but Gray beats me to the conversation again. “Is there anything we can do to help? Maybe extra hands are needed?” He sounds infuriatingly competent.

  “Yes. Can I help too?” I ask, but I know I sound unoriginal—like I'm copying.

  Because I am! I can't believe I underestimated Gray this much.

  I'm hardly able to hold my placid smile steady through my gritted teeth, but Mr. Foley doesn't seem to notice.

  WHY?

  Because he's not looking at me! He's busy smiling at Gray as though they shared some sort of private joke at yesterday's interview.

  As though Gray Porter had gone home for dinner, met his wife and saved his dog from drowning!

  For a consolation prize, my soon to be NOT BOSS tosses me a nod as he directly answers Gray's question, not mine. “Might take you up on that, son. Sorry about this. It won't be too long, just hang tight and I'll be back.” He gives us one last, apologetic glance and a small wave before darting through the door.

  I want to scream.

  Mr. Foley just called my only competition for this internship, son.

  SON?!

  It's apparent I've lost the job. I eye the tense set of Gray's back and wonder what's bugging him. Can he not tell? He's Mr. Foley's golden boy.

  Gray's paced across the room to the farthest point away from me. I've heard him mutter the word “crap” like six times. As if he's the one who needs to freak out right now.

  I consider the possibility that he's been pretending to be relaxed around me but can no longer hide the fact that I've finally broken through. Made him back off and fear me like he should.

  Good. Let's hope that's the case. I can't leave here without this job.

  Maybe I can push him harder—convince him to leave. If he's too stupid to know he's the chosen one I'm not going to bring it up. I'm going to imply the opposite.

  I let out a long, attention-getting sigh and fold my arms to re-muster my smug confidence while swallowing the lump of fear lodged in the back of my throat.

  “So...do you want to confess anything to me? Come clean? We seem to have lots of time.”

  He sucks in a breath as though my comment startled him.

  “I—what—d—do you mean?”

  Yes. He stuttered! I'm back on, and I'm kicking off round two. This time, I know all of his tricks: dimples, divots, smiles, and cute eye-crinkle things. Bring it on.

  When he turns, I could swear he's gone completely pale and my confidence builds. I go for another sigh—the dismissive, bored one. The one that used to make the therapist say, “I think we're done for today, Jessica.”

  I dig in again. “You know you don't belong here. You aren't even a geek. I think you should tell me why you thought it appropriate to fling yourself all over my car. Were you trying to scare me?”

  “I didn't think and I—” He flushes, still stuttering, “I—”

  I don't let him finish.

  “Just say it; you were trying to make me bomb the interview. I'm not an idiot. Scaring me off is the only way you'll get this job, and I think you know it.” I stroll to the purple couch, place my bag on the glass oval coffee table and take a seat as though I own the place. “Decent, but failed attempt. You won't be getting any second chances.”

  “You were the one pulling the park-and-hide trick, not me,” he says, all hints of his previous stutter are now erased. “In case you didn't notice, the spot where you chose to park is hidden by dumpsters. Come clean on that, because it looked like you were playing your own game out there.”

  I'm beginning to suspect this guy is as good at hiding his true feelings as I am. I know I had him sweating it just seconds ago, but now he's turned it back on me. I'm not about to admit that I arrive early to everything so I can take a nap first, so I go for a half-truth. “I parked in the shade to hang out. Behind the dumpsters is only shady spot in the whole lot. Last I'd heard, parking in the shade is not a game, or a crime. But stalking and attacking innocent people are felonies.”

  “Christ! I noticed your car, and I noticed you in it—snoring away. I also noticed you weren't going to wake up. You're lucky I took the trouble to give you a little assist. You owe me. You could have missed this whole interview.”

  I move into full-fight mode. “Oh, I owe you, do I? FYI. I wasn't asleep, you moron. I was resting. Listening to my iPod. Thanks to you
, I've got bruises on my knees and a lump the size of Texas on my forehead. If you're looking for some kind of payback for what you did—well, you caused more damage than a herd of buffalo. You owe me—like plastic surgery or something!” I point at the lump.

  “I'm sorry, okay? I did not intend to scare you.” He stalks toward me so quickly that I don't have time to move or read his expression—as if I could.

  He squats low and moves my bangs aside to survey the lump. I'm staring at the way his beige interview pants have tightened over his thighs—the way his shirt stretches over his biceps. Then, I stop breathing all together.

  When I look up I read only sincere concern and apology in his expression. Not sure what to do with a guy this close to me, I decide to keep holding my breath until I count the gold flecks in each of his irises—five times two is ten total. Slowly, I risk one slow breath through my nose. And then another.

  “It's pretty bad—needs ice,” he says, jolting me back onto the planet by running his thumb lightly over the lump. I gasp, trying to hide the goose bumps that are running up the back of my neck. “Sorry. Is it really painful?”

  “Yes—no, I don't know. Sort of.” I blink, annoyed by my epic choice of one syllable words.

  “I see lots of head bumps with the kids I coach at the rink. This one looks okay, but if you feel nauseous you might need to go to the ER.”

  “Not a chance—but again—a nice attempt at getting rid of me.”

  He smiles as his eyes scan my whole face. “You're funny. Anyone ever told you that?”

  I feel a strange flutter at the base of my throat and deep inside my chest.

  Holy. This has to be more butterflies. Terrible butterflies. My chest tightens, twisting as if it's imploded. I work to swallow. I'm suddenly afraid rainbow-winged insects are about to shoot out of my mouth and hit him in the nose.

  “I didn't mean to scare you in the parking lot. Swear,” he goes on, oblivious to the fact that I'm losing my mind. His gaze bores deeper into mine. “I'm sorry. Really, sorry. I messed up. Jess… I swear I thought you needed me to wake you up.”

  I think I love and somehow hate the way Gray has just said my name. Like he knows me. Like we're friends when we're anything but.

  I swallow and stare at his chin divot because I'm terrified to look anywhere else. My therapist told me if I was ever surprised by someone—a guy—approaching me —touching me— that anything could happen.

  Anything as in: me—going berserk.

  But I didn't. And I'm not going to!

  As awkward as this moment is, I'm intrigued with the possibilities of what this could mean. Gray Porter holding up my bangs while I memorize the depth of his chin divot ranks at the top of my things-that-have-overly-surprised me list! I don't really have such a list. But when I get home, I'm making one.

  I have no urge to scratch out his eyes, or cry or—well—do anything my therapist said I might do.

  The only urge I'm resisting right now is the one to stare at his lips—and that is beyond strange. I force myself to meet his gaze again, determined to test this feeling—or lack of feeling—a little more.

  When nothing happens after another long examination of his beautiful eyes—not counting my increased heart rate and the half-panicked look crossing his face (and who can blame him for that? I'm acting like a freak with all the staring) I have to squelch a smile and twist my expression into what I hope has me back to my rock-solid-annoyed-mask.

  He drops my bangs and sits back on his heels. “So…apology accepted?”

  “Mmmh,” and a small nod are all I can manage because I don't want to let on that I'm bursting with excitement. I'm way more cured than I'd thought. That, or Gray and I are somehow the human personifications of positive and negative forces. Like we are Yin and Yang, or oil and vinegar! Maybe we cancel each other out by default. It's pretty obvious he doesn't react to me like he should. And, not counting the butterfly feeling which seems pretty easy to hide, I don't react to him in a crazy way at all. Eat that, Dr. Brodie, and hello progress!

  I point at his backpack to get his attention off me and back onto the interview. “Show me what products you brought to impress Mr. Foley. You saw mine. It's only fair.”

  He takes the bag into his lap and holds on tight as he stands and heads back to the receptionist's desk. “It's not my fault that you dropped your stuff. I can't—won't—show you what's in this bag. Sorry.”

  “Always sorry, aren't you? Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” I tease, meeting his gaze.

  Whatever I've said has made Gray's face turn bright red. He quickly turns away.

  This is a good thing because after all this concentrated progress, I'm getting hit with a major wave of dizziness. I dig my hands into the couch to hold myself steady and try to evaluate if the feeling is still the butterfly thing—or if it's coming directly from me, myself and messed up I.

  It only takes a second to realize it's the latter. I've become so dizzy, I feel as though I might faint. The Red Bulls have worn off and it's going to be awhile before I can catch a nap. Exhaustion and the fog that comes with it settles in, adding to my light-headedness.

  Gray Porter as my opponent is replaced by the need to win against a bigger villain: my body's endless craving for sleep.

  A low pounding swells inside my head. Great. Crashing with an audience is never good.

  “You look sort of pale.” He sounds far away like he's speaking through water.

  “Small headache, no thanks to you and the lump,” I quip, rubbing my temples and trying to breathe deeply. I don't want him to realize I'm at a weak point so I strive to keep the conversation going. “You're right though…it's not your fault I dropped my stuff…it's mine. Totally my fault.”

  I hear him pacing the far side of the room. I scan the ceiling, find the air conditioning vent and scoot under it before he can turn back. Cold air always helps. After a few moments I'm freezing, but I can process again. I pinch my sides as hard as I can, a tactic that will work for a while. Unfortunately, even under an icy blast, couches have a way of becoming too comfortable when I feel like this. The sleep demon wants a deposit. There's no way I can beat it much longer.

  I close my eyes and pray I can think of a plan.

  Pray harder for Mr. Foley to hurry.

  Chapter Four

  Gray

  I lean against the receptionist's desk and take in Jess's closed eyes, crossed arms and drastically changed, pale face. She's doing some sort of strange yoga-type breathing. I wonder if the lump on her head is worse than she says. Maybe she has a full-on concussion?

  I'm convinced she doesn't remember me.

  Not at all. I would venture a guess that she's better. No nervous breakdown so far. The girl seems perfectly normal. Prickly yes—but she's also smart, funny and, yeah, as normal as I am. She gave no sign that she knew anything about me beyond my name. And hell, I was surprised to learn she knew that.

  I spot some papers lodged behind the large potted tree near the door. I wander over to investigate if they're hers.

  Dead on. It's a pile of school transcripts and some copies of her résumé. I read through her endless list of accomplishments.

  “Why are you here for this job?” I ask softly.

  “Please. This internship is perfect for me and you know it. I've been on the interview list since junior year.” She opens her eyes and hits me with a serious, cold stare. “Did your parents get you a last minute interview? You weren't on the list I saw.”

  I think she's trying to be mean and make me nervous, but the sassiness she'd had earlier is missing from her voice. It's like the fight's gone out of her.

  The fight's gone out of me too. So I tell her the truth. “My parents are dead. I live with my grandmother. My college advisor made some phone calls and got me in last minute.”

  Her eyes widen. “Holy. Guess it's my turn for sorry. Truly—I didn't know.”

  “It happened when I was a baby. I only remember Gran as my mom, so…yeah. It's just…my life, yo
u know? No need to apologize for what's been great.” I flop down on the couch beside her. “I need this internship so my grandmother won't have to pay my college tuition. Job pays $8K total for only a few weeks work. I'm also hoping Geekstuff.com will allow me to work during the holidays and weekends next year. I can save a ton if I get started this summer. Plus, they have an amazing scholarship to School of Mines.”

  “Oh? Cool. My Dad works there,” she says, pushing her face toward the vent in the ceiling. “Hmmm. $8K, huh? I forgot about the money. I'd work here for free if they'd let me.”

  “I'm all about the money. Can't afford to forget that so…” I pause, fascinated with the way the vent's blowing blonde wispy curls around her temples.

  “So—what?” She quirks a brow, shooting me a weird glance.

  “So—no matter how great your geeky outfit looks, and despite your Star Wars lore, your awesome bumper stickers, and your flipping perfect résumé, I have to roll the dice. Just in case. No hard feelings, okay?”

  “You liked the bumper stickers? I thought you hated them.” She smiles, and then frowns. “How do you know what's on my résumé?” Her blue eyes widen as she realizes what I'm holding.

  I wave the pages and smile. “If I didn't witness your entry, I'd accuse you of planting these babies as an alternate, sneaky way to impress any staff members you didn't meet in person.” I hand her the transcripts and one of the résumés, then I move down the length of the couch away from her. “You raised goats for 4-H?”

  “When I was ten.” She stuffs the papers into her bag and comes after me. “Stop reading. It's private information.”

  “You took the time to make copies so you must want someone else to have a look.” I hand her another paper and read the next. “I think you should be the one to bow out of this place. Now that you know my poverty stricken, orphaned truth, how can you not let me have this job?” I plead, trying to look pitiful.

  She rolls her eyes. “Please. You said it yourself that you weren't suffering one bit.”

  I shrug. “Don't you have some sort of beach cottage or mountain condo retreat you need to visit all summer? If your dad works at Mines, you already have a full ride scholarship to at least one top school by default. With your grades, I bet you've already been accepted to a ton of places. If not, you can get in anywhere because of your family's future ‘charitable donations’.”