Page 7 of Something Like Sunflowers

“…but,” she says…and there it is, “we are aware how things work at the news channels. Most of the population might think it’s all genuine, but we at Classy Country are in the marketing business. We know these ideas are very rarely, if ever, the news anchors’ ideas. And most of them are just photo ops. We want to want you. But none of us is sure we know you. The real Devyn Lynn Campell, that is.”

“What if I don’t know her either?” I ask. Dead honest. And I’m not even sure why. I’m fake with everyone I know, even my own family and friends. But for some reason, at this moment, this interview means enough for me to be real with Molly.

She studies me for a quick minute, and then swallows and folds her hands below her chin. “I think you’d be a good fit, Devyn, despite what you do or don’t know about yourself yet. And I’d be willing to give you a chance. Now, you need to convince Claudette and James. And they…” She scrunches her nose and eyes my stupid coffee stain before flipping her eyes back up to my face with a tight smile. “Well, they are going to eat you alive, sweetie.”

My mouth pops open because I most definitely wasn’t expecting her to say that after her heartfelt declaration of confidence in me.

She senses my shock and puts a hand over my own. “It’s okay.” She beams. “You got this! Just fake it till you make it.”

You haven’t the faintest idea.

Molly gets up from her desk and moves to the coffee table in the far corner, and I finally get a glimpse of her shoes.

My mouth pops open. I’m honestly surprised. She’s wearing plain old cowboy boots. Not unlike the ones I keep in my blanket chest and can’t seem to throw out, despite not having worn them in almost a decade.

Something like warmth curls around my heart, but only briefly, as I’m brought to the present by a solitary knock on the door before a rush of people come tumbling in.

“Bella, dear, send a message to Abigail in marketing. We need the finishing edits for the wording on the spring collection ads by three p.m. today, and there will be absolutely no exceptions this time. Got it?”

Bella, who I thought was pale before, gets whiter than a lamb’s tail as she jots the vivacious woman’s instructions down on her tablet screen. “Yes, Claudette. No worries. I’ll make sure she has the message.”

“Good,” the woman, who is apparently the Claudette who’ll eat me alive, as Molly put it, says, “and Bella?”

“Y-yes…Claudette?”

“You don’t have to fear me, dear. I’m not going to bite you. Now, stop picking at your nailbeds and type my email.” Bella’s face goes from white to red in a matter of seconds. She stops fiddling with her nails, nods politely, and makes a beeline for the door. It isn’t until Claudette rounds the corner of the desk and Molly stands to greet her that I realize just who this woman is…

God is full on cackling right now. He’s clearly got nothing better to do with his time today than throw some vinegar in my coffee pot, and he has delivered. Massively so. Long black hair spills down her “impressively fit for her age” body, and with the royal blue maxi dress that hugs the curves of her hips and ends just above the knee, she looks like an actual pin-up model.

A pin-up model with Condora Suede Louboutins.

“You,” is all she says. But the squint in her eyes and the purse on her lips say more. So much more.

I stand immediately.

“I am so sorry for what happened on the street. I wanted to check on you, but there was so much going on. I know how much those shoes cost and will one hundred percent be replacing them. I’ll even host a vigil for them if we must. I just feel so bad.”

Claudette eyes me suspiciously, discerning whether I really care. She must decide I do, and for real, I do. I’m not being fake about this. I want this job, and I want to be a new me. I’ll scream it from the hallways of this giant building, so it echoes louder than my shoe clunks, if it’ll prove it, but this means everything to me right now.

I need this change.

“I’ll accept your shoes,” she finally says. She doesn’t smile, but her mouth curves just slightly enough that I figure that’s about as close as she probably gets to smiling anyhow. “But I’ll decide on your apology after the interview.”

I find myself beaming back at her, and she huffs out an almost-laugh that I accept as a win. “I hope I won’t let you down,” I say. “There won’t be any smoldering cowboys to knock over my coffee during the interview, I presume?”

I start to laugh at my own joke, but Claudette just sips her tea and gives me the faintest hint of a smirk.

Just then, the ground shakes, knocking the teacups around on the table, as two large, mud-covered boots carry in a thick set of denim-clad thighs that make my mouth physically water.

They could crush my neck, I think, for no appropriate reason whatsoever.

Claudette stares at me. I can see it from the corner of my eye, but I can’t seem to direct my focus back to her. Nope, just me over here…the job applicant who can’t stop staring at how tight that zipper looks on this random man’s Levi’s.

You, Devyn Lynn, are a complete perv. Snap out of it and impress these people!

With the strength of a hundred men, I find a way to pull my eyes away from his inseam and up to his face where Jesus, Mary, and the whole damn manger know it belongs. His camo sunglasses look back at me, and my breath catches, because he’s annoyingly gorgeous, yes…but also because I realize… he’s the man from the street who caused this whole predicament. He’s the reason I’m, quite literally, groveling at Claudette’s feet.

And then I’m angry, because he isn’t groveling at all. He’s standing here, hand on the side of his face, about to remove his hat and glasses, calm as a freakin’ cucumber. And when he finally notices me staring, he looks me up and down…full on checks me out in front of everyone in this room. And then the asshole has the audacity to lick. His. Lips.

---