Page 34 of Wild Fixation
“No problem,” Ryan says. “There must be a service entrance. I’d keep driving. Hopefully, the press hasn’t spotted the car. If I call management they should be able to let us in whatever entrance they use for trucks and deliveries. In the future, we can call ahead and make sure we’re clear before we arrive.”
It’s such a simple and obvious plan. I kick myself for not thinking of it. As soon as Jacob told me there was no other entrance, I simply accepted it. Why didn’t I think of this?
Because you didn’t want to.
I swallow my reaction, studying Ryan’s resume like I’ve never seen it before. I can’t deny that voice, though. The second Jacob gave me an excuse to take him home, I did exactly that. I was lying to myself when I claimed I had any professional or altruistic intentions.
“Is that … okay?” Ryan asks.
I blink, jerking my head up. I’ve been staring at his resume all this time, silent while I contemplated my own failures.
“Sorry, yes, um,” I scramble. “I think that’s it.”
I rise, and Ryan follows my lead. We’re in a coffee place not far from my house. Long-empty cups sit on the table as we shuffle around it to shake hands. Ryan is a big guy, but not quite as big as me. I meet his green eyes as I shake his hand, searching for any fault or crack, but the man is steady and sure. He can do this job. It’s obvious. Still, I hesitate after shaking his hand.
“I’ll give you a call this week,” I say. “I have a few more candidates to talk to.”
I don’t, but I don’t have a better excuse for not hiring him on the spot.
“Sounds great,” he says. “Looking forward to hearing from you.”
He sweeps out of the coffee shop with a wave over his shoulder. I let him go and then sink back into my chair with a sigh of relief. I tidy up my folder of applications, the same folder I’ve been agonizing over for way too long. I don’t need a ton of guys to fill out this team. A couple Ryans would take the whole burden off my shoulders. There is absolutely no reason to delay and dither.
Or, rather, there is a reason, but I don’t want to admit it even to myself.
I grab my coffee cup and tilt it back, waiting for the last cold droplet of brew to run down into my mouth. When I set the cup down, I run an anxious hand through my hair and stare at the folder sitting before me. It feels more like incriminating evidence than resumes. There are probably tons of people in that folder who could do the job just fine, yet I refuse to settle on one.
This would probably be easier if I hadn’t taken Jacob to bed. The shame of the decision burns through me like a wildfire finding dry tinder, and I flee the flames by hurrying out of the coffee shop and back to my car. Driving home doesn’t help, though. It only leaves me time to think: about offering Jacob a place to crash, about taking him up to my room, about seeing him, touching him,hearinghim as he made the most beautiful music imaginable. And then experiencing it all over again the next morning, impossibly, damningly. If the previous night was a mistake, a lapse in judgment, how do I explain doing it again in the full light of day? There’s no excuse for that, no matter what I might try to tell myself.
Which means I need to hire Ryan. The sooner, the better. I can’t waste any more time if my judgment is already so severely compromised.
I resolve to reach out and hire Ryan immediately, but when I get home I find a missed call on my phone. I’m expecting Emmett, who probably wants to hear how the interview went, but the name I see instead sends a chill through my body.
Jacob.
I consider ignoring him. There’s nothing he could possibly need from me that can’t go through Emmett, but the fear of any number of emergencies chases that thought through my mind, and suddenly I’m imagining Jacob struggling to survive a slew of dangerous situations. A crazed fan, an ambush, a nosy reporter who got too close. My anxiously churning mind ups the ante. A threat. An injury. An accident involving Jacob or one of the guys.
I call him back before I can talk myself out of it.
“Jacob?” I hate the anxious edge to my own voice, but I can’t quell it.
“Hey, I need your help,” he says.
He sounds okay, but I ask, “What’s wrong? Is anyone hurt? Where are you?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” he says. “I’m at home. Everything’s fine. I just want an ice cream.”
I come up short, confusion knitting my brows together. “An ice cream?”
“Yeah, ever heard of it? It’s supposed to be delicious.”
A storm of conflicting emotions batters me about, leaving no room for humor.
“Anyway,” Jacob says, “I wanted to get one, but you know how things have been lately. I can barely leave my place.”
He isn’t wrong about that. If he went out even for an ice cream, all it would take is one picture on social media and they’d find him.
He lacks his usual confidence when he continues hesitantly. “Is that the kind of thing you could help me with?”
