Page 29 of Mr. Picture Perfect
“It’s temperate.”
“Temperate. Sounds nice! Anyway, if you get bored or want to stretch your legs, or maybe your camera’s thirsty for a lovely new environment, we can move out to the garden. Just say the word!”
I smile. Or at least I think I’m smiling. Sometimes I forget to. “I think this will be fine. Can we start?”
“Oh. Uh … yes! Of course, yes, we can start. We can just … dive right on in. I was going to get you something to drink, too, if you wanted anything. I can put a bowl of, uh … nuts or chips out, too. Won’t be anything fancy like we had last night, but—”
“I had a granola bar at home.”
Cole smiles, appears to decide not to delay any further, and sits down in one of the armchairs. Even the way he sits is so regal and practiced, like he took a class somewhere on how to properly sit in a chair that makes him look both strong, elegant, and utterly gracious. I find it both impressive and confusing. Are these sorts of qualities something that develop over time, or was Cole somehow born acting this way?
The precise way in which he sits also draws attention to the strength of control in his arms. He’s toned and clearly strong, but not overly muscled. There is something careful and calculated in his movements, even when he does something as simple as sit in a chair. It makes me wonder how much care he gives everything else in his day-to-day life.
The care he took in putting his arm protectively around me at the Strongs’.
The speed at which he charged across the street to embrace me and protect me at the festival.
Even the delicate way in which he focuses his eyes upon me, like he’s even careful with the strength of his gaze.
“Noah?”
I come out of it. “Sorry.” I take a seat in the other chair, then make a surprising discovery of how mysteriously soft the cushion is as it attempts to swallow my body into it like it’s hungry. I have to battle gravity to free the majority of my butt out of its greedy, cushy grasp, which is a bit trickier to do than it sounds, as I lack the aforementioned muscular finesse that Cole clearly possesses.
“You alright there?” he asks in the midst of my struggle.
“Perfect,” I grunt, then finally manage to position myself on the hard edge of the chair, right at the front, free from the cruel humiliation of gravity and soft cushions, and sit upright. “Now we can start.” I already gave myself the pep talk on the way here. I’m ready to be the professional interviewer. I’m ready to do the job and make Burton not regret allowing this to happen.
I open my notebook and prepare at last to begin.
Only to realize, with total bafflement, that my notebook does not appear to contain my interview questions.
It contains a recipe for something called “Cute Tutes”.
I stare down at it, mortified. Two cups heavy cream. Twelve tablespoons of butter “or maybe more”. Six “or seven or so” large eggs, separated. Sixteen ounces of semisweet chocolate chips “or maybe Kisses or M&Ms, I’ll decide later”. Forty-four ladyfingers. Rainbow sprinkles “totally not optional”. Half a cup of “those cute edible ball sprinkles I used for the Grumpy Lumpy Elf cookies last Christmas”. This isn’t even half of the ingredients.
“Are you okay?”
I look up from my notebook. “I … I think I … I brought the …” I look back down at it, as if I might’ve been mistaken. Nope. There’s even a hand-drawn illustration my mom apparently did of a Cute Tute. There’s nothing cute about a Tute. What the hellisa Tute?
I flip through the pages. More recipes. More drawings. How’d I grab the wrong notebook? It was right on my desk. I even almost fell asleep on it around three. Was I really that tired this morning? I finally slap it shut and stare ahead blankly, at a loss.
“Is something wrong?” Cole asks me.
“I’m afraid we can’t do the interview.”
“Oh.” His eyes sink. “Why not?”
“My questions. I left them at home … the whole interview.”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
I clutch the notebook in frustration, causing it to bend in my grip. I pull my glasses off my face and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I apologize. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll be back in fourteen and a half minutes, maybe fifteen. I’ll return with the right notebook. Sorry about the inconvenience.” I try to stand up, but realize I’ve fallen back into the chair somehow despite my efforts. Freeing myself yet again proves far more difficult a task than it ought to be, as the soft and squishy armchair keeps sucking me right back down into it.
The moment I finally achieve freedom, Cole has stood up at the same time, and our faces nearly collide, mere inches apart, startling us both.
I stare into his eyes, frozen.
He gazes back into mine.
