Friction(3)

Slightly more at ease, I drop my keys into the side pocket of my purse before leaning down to examine the clock more closely. "Ahh, so you design clocks?" I’m already imagining all the aspects of selling pieces like this, and I'm an eighth of the way into a detailed marketing plan when Daisy clears her throat. She blinks up at me.

Several times.

“Yeah … clocks.” Her lips part, but then she crinkles her small nose and drums her stylus against the quote tattooed on the side of her neck. "Among other fun things. Go ahead and have a seat, I’ll let you know when he’s ready to speak with you.”

While I wait to meet the elusive Mr. E, I review my documents. I'm in the middle of re-reading my recommendation letter from the internship I completed before I graduated with my MBA from Stanford, when Daisy sings out my name in a clear alto. I peer up from my portfolio to find her grinning broadly.

"The other chick's interview ended early, so he's ready to brighten your day with his … sunny awesomeness."

I can't tell if she's being serious, so I simply nod. Holding my leather binder to my chest, I brush my other hand down the front of my yellow dress, smoothing the wrinkles out of the woven fabric. "Thanks, should I—"

She points over her shoulder, to the blue door behind her desk. "Go through there and take a left. He's in the office at the end of the walkway. And watch out for metal on the floor. It's a mess back there!"

Thankfully, the metal disaster seems to be contained in the workshop on the other side of the walkway, where two men in welding masks are working, the sound of The Weeknd’s “The Hills” booming from an overhead sound system as sparks fly around them. I reach E’s door and draw in a sharp breath to calm my nerves before I knock softly. Although it’s already half-open, Mom got on my case so many times about bursting into rooms unannounced when I was a child that knocking first is a habit now.

"Come in, Ms. Duncan."

My toes curl inside of my lucky pumps. That voice, with its long vowels and clipped consonants, is just a bit breathtaking. I’ve always been a big fan of accents. I grew up with a Vietnamese mother and a father from Mississippi, and the voice on the other side of that door deeply satisfies my auditory fixation. It's Americanized, that's for sure, but there's a British undertone there.

I wonder if the face and body attached to a voice like that does it justice.

“Miss Duncan?” he repeats, sounding a touch irritated. “You’re wasting your time and mine just standing out there.”

I square my shoulders and press forward.

And my heart immediately slams into my throat.

The man behind the metal desk is looking at his laptop screen, his eyes narrowed and his lips worked into a concentrated frown. I can only see him from the waist up, but I quickly hate my body's reaction to the blue flannel shirt shoved up to his elbows and the unruly chocolate brown hair and stubble.

"Give me just a second, I’m going to—" Lifting blue eyes from the screen, his deep voice catches. He stares at me for an awkward pause, stunned. Rubbing long fingers tattooed with Roman numerals over his chin, he inclines his head to one side. I hold my breath, praying and hoping and wishing for a miracle that’s clearly not going to happen because his scowl transforms into a grin.

He knows me.

He remembers me, and my heart sinks from my windpipe, inch by inch, as I realize another interview has just bit the dust.

Here’s the thing about most overachievers, even those who’ve fallen from their high perch: they all have that one person. The one who made their high school existence a little more stressful. That one person who was, despite his constant asshole-isms, the object of her secret fantasies. That one person who was the opposite of everything she aspired to become because he gave zero shits.

I was twelve the first time I laid eyes on my person.

It's sad that I remember the moment clearly, but in my defense, he came to our class toward the end of the school year, and I'd just celebrated my birthday three days before his late May arrival. We had the same homeroom teacher, Mr. Collins who taught Social Science, and as they talked at the front of the classroom, I was entranced by his soft, chopped accent and the way he combed one hand through his dark hair.

He's doing that now, only he’s not speaking.

The last time I saw the man in front of me was ten years ago. He had complained that my salutatorian speech was "too fucking long" and that he had parties to get to and vaginas that needed his undivided attention. I had responded boldly, telling him that I'd see him at our reunion—if he could put down his bong and whoever he was banging long enough to make it.

And now, I'm standing smack dab in front of Jace Exley, asking for him to give me a job.

Heat pulses down my spine as he flicks his steely blue gaze over me, raking in all five foot six inches—five foot nine with the heels. I've filled out since the last time we saw each other. I have hips and breasts and a butt now, and I nixed the short black bob that made me look older than my mother years ago.

Still, for a moment, I feel like the flat-chested girl who wanted to punch him in his stupidly rugged face every time he said, "pull the stick out of your arse, Williams."

"Lucy Williams." Jace steeples his fingers over his mouth and leans back, giving the impression of a man used to getting his way. To be honest, I have no doubt that’s just what he is. "Never thought I'd see you again, and I sure as fuck didn't think you'd walk through my door, but please ... sit down.”