CHAPTER 1
? Accidents happen. It is advised that you learn to consider them as plot points.
~~~
Five years later
As far as interviews go, I have to say this one was going well.
Was being the key word. Of course, it all started with me screaming my head off into my pillow all alone in my dorm room so as to not disturb my three roommates.
After applying to what seemed like hundreds of positions, I actually got an email back from the biggest job I’d dared inquire about, and the boss himself wanted to talk with me personally!
It was too big an event for me to handle, so I did something I hadn’t done before—I asked my roommates for help concerning exactly what one should wear to a professional interview.
(Now I know better than to choose tight dresses and high heels; thanks, Sierra…)
Move steadily along to today, about an hour or two ago, and I wasn’t fumbling over my words.
I was answering questions intelligently.
Mr. Levi Danner—young owner and founder of the multi-billion dollar corporation Leopard—genuinely seemed interested in what I had to say, what I wanted to offer, all of it. Even if the man didn’t smile once.
To be fair, he still isn’t smiling.
To be honest, I didn’t expect his lips to be quite as soft as his body is hard. I also did not expect either (lips or body) to find their way beneath me.
Wide dark blue eyes stare at me as I remain in shocked paralysis on top of the gorgeous man. My brain screams at me, reminding me how I was this close to having my dream job if I got a call back for the next part of the interview process. Fate clearly had other plans.
Mr. Danner lies sprawled across the parking lot’s black asphalt—and the fall had to have hurt even though I didn’t feel it. When my high heel snapped as I was turning around to thank him for walking me to my scooter, I began a flailing tumble, and he cushioned my entire fall with his whole body.
I think I grabbed his tie on the way down because it’s latched in my hand, loosened from his neck.
He may have made a gagging sound a moment ago when I choked him, but I can’t remember through the sound of my heart pounding in my skull.
All his perfection—from his hair to his crisp, well-fitting suit—has met Hurricane Rose.
And I don’t even have the brain cells left to compute what exactly I’ve just done, what exactly I’m still doing.
Sense returns to me like a freight train, slamming into me hard enough to break bone. Launching my mouth off his, I jerk both my hands away from his chest and his very expensive, very tailored suit. I’m still straddling him, but at least my whole body isn’t still squashed against him, right?
Right?
I can’t get up.
My dress is too tight.
My…
Dropping my attention in the same moment his eyes flick down, I find that short, tight dresses don’t do well in situations such as these.
Mr. Danner’s throat bobs as he drags his attention away. I grip the hem of my horrid black dress and yank it down flush against his chest. “I’msosorry,” I exhale in a single breath.
“Can you get off me?” he asks.
My eyes close, and I don’t think I have any dignity left. “Not without help, no…”
His chest fills with air, and it’s a testament to my location on him when that action lifts me. Sitting up, my almost boss’s abs flex beneath me a second before gravity drags me down into his lap. His eyelids twitch, and the irritation pouring off him in spades makes this infinite times worse.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper again, this time slow enough to enunciate each word.
“It’s okay, Rose. Were you hurt?” His hand connects with my waist, and the list of reasons I hate this dress skyrockets.
I can feel every single one of his strong fingers against me. Every. Single. One. “Only my pride.” And, perhaps, my chastity.
Levi Danner is not a kind or forgiving man. I looked into him some after I got the email confirming my interview since I don’t have social media outside of Goodreads and knew next to nothing about his reputation.
At twenty-five, the internet says he dropped out of college so he could take over the world. Now, at thirty, he’s more than accomplished that feat. What started as a social media platform spiraled into a hub for him to collect and coordinate hundreds of subsidiaries.
If there is something worth having, he owns a company that manufactures it. Some people speculate that it’s been a game to him—a collect one of everything that exists type of thing.
His bad reputation comes from his tendency to be heartlessly blunt, allegedly arrogant, and painfully strict.
He never smiles. He’s never kind. People are more an inconvenience to him than anything else.
His singular “shining” point is a striking lack of scandal—potentially because people are inconveniences and scandals involve dealing with them.
It’s a classic case of being the smartest person in the room and being irritable because you’re surrounded by idiots.
To think that just five minutes ago I was feeling smug over the fact he not only personally accepted my application to interview for the project of having me ghostwrite his autobiography but also was telling me he’d be in contact again. My idiotic heart was soaring.
Who, me? Could I possibly be accepted to ghostwrite the Levi Danner’s autobiography?
As a sophomore in college? Applying was a long shot, sure, but I’ve been looking for and applying to every single job I can find that involves words and might be flexible enough to work with my class schedule.
In a deranged, sleep-deprived fever dream, I even asked the campus Taco Bell if they had any openings for putting the little letters on the little sign outside.
I’ve seen enough grammatical errors and typos on fast food signage to last me a lifetime, and the little squirrel in me that just wanted tacos thought, “Hey, this would be a perfect job.”
They could even pay me in food.
Needless to say, when I actually got the reply back from Leopard, I lost my mind. And now my clumsiness has lost me my chance.
Mr. Danner’s other hand curling around my slim waist and effectively circling me in his palms draws me out of my reverie.
Slowly, he maneuvers my body off him and manages to stand while helping me up.
He doesn’t just drop me the second I’m on my feet, though.
He continues to support my weight as though I’m a delicate creature.
Or a baby giraffe. Placing my hand on his shoulder, he snatches a look at my broken heel and clicks his tongue. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, because I have no idea what else to say. Wait a second. There is something I’m supposed to say. I straighten as well as I can on my lopsided heels and look at him with wide eyes. “Are you hurt?”
Something almost gentle touches the deep blue in his eyes, and he stretches the shoulder I’m not relying on before running his fingers through his fringe. The perfect semi-long and pushed back styling he had going on before Hurricane Rose is looking about as mussed as his shirt now.
Honestly speaking?
The tousled look works better for him. And his clothing in disarray is not bad either.
“I’m fine, Rose.”
I should probably not be thinking about the way he sounds when he says my name after I’ve only just finished mauling him in the parking lot outside Leopard’s main base of operations—conveniently only thirty minutes away from Augustus college.
This could have been perfect.
My first real writing job, maybe even a writing job that my parents could approve of since it wouldn’t have been romance or fantasy. Well, depending on this guy’s life, it could have had some romance, but autobiography is as far from fantasy as it can get.
Actually, would I have even been allowed to tell them what I was working on?
With the NDA, it could have been illegal for me to claim having any association with the book.
And yet the pay would have meant I no longer felt this obligatory obsession with seeking out my parents’ approval in the event I needed their assistance with existing.
As it stands, I’m at college thanks to financial aid and scholarships.
If I didn’t take the gap years to save up the rest, I wouldn’t be in college for creative writing—although after a year of workshops and classes that teach things I already know with a side of unnecessarily damaging criticism, I wonder if college was a good idea at all.
The few successes I’ve had can hardly compare to the soul-crushing atmosphere.
If I had gotten this job, I was going to drop out at the end of the semester and live on the cash for the rest of my life—or at least just until I could get my own freelance writing career off the ground.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Danner,” I say, unable to meet his eyes as I regain my balance well enough to hobble back toward my scooter and take a seat.
“Is it safe for you to drive like that?” he asks, and when I force myself to find the concerned gleam in his eyes, I reevaluate everything I learned about the mean Levi Danner.
So far, this man interviewed me personally—which seems normal considering it’s his autobiography we’re talking about, but also I’m only twenty-two and he could have marked me off as inexperienced, period.
He walked me out to my vehicle—which is more considerate than anyone else I’ve ever interviewed with has done.
He let me use his body as an impact mat—which was only slightly softer than hitting concrete because he obviously has a fitness instructor who is doing their god-given job.
And now, he’s worried about my driving with a broken heel.
All in all, I think I would have loved to work for him.
I offer a feeble smile and get my pink helmet off the mirror. “I don’t drive in heels. That would be silly. I have sneakers in the trunk.”
“Maybe next time you should stick with the sneakers throughout the duration of the time you intend to use your feet.”
Ouch. I guess there’s that touch of acidity people seem to focus on. Still doesn’t omit the fact he saved my life here. I wince. “Yeah.” Next time. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
His hand lifts as his eyes find their way elsewhere. Before I know it, his knuckle is skimming across the full cupid’s bow of his upper lip, then he’s scratching his cheek. “Not that your whole outfit didn’t look nice. It just seems…safer.”
A tingle races down to my toes, and my lips part.
He just complimented me. Not only that, am I losing my mind, or did he just touch his lips?
The memory of how my mouth hit his—hard, like teeth-slamming hard—returns, and I kick my heels off in a scramble to put them in the trunk and get my ratty old sneakers out.
Let’s be clear. It was not a kiss. That’s highly inappropriate.
He’s eight years older than me. And another thing.
I’m not looking for a relationship right now.
If my parents already suspect I’m getting drunk and sleeping around in college while I waste my money learning how to write things they don’t approve of, the last thing I need is to be confirmed with anything that even resembles a boyfriend.
The plan they have for me is really quite simple.
First, I get a job they approve of. Like…
maybe missionary work or…landscaping? (I’m uncertain what might meet their standards.) Second, I become financially stable in this economy before I’m thirty—baffling as they seem to not be fans of witchcraft, and only magic could accomplish this.
Third, I settle down and have some kids when they’re ready for grandchildren (probably through mitosis because, last I checked, sex equals bad).
In case it needs to be said, my husband-to-be and I do not so much as share a kiss until we’ve said our vows and all our family and friends can witness the innocence of a tiny little peck.
Welp.
My lips burn.
Can we pretend that falling on top of someone and slamming mouths isn’t a kiss? Because it absolutely isn’t. I’m not saying I’ve been kissed before, but I really don’t think whatever just happened counts.
I shove my socks on and follow up with my sneakers while Mr. Danners stands there, looming like a guy who is confirmed as 6’5” on Google does. You know. Ominously. My 5’10” has never felt so wee before. The heels helped before they committed treason.
Once I’m ready to flee with extra flee out of here, I plug the key into the ignition and start up, realizing a moment too late I’ve already said my thank you for your time line and now all I can think about is an I’m sorry for slamming into your mouth with mine, and also potentially giving you a view of my underwear and also sitting on your chest. Red flares into my face, and I sit perfectly motionless, like a deer trapped in headlights.
Except the headlights are deep, deep blue eyes.
Mr. Danner does the merciful thing and takes a gracious step away from my scooter. “Have a safe trip back to your dorm.”
My monkey brain latches onto that. “Yes! Thank you. You t—” Monkey brain dies before finishing “too,” then it starts stammering T words with vigor.
Like a really old car, it coughs into action.
“—ake care now!” I launch myself backward as fast as my scooter can go and nearly wipe out, to Mr. Danner’s expected horror.
His dark blue eyes are wide beneath bent brows, and his arms are actually spread open as though they might have been able to catch me and my scooter if I’d fallen. Thankfully, I manage by some miracle to right the vehicle and chug out of the parking lot without any further disasters.
The moment I’m back at my dorm, I march through the common area separating four perfect bedroom and bathroom pods into each of the four corners and disappear into mine.
Thankfully, Lucinda, Sierra, and Evelyn don’t hear me come in, probably because Evelyn is blaring heavy metal music that conceals my arrival.
Even if we aren’t really friends, girls can be curious, and since I asked for their help, they know where I was. But I don’t want to talk about today.
I would like for today to go away.
Settling for the next best thing, I cry myself to sleep.