Page 19 of Daddy's Heart

Chapter 8

Samantha stormed down the steps of the Harold Washington Library, defeat yanking on her heart. She answered every question, she hadn’t stumbled over any answers, she had experience, and the degree to back her up. She should have been walking out of the library with a job offer in her hand.

We’re in the middle of interviews and expect to have an answer in a few days.

A few days!

As she burst out of the library and into the heat, she groaned. She’d decided to go for professional instead of comfortable and wore her blue blazer with her dress. The sunlight soaked into the long sleeves, making her impossibly warm.

Samantha took off the jacket and slung it over her purse, holding tight to both as she stalked down the street toward Ryder’s apartment. She’d taken an uber to the interview, but she needed to work off the irritation.

She was being irrational. It was a serious position she was hoping for, and of course they would be interviewing a string of candidates before making a decision. She’d let her hope get the better of her—like usual—and reality knocked her down a few pegs.

But getting her mind and heart in line with the truth would take time. Hopefully, before she made it home, she’d be in a better mood. She had two other interviews lined up at other libraries, smaller, and not as centrally located in the city, but still good positions. Hope was not completely lost.

By the time she made it back to the apartment, her hair, which she’d taken great pains to straighten and keep neat for the interview, was ruined by the humidity. Loose strands were stuck to her face and neck thanks to all the sweating, and her head hurt from the bright sunlight. In her nervousness that morning, she’d forgotten her sunglasses.

Her mood had not improved.

The cold blast of air conditioning hit her as she entered the lobby, and she let out a sigh of relief. How could yesterday have been so gorgeous and today so horrendous?

She stabbed the elevator call light and tried to wipe her hair from her face.

“Fucking sweat,” she groaned as a drop rolled into her eye, bringing a burning sting. The elevator doors slid open, and she rushed inside, pressing the eighth floor.

Once on his floor, she stomped down the hall to the apartment, wiping her eye with the sleeve of her blazer and muttering to herself.

Her mood had worsened.

The door swung open before she could dig out the key.

“Hey.” Ryder’s brows furrowed when he looked at her.

“What are you doing home?” she asked, sidestepping him into the apartment. She didn’t wait for his answer, but dropped her bag in the front hall and went to the kitchen for a glass of water.

“The job’s delayed. Government red tape—what’s wrong?” he asked, trying to look her over.

“Nothing. It’s fucking hot.” She grabbed a paper towel and wiped her face. Most of her makeup came with it. Catching a glimpse of herself in the fridge door reflection, she saw the mess she’d made. The mascara was nearly gone from the eye she’d been rubbing, and the rest of it had been running down her cheek with the sweat.

“Didn’t you take a car?” he asked, filling a glass with cold water from the tap.

“Not on the way home,” she snapped. “I wanted to walk,” she said before he started in on her about not taking the car. It was the middle of the afternoon, and she was a grown ass woman. She could walk if she wanted to.

“Okay,” he said, handing her the glass.

She leaned against the counter and guzzled down the water.

“How’d the interview go?”

She eyed him. “Fine.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, apparently waiting for another answer.

“It was fine. They’ll call me.” She mocked the tone of Mr. Serbets, the director she’d interviewed with. “They still have people to interview.”

“Okay.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why is it so hot in here?” she demanded, filling the glass with more water.

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