Chapter 4
Devyn
O h, Devyn! I absolutely love your sunflower nails. I’m so happy we’re finally meeting in person! And I’m thrilled we might get another fashionista around here. There are a few of us, but there are equally as many non-creatives in the business place. And we love them, we really do, but what can ya say? They aren’t always flaunting the most interesting of seasonal wardrobes, now, are they?”
Molly Preston stands behind her desk in a bespoke Tiffany blue, pinstripe, two-piece suit with ruffle lapels. Pinned neatly to her left lapel is a small gold CC emblem, and a pink belt with matching Tiffany blue cattle printed across the leather is secured neatly around her waistline.
Molly Preston is breathtaking. She’s not only one of the three co-owners of Classy Country, she’s also the lead investor’s only daughter. She’s two years younger than I am, and plenty richer.
I want to be her friend. I might want to be her.
I smile widely as we shake hands across the desk. Positioned before me is a picture of a little girl with blonde curls and a Classy Country T-shirt that’s so big on her, it’s practically touching the floor. She’s holding Molly’s hand as they laugh, and a pang of jealousy hits me.
“She’s cute. Is she your little sister?” I don’t know why I ask her this. I know how old we both are. I also know it’s not her sister. It still hurts when she confirms it, though.
“My daughter, actually,” she says, blinking. “I was an only child, I’m afraid. I always wished I’d had a sister or brother. Do you have any siblings?”
My shoulders ease with relief at this question. Partly because she did me a solid by not making my daughter/sister question more awkward than it had to be. And because it’s something I have an honest answer for. Something I don’t have to fake.
“I do, actually.” I say, sitting up straighter. “A brother. His name’s Dustin. We’re nothing alike. He’s the caveman, stern, broody type. Barely speaks, but always seems to be in my business.” I roll my eyes and offer a laugh.
“Oh? Younger?”
“Older, actually. By two years. He was always giving me a hard time growing up. Super protective. Like, he was on the rodeo team, and God forbid one of those cowboys even looked at me too long.”
“Wait, back up to the rodeo team and cowboys. What school did you go to? We just had football and cheerleading at mine.”
I forget sometimes that rodeo teams aren’t normal outside of Pine Forest and our surrounding counties.
“Pine Forest High?” I shrug. “Rodeos are kind of the highlight of the town there. Think Friday night football craze, but with more horses and less padding.”
“And your brother…I guess he wouldn’t let you play in any cowboy games with his rodeo pals?” She wiggles her eyebrows, and I sputter a bit at the implications there. If only you knew.
“He tried his best.” I smirk and leave it at that. Where it should rightfully stay.
“Okay , cowgirl.” Molly blushes and fans herself. “I’m a sucker for a good romance, and that sounds exactly like a book I’m reading. A super overprotective brother and his hot best friend. I’m going to DM you the name of it after the interview. You never know when you might get lucky and need the instruction manual.” She winks, and we both laugh.
Molly’s warmth is contagious, and her passion for books and fashion makes me feel at home. It reminds me of what it was like having actual friends back in Pine Forest.
Before everything changed.
I suddenly want to know more about her, to get this job and become friends with her. With people like her. Whatever I need to do, I’ll do it. And anyway, she seems super on board with me joining the team, so I only need to convince a couple more execs, and moments like this—potential friendships— might not be so fleeting anymore.
The stress I felt from my encounter with Bella sheds from my body like a fur coat, and I can finally feel the air surrounding me again. I’m no longer nervous while Molly paints a picture of what this life could be like for me. Who I could become.
“Claudette and James should be here any moment, along with the other candidate,” Molly says, eyeing the hot pink watch on her wrist that I am low-key in love with. “But before they come, I wanted to ask you something.”
My nerves creep in again with the formality of her question, but it’s okay. I remind myself she’s been friendly so far, so snapping the hair-tie on my wrist, I keep my walls down with her for now.
“Shoot,” I manage.
“We, I mean, I love your personality and your fashion choices.” She stops and briefly eyes the stain on my dress, raising an eyebrow.
“Coffee mishap.” I scrunch my nose. This seems to make sense to her, and she continues, “I think your creative energy would fit in well here at Classy Country. And with your social media following, you’d be sure to have a huge success in launching your own fund-raisers and events…”
She pauses and purses her lips like she isn’t sure how to phrase the rest of her statement. Wasn’t it supposed to be a question? Regardless, she’s stalling, and I sense a “but” coming.
“…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.
Heat rushes to my lady parts, because bless their sinful little hearts, they know not what they do. He’s hot. I can’t even help it.
But I’ve got to shake myself out of this spell, reminding myself he didn’t even apologize, and that is most certainly not hot. I’m more used to men like him than he probably realizes, anyhow. Wanna-be cowboys who think they know everything? Been there, done that. Good old boys who mansplain their days away and think the sun rises in the mornings just to listen to them crow? Check and check. I might not be giving him a piece of my mind right now, in front of the executives, but you can bet your bottom dollar this cowgirl will be dishing out a stern whiplashing once these heels hit the parking deck. He owes me an apology.
It doesn’t matter how good his body looks shoved… so perfectly snugly in those blue jeans. Damn it. I clear my throat and wipe off my hands, which are sweating for reasons unknown, and remind myself to be super polite to this… bubba.
Don’t kill him, and don’t jump his bones .
I’m honestly not sure which would happen if I let myself loose on him, and I need to save face, if only for the sake of this job.
But when he takes off his sunglasses and my eyes meet his, my heart stops dead in my chest. And time seems to stop alongside it, before it explodes like a firecracker, spreading electricity straight to my core. He’s older. Scruffier. And I’m not sure how, but swear to God, he’s sexier. And I don’t for a single second believe everyone in this room doesn’t hear the needy, breathless whimper that escapes my traitorous lips when I hear the deep bass rumbling of his voice for the first time in ten long years.
“Hey, Dev.”