Chapter 4
MYA
“We can’t hire her.”
Mr. Miller’s words echo into the corridor just as I step out of the boardroom.
My spine stiffens. Asshole.
“Worth, with all due respect, she has so much knowledge and skills she can bring to the table. And that project proposal of hers—” Andrée says.
“I don’t care. We can’t hire her.”
I rush down the hallway before I can hear anything more and collide with a man carrying a tablet.
“Hey! Watch it!”
“I’m so sorry!” I say, stumbling backward, cheeks burning.
Way to go, MJ. Not only did you bomb the interview, you’re now the girl who causes traffic jams in the hallway after arguing with the CEO in front of the entire board. Who does that? Of course that’s what cost me the position.
I knew I shouldn’t have come. What was I thinking, applying to the biggest construction firm in North America with no experience?
And worse than all that? I ogled Worth Miller like I was under some kind of horny spell.
What the hell is wrong with me?
There was something familiar about him that I couldn’t place, until his gaze clipped mine and recognition sparked for both of us. Worth Miller was the rude prick from Willow’s. Even with that same irritated set to his mouth of that day, I couldn’t make myself look away.
Although, to be fair, he started it.
His stare wasn’t neutral. His eyes raked over me like he didn’t know whether to devour me or dissect me like I was some new species. I was caught in it.
Goosebumps shot across my skin the second his gaze landed on my lips, and when it dropped to my chest, I could barely speak.
Get it together, MJ.
There’s no way the billionaire CEO of W.H.M. Construction was actually looking at me like that. He was probably sizing me up as a liability, which he made perfectly clear when he cut me off and dismissed me like I wasn’t worth another minute of his time.
Besides, even if he was looking at me like that, it’s probably just part of his routine to add another notch to his tailored, tabloid-famous belt. Seattle’s very own blue collar playboy. I’ve read the gossip sites. I know his type. And I’m not auditioning to be his next meaningless distraction.
I spin in slow circles, scanning for a bathroom. My skin feels clammy, my cheeks are on fire, and I’m pretty sure I’m one second away from a full-blown panic attack.
I spot the sign for the women’s restroom and practically sprint towards it.
Once inside—blessedly alone—I blot cold water on my cheeks, chest, and the back of my neck.
I will not cry.
I will not leave this building looking pathetic.
I pull out my phone and type with shaking hands.
I fucked up.
TJ:
Nooooo! What happened?
The CEO hated me.
TJ:
Impossible. No one hates you.
Well, ask Worth Miller and he’ll tell you he hates me.
Her reply doesn’t come immediately.
My phone buzzes again a minute later.
TJ:
*sends image*
THIS is who interviewed you???
WTF, MJ? I’m drooling!!!
thought he’d be old! Since when are billionaires this hot???
A laugh bursts out of me.
You’re ridiculous I didn’t know billionaires came with an age requirement.
TJ:
Shut up. You know what I mean. How did you even stay composed? I would’ve passed out.
That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It was a MESS.
TJ:
I’m sure you’re overreacting. Have you seen yourself? You’re young, hot, and brilliant. Who wouldn’t want you?
Worth Miller. That’s who.