Page 23 of When Hearts Ignite

He has an aura about him, an air of mystery, a tension seeping out from his compelling presence so visceral, I couldn’t help but be drawn to. I want to peel back the layers and see what lies underneath.

I want to know what would make his eyes light up with joy.

Because, deep down inside, there are moments when I feel the same way. When putting on a brave face seems too exhausting, too soul draining. When there’s nothing I’d rather do than bury myself under the safety of my blankets and pretend my problems don’t exist—the loan, the threats from the loan shark, the eviction, the void left by my father. And that’s why I collect random factoids about the world when I can’t sleep at night. My attempt to turn something negative into something positive.

Perhaps, it’s this shaky invisible connection between us—like kindred souls recognizing each other despite the distance—most likely one-sided from my end, that had me blurting out my idea of being friends and throwing out a dare before I could think better of it.

I just couldn’t believe he agreed.

Now, I wonder if he’s going to show up, or if he’s like all the other men I’ve known in my life, all talk and no action. Disappointments.

It doesn’t matter, Grace, he’s your boss, remember that. That’s all there is to it.

“So, Grace, how did you end up with an internship right before you’re about to graduate? Most folks come in during their junior year,” Jamie asks, just as our coworker Theo belts out an off-key verse of a romantic song, which will most likely chase the ladies away instead of his original intention. We collectively wince, sorry for our eardrums and everyone nearby.

“Thank God he’s a good banker and doesn’t have to rely on his voice for a living,” Amber grumbles next to us before tossing back her glass of bourbon.

She stands up and hollers, “Dude, can it, Theo. I’m going deaf over here.”

She makes a slicing motion to her throat. “Give me that mic. You’re embarrassing the rest of us. Let me show you how it’s done.” She’s a second-year analyst at the bank who has what she fondly refers to as a “resting bitch face” because she says it takes too much of an effort to smile most days.

“Burn! That’s fucking awesome!” Bradley sniggers and elbows Chuck, who looks like he already had way too much to drink, his face flushed and his eyes taking on a glint which raises my hackles—the same way I’ve seen other men look when their inhibitions are lowered and they think they can bend the world to their will simply because they are loaded.

Chuck laughs and glances in our direction, his eyes trailing over my face and lingering on my chest, which is covered by a flowy white blouse I bought from a discount department store yesterday during my lunch break. The familiar sensations of ants crawling up my skin have me shuddering and turning away from his perusal.

“Grace?” Jamie pokes my arm, drawing my attention back to her.

“Oh, sorry, spaced out for a second there. Anyway, I missed the deadline for internship applications last year, but thankfully, I had good enough grades and recommendations from my professors and one of them told me I should apply as a senior. He secured a few invites to corporate mixers for me and the rest worked itself out.”

Of course, I didn’t tell her the reason I missed the deadline was because Carl beat Mom up when she broke up with him and landed her in the hospital. Luckily, she only had a few broken ribs and bruises on her face, but there was no way I could focus on interviews and applications when I was dealing with the police, explaining how Mom didn’t provoke him, getting a restraining order filed, and was busy looking over our shoulders whenever we were out and about.

All the while trying to keep my temper in check because I wanted to find the asshole and bash his head in with a baseball bat.

I can’t seem to get through to Mom, to make her understand things are good in our lives without a man mucking it all up.

As much as I don’t agree with Mom on her beliefs about men, I love her with all my heart. Growing up, we didn’t have designer digs or the newest toys, and sometimes we didn’t even have enough to eat other than freshly sliced bread with a generous helping of peanut butter, but life with Mom never felt lacking.

When our classmates had birthday parties and we couldn’t go because we didn’t have money to buy presents, she’d stage pillow fights at home. When it was our turn to celebrate our birthdays, even though we couldn’t have the large, rectangular cakes with swirling white frosting and sprinkles, she’d always have freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and snickerdoodles waiting for us when we got home from school.

She’d teach us to dance, to sing, to read storybooks we’d borrow from the library on the weekends. Our lives were never boring and always fun. She gave us all her love, more than enough to make up for the lack of a father in our lives.

We’re happy. Just the three of us. We don’t need anyone else.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself, even though my heart aches when Father’s Day comes around each year.

Jamie clears her throat, drawing my attention back to her.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. We need more women in this place. The bullpen is teeming with testosterone and aside from Amber and Hayley, who are as approachable as sharks, there aren’t too many women to talk to. There are a few ladies on other teams, but they’re bitchy. It’s like we never left high school, if you know what I mean.” She nudges me gently and flashes a bright smile.

I can’t help but smile back. I definitely know what she’s talking about. Just the other day, one of those mean girls, Andrea, I think, shoved my shoulder as she passed by me in the restroom. Then, instead of saying sorry, she sneered and muttered something like, “Can’t believe we’re letting anyone work here nowadays. At least put some effort into your attire.”

Clinking my glass with hers, I wink. “Well, I’m glad you’re my cubicle buddy. Let’s hope I survive the internship and get the job offer.”

Jamie nods vigorously, her black hair swishing like a shampoo commercial. “You’ll do fine. Mr. Kingsley is impressed with you. In the last few team meetings, he’s asked for your opinions. I think if you keep this up, one of the three open positions will be yours for sure.”

My skin feels heated at the mention of Steven, or in this case, Mr. Kingsley, since we’re technically at a work event, and I cringe, wanting to mentally slap myself for reacting this way about him. Any warm-blooded woman with eyes would think he’s hot.

This is just biology.

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