With her chin raised, the woman peers down her pert and adorably small, straight nose at me. The placard in front of her says Rachel Arnault, and not only could she be a model, but she seems keenly aware of this. Her blouse looks silky and expensive, and her silver—or maybe platinum—necklace, earrings, and assortment of rings contrast prettily with her skin tone.
I’m reminded of what I put on this morning. While it’s pressed to within an inch of its life, my belted black dress is hardly high-end. I can’t afford much, so I’ve had to get somewhat creative when it comes to shopping for business attire. Clearance racks have long since become my best friends, and so have the occasional finds in thrift shops. I have to work not to cross my arms over my chest to cover the tide of inadequacy that washes over me.
“Of course. Ms. Richards, is it?”
“Reynolds,” I correct.
“Yes. Mr. Hunt’s office is located on the seventh floor, penthouse level. Just scurry to the elevator bank over there.” She points. “It’ll be the second door on your left. Though given that you’re late, perhaps you might wish to reconsider disturbing him?”
“I’ll risk it.”
Rachel offers me a crimson smile that’s the teeniest bit too saccharine, and, doing my best not to feel cowed by it, I turn to follow her directions.
Taking some deep calming breaths on my way up, I square my shoulders and step off the elevator. My heels sink into a thick cream carpet the moment I do, and I take note of the floor-to-ceiling windows and rich dark crown molding that line the corridor. As I close in on the second door to my left, my heart pounds harder and harder. I don’t belong here. People like Rachel belong here.
Stopping in front of a thick wooden door, I feel my whole body freeze as I read the nameplate: CULLEN HUNT, CEO. TRIDENT MEDICAL GROUP.
Cullen.
Obviously, it couldn’t be that Cullen, but just the sight of the similar name sends an unwelcome tingle along my thighs. I try to knock, only to chicken out at the last instant. Closing my eyes and pulling myself together, I lift my hand determinedly. But this time, the door opens before my knuckles can even make contact. A very large—and very, very annoyed—man with an Adonis-like body and mossy-green eyes glares at me from the threshold. It’s him. It’s that damn Cullen.
My mouth dries, everything inside me simply freezing. Shit. Holy blessed shit.
For one insane moment, I consider the idea that maybe the medic from yesterday has a twin. Certainly there’s something different about the man who stands before me now compared to the Cullen from yesterday. Instead of an Under Armour shirt emblazoned with the Trident Rescue insignia, this Cullen wears a tailored pinstriped suit cut from what’s probably exceedingly pricey and finely woven wool. His silk tie, a mossy green that resembles his eyes, likely costs more than my entire closet.
Cullen’s face darkens. “I’ve nothing to say to Denton Uncovered. Which part of that was unclear to you yesterday?”
Yep, this is definitely the same Cullen. He even wears that identical forbidding look he tossed at me yesterday. Except why is he masquerading around Denton Valley as a medic one day and a freaking CEO the next? Nothing about this makes sense. Nothing about him makes sense.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. My whole body tenses, blood pumping to my legs and lungs, my fight-or-flight instinct kicking in. But I can’t fight or fly. I need this job. “I… I’m not here from the paper, sir.” I try to swallow, but can’t. “I’m here for an interview. It’s for the dispatcher position? Three p.m.?”
Cullen pulls a phone from his back pocket and punches a number. “Catherine. What’s the name of my three p.m.?”
“Skylar Reynolds, sir,” the woman on the other end of the phone says at once. “Is she not there?”
“Oh, she’s fff—she’s here, all right, Catherine. Why am I talking to her?”
“Because she has the best résumé of the bunch, Cullen.”
Cullen cuts off the line with a disgusted huff, then scowls at me before blading his body to let me into his office. “You’re late.”
“I… I had trouble finding the building.”
“It’s seven stories high and has a number out front. How difficult could it be?”
I curl my hand into a fist. Fine. Cullen is an asshole. I know it. He knows I know it. But still, I came here with a purpose, and I’m following through even if it kills me. The day I bend because some intimidating man says something rude to me is the day I stop being me.
I pad forward into Cullen’s office, detecting his scent as I brush past him. Unlike Frank Peterson’s awful bug-spray odor, Cullen Hunt’s fragrance is spicy yet clean and subtle. If I’d been born a chemist and wanted to bottle the most intoxicating smell ever, it’d be this one. This exact one.
Letting the door close, Cullen goes to sit behind his massive L-shaped desk. Like the rest of the building, Cullen’s office screams wealth and affluence. A state-of-the-art desktop computer sits in front of him, with an ornate wooden pen set standing off to one side. A series of maple trays sit with neat stacks of paperwork inside, and on one corner resides a foot-long wooden chest, carved into intricate abstract designs. On his wall, I spot a series of certifications and plaques, though I can’t scrutinize them with him watching me. Everything feels larger than life in here, just like the man himself does. I feel like a child sent to the principal’s office.
A principal’s office that has a decorative case with a mounted handgun hanging on the wall. Bile rises up my throat. A medical office building paying homage to violence. Lovely.
“Sit,” Cullen orders with all the warmth of a rattlesnake. Gathering every last smidgen of dignity I possess, I sit in the seductively comfortable chair.
Cullen taps his fingers on his desk. “The position title is dispatcher and office administrator. Denton EMS handles the actual 911 call-ins, but I like having my own person on duty to liaise when we run active shifts, which is usually four times a week. Most of the duties are administrative. What experience do you have in any of that?—By the way, I ask only because I want to honestly tell Catherine I interviewed you before showing you the door. ”
Lovely. I clear my throat. “Specifically, with office administration, none. However, I—”
“What’s your educational background?”
“Well, I graduated summa cum laude from NYU with a bachelors in communication and journalism. Also—”
“Also, you enjoy creating stories where there are none. Do you imagine being a dispatcher will give you some inside track? Let me save both of us the trouble and give you a radio. Our dispatch channel is easy to pick up so others know our status.”
My fingers dig into the armrest of my chair. All right. I deserved a little of that. But I’m not going to let a misconception ruin my reputation for integrity. Never again.
“If you’re referring to the run-in we had at Mr. Mason’s accident site, sir, then I was doing my job,” I say firmly. “Looking for facts. If we’re on the subject, was anything incorrect printed in the paper?”
I know for a fact it wasn’t, because Frank yelled at me for two hours straight about pulling defeat out of the jaws of victory before slapping the article onto the last page. I straighten my spine, sitting on the edge of the chair. “If you—”