First Chance (Chance Encounters #4)

Chapter One

Jo

“ D on’t smile the entire time, you’re not auditioning. But smile at appropriate times so you seem equal parts sincere and endearing,” my muttered words echo around the interior of my BMW.

My scattered thoughts cannot be contained inside my head.

My Ballet Pink manicure taps rhythmically against the steering wheel, not to the beat of the song playing through my speakers, but matching the jitters coursing through my veins.

A flutter of nerves that has only increased the closer I get to my destination.

“Let him know how important this is, but don’t seem desperate.” No one cares about your problems, Jo.

Not like you do.

A notorious bit of advice from my mother.

“Your destination is on the left,” my navigation quips, cutting through my compulsive rehearsing.

I turn off the pavement onto a dirt drive, braking in front of the black metal gates looming before me.

The entrance is as ominous as the rumors about this place, Second Chance Sanctuary.

A privately owned black bear rehabilitation center that has become animal and human-centered.

The sanctuary was created to help the high concentration of bears in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Residents know to keep their trash locked up and their eyes peeled on the roadways, but the bears are still subjected to encroachment and the carelessness of humans.

They’re known to be hit by vehicles, poached by hunters, and the victims of the occasional accident reported by the timber companies.

According to an online article I read from years back, Mr.

Dane hired ex-cons to help him take care of the black bears when the business was in trouble.

The news of it went statewide when he started hiring newly released felons and repeat offenders before they fell through the cracks.

Information about this place is aloof.

Other than the occasional smear article, there isn’t information released to the public.

Hence the ominous rumors.

I don’t believe rumors.

I’ve been subjected to enough of them to know that relying on facts is much more efficient.

Facts don’t lie.

Facts don’t have any ulterior motives.

Facts cannot be swayed by an agenda.

My foot relaxes on the brake, letting my bumper creep forward a few feet until the tall wrought iron bars start moving.

The hinges creak loudly from effort and years of use as the gate opens.

There’s a moment of hesitancy.

Brake or accelerate.

Forward or backward.

Once I go through these gates, everything changes.

I’m taking steps to change my life.

Forward.

The gravel and dirt mixed terrain isn’t ideal for my luxury sedan, and I feel each rock under my tires as the loose bits in my car rattle and sway dramatically until I brake again .

I’m not sure where to go.

There’s an old farmhouse to my right and a large barn to my left with various outbuildings scattered about.

They’re all mismatched and unidentifiable.

The largest barn is gray metal and looks the newest.

The one next to it has to be no less than 100 years old, with its missing boards and deteriorating facade.

The other buildings are smaller, probably not classified as barns, but I’m not sure what the criteria is.

I should Google it later.

No, not important.

What is important is the giant man stalking towards me.

I hardly give myself time to shift into park before scrambling out of my car.

His dark hair is long, curling across his temples wildly and past his ears.

His beard is unkempt, hanging below his chin.

His eyes, though…

They’re as dark as his scowl.

Hi, I’m here for my interview.

No.

Hello, my name is–

“This is private property,” he states, thunderously cutting off my internal dialogue.

His deep voice reverberates through me like an earthquake, throwing me off balance.

That wasn’t part of my rehearsed conversation, and I don’t have a quick response.

“Oh, yes. I mean, I know,” I mutter, stepping awkwardly from around my car.

“What’s your business here?”

My business?

“I’m here for an interview?” I can’t stop it from coming out in the form of a question.

It seems like the appropriate response, but his stance doesn’t relax.

His hands stay sturdy, balled into fists across his chest.

“Must be a mistake, there are no jobs for you here.” He turns his back on me and starts walking away before even giving me a chance to respond.

“I got an email to be here at 1:00!” I shout after him, and his feet stop so suddenly that it kicks up the dirt, making dust particles catch the sunlight all around him.

“Seiver!” He yells to someone out of sight, and he doesn’t wait to see if he’s been heard before turning back to me.

“I don’t know what your game is, but you don’t belong here,” his deep voice states plainly.

His eyes flick from my car and back to me, giving me a steely once-over.

I’m wearing a knee-length pencil skirt, white blouse, and interview-appropriate heels.

This is the average attire for a person looking for a job.

I checked.

“I’m here for an interview,” I repeat because I can’t seem to string together any other rational response to his aversion to me.

“You need something, boss?” An older man comes half-jogging, half-limping, over toward us.

His tawny skin wrinkled from years under the sun.

“This woman thinks that she is here for an interview. Would you know why?” He asks with such an accusatory tone that even I’m afraid to hear the response.

“Well, I don’t know, boss. The only resume we got was for a guy named Jo. I emailed him to set up an interview like you told me.”

“That’s me.” I raise my hand as if there is anyone else around.

“I’m Jo. JoAnna, actually.”

Both their heads swivel, one look of innocent curiosity, and one is a full-blown glare.

I wish I was talking to the curious old man, but it looks like Mr.

Glare is the one in charge.

“We don’t hire women.”

“Excuse me? ”

“This isn’t a place for women. The gates will open automatically on your way out.” He turns, giving me his back again, with no chance to respond.

My gut sinks.

This guy is going to ruin everything I had planned.

“Can I speak to the real boss?”

His shoulders stiffen at my question, but he doesn’t turn around; he only tilts his head in my direction.

“The real boss?”

“Yes. Mr. Dane.”

He rolls his shoulders before stalking toward me slowly like a hungry predator.

He keeps walking until his tall frame is blocking the glare of the sun from my face.

“I am Mr. Dane.”

What?

“No, Mr. Dane is older.” This Mr.

Dane cocks his head slightly, looking at me as if for the first time.

“My grandfather?”

“So you’re?”

“Lochlan Dane, his grandson. The only boss here, according to his obituary.”

No.

Mr.

Dane is dead.

The man I thought I was meeting with.

The one that is specifically part of my plan.

And that means I am having a conversation with the Lochlan Dane.

I know the name, but I’ve never seen a photo.

Besides, nothing could do him justice.

The aura emanating around him is as sinister as the stories about him.

All of which are rumors.

I think.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s not giving me a chance.

I’m not going to get the job here.

Avoiding his gaze of terror, I reach into my purse and retrieve my sunglasses, pushing them onto my face before looking up at him again.

“I apologize for wasting your time then. Have a nice day.”

His stance doesn’t falter as I turn on trembling knees, crossing the gravel lot to get back in my car.

My heels are as adept at this terrain as my tires, but it doesn’t matter.

I won’t be back.

I’m sliding into my seat as gracefully as I can in this skirt when someone whistles from across the yard.

“Is that the Princess of North Carolina?” The words bounce around in my head, but I’m an expert at ignoring catcalls.

“What the hell did you just say?” Lochlan growls to whoever said it, but I tune out the conversation.

I need to leave.

The trundles of nerves have transformed into bubbles of devastation over how this day unfolded.

I thought this was it, my clean break.

I reverse, flipping my car back toward the gates to get the hell out of here, but before I can accelerate forward, a large palm smacks down on the roof of my car, making me jump.

Lochlan’s staring into my window, waiting, but all I can focus on is his eyes.

Deep blue, almost navy, glaring at me as if he can see straight through into my soul.

He’s close enough now that I can see the details of the raised white scar that starts at his temple and travels down, disappearing under his beard.

It’s precise, but not surgical, and he’s likely had it for years.

After a momentary silent standoff, I unthaw myself from my frozen state and roll my window down.

“Is he right? Are you the Governor’s daughter?”

“Former Governor. But, yes,” I admit begrudgingly.

His whole frame stumbles back a step, but his eyes never leave mine.

He doesn’t say another word, but I can feel the tear that leaked from my eye is about to escape the coverage of my sunglasses.

I accelerate.

His silhouette fills my rear view mirror as I exit through the black gates and flee back down the mountain.