New year. New career. New me.
I suck in a deep breath and hold my head high. Being a mess on the inside doesn’t mean I have to be a mess on the outside. Putting on a show is something I’ve mastered. And even though I earned this job, having applied online and interviewed over the phone, everything in me says I’m not good enough. My stomach churns with anxiety.
Stop it. They think I’m worth hiring. It’s about time I believe I am. Or at least fake it until I feel it.
After one more strengthening breath, I push through the double doors. Heavy metal music pumps from speakers in a modern lobby that smells like expensive furniture and rubber mats. Multiple flat screen televisions flicker with clips from UFL fights, one in particular showing different knockout punches on a loop. I cringe at the violent hits and turn my eyes to the reception desk.
A pretty girl with strawberry-blond hair, who looks to be in her twenties, greets me with a tight smile.
Shoulders back, chin up, think confidence. “Hi, I’m Layla Moorehead. I’m here to meet Mr. Gibbs?”
She blinks at me with big hazel eyes. I watch while she looks back and forth between a piece of paper in front of her and her computer screen. Her eyebrows slam together.
This isn’t good. Mr. Gibbs should be expecting me. Am I in the right place? I slide my eyes back to the door where the words “UFL Training Center” are painted in bright orange on the glass.
Yep, this is it.
Maybe I should pull up his last email on my phone. I could have gotten the date wrong. I shift, move my purse strap to my other shoulder, and begin digging for my phone. The cavernous depths of my purse seem to have swallowed it. I push deeper, and suddenly the bag is weightless. Before I know what’s happening, my purse and its contents clack against the treated concrete floor.
“Crap.” I watch as my water bottle and several other personal items roll across the floor in every direction.
Broken purse strap. Lovely start to my day.
I kneel down and rake my things into the bag, making sure to shove the tampons in first before anyone sees them.
“Seriously? Is this really happening?” My voice is soft, but its high pitch must reveal my frustration. “Stupid purse.” I get down on all fours to retrieve a runaway lipstick that rolled under a nearby couch. Cheek to the floor, arm outstretched, I feel under the couch. My fingertips barely touch it. Come on, just another inch. I push my arm farther beneath, my shoulder hitting the base of the couch. Almost got it—Ah-ha!
“You alright down there, Mouse?”
I freeze at the sound of the deep, booming voice behind me. How must I look from this angle? Ass up, head down. I practically groan at being caught in such a ridiculous position.
Lipstick in hand, I scramble to my feet. “Yep, I’m good.” I hold the lipstick tube out and push my glasses up on my nose. “Just lost—” Holy huge guy. My breath catches in my lungs as I face off with the owner of the baritone voice.
He’s at least a foot taller than me. His legs are so long that the white stripes running down the sides of his warm-up pants seem to go on forever. My eyes linger on the fabric, which is baggy and clingy in all the right places. My face instantly heats as I move my eyes from his legs to his chest. A grey long-sleeved thermal shirt accentuates his broad upper body, his muscles straining against the cotton.
“You forgot this.” He flashes a crooked smile that softens the hard angles of his jaw. His high cheekbones are set below the most striking pair of green eyes that whisper all kinds of dangerous. And dirty.
I clear my throat and reach for the object he’s holding—oh my gosh! I snatch the tampon from his hand, its crinkling paper sound igniting my cheeks even more. So much for acting confident. I’m a mess, and I can only pray that my glasses help to hide a little of my embarrassment. Burying the offending object deep into my purse, I consider running out of the lobby and calling in sick. “Thanks.”
“Happy to help. Wouldn’t want you to get caught without those.” He runs a hand across his upper lip, trying to cover a smile and failing horribly. “Could get messy.”
The tension in my jaw goes slack. He didn’t just say that. Jerk.
So he saw me on the floor with my ass in the air… and handed me a tampon. He probably thinks I’m some silly girl that he can push around with his good looks and that panty-melting smile. But I won’t cower to his presumptions.
I glare into his bright green eyes and straighten to my full five-foot-three, and a half thanks to my high-heeled boots, hoping to feel less intimidated. It’s impossible. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Have you ever heard of Emily Post? She’s an expert on etiquette. You might want to look her up.”