Chapter 1. Taryn
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, breathing slow and steady, trying to talk myself into feeling like someone who had her life together. “Okay, Taryn. You’ve got this,” I whispered, even though the nerves in my stomach were staging a full scale rebellion.
For a split second, faking a sudden illness seemed like a perfectly reasonable escape plan. But the truth hit just as quickly. This job was the chance I had been waiting for. I can’t let fear shove me back into the shadows.
I adjusted my blazer, ignoring the warm prickle of sweat gathering between my shoulder blades. “Focus,” I muttered, splashing cold water on my face. It helped, barely. A glance at my watch told me time was slipping away faster than I wanted to admit. So I took one last breath, gathered whatever confidence I could scrape together, and stepped out of my house, locking the door behind me like I was sealing in all the doubt.
By the time I reached the towering glass doors of Skyline Developments, my heart was doing acrobatics. The building looked like it belonged in a magazine, sleek, modern and intimidating. I felt like I had wandered into a world I was not entirely sure I deserved to be part of.
“Deep breaths,” I reminded myself, clinging to the words like a lifeline.
I walked up to the receptionist’s desk with a burst of confidence that felt borrowed. “Hi, I am here for my interview,” I said, offering a smile that I hoped passed for normal.
The receptionist looked up from her bubble gum haze. “Name?” she asked, flat and uninterested.
“Taryn Mitchell.” The words felt heavier than they should have, like I was trying to convince both of us that I belonged here.
She finally gave me a once over, and suddenly I was hyperaware of everything, the faint scuff on my shoes, the way my hair didn’t quite sit the way it had an hour ago, the blazer that hugged my curves a little more than I intended. My insecurities rushed in, loud and familiar.
“Take a seat. Mr. Jensen will be with you shortly,” she said, pointing toward the waiting area with the enthusiasm of someone directing traffic.
“Okay, thanks,” I mumbled as I sank into one of the chairs in the waiting area. My mind immediately started painting ridiculous mental pictures of Mr. Jensen. I imagined a plump, balding man with the faint smell of stale coffee, the kind of guy who looked like he had stepped straight out of a low budget detective show from the seventies. The image made me snort under my breath.
I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message to my sister Olivia, who was probably wrangling my two tiny tornadoes with her usual calm competence while I sat here trying not to combust.
“Just waiting for my interview,” I wrote, hoping she would send back something encouraging. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a slap through the phone. Either would help.
I had barely hit send when a voice as smooth as melted chocolate wrapped itself around my name.
“Taryn Mitchell?”
I looked up, and my entire brain short circuited.
Holy. Mother. Of. God.
Standing there was not the balding man from my imagination. No. This was a man who looked like he had been handcrafted by angels with excellent taste. He was tall, the kind of tall that made you rethink every top shelf you had ever struggled with. His shirt fit him perfectly, clinging to broad shoulders and strong arms in a way that felt almost unfair. He looked effortlessly put together, like he had rolled out of bed and somehow landed in a magazine spread.
His dark hair fell in a slightly messy style that made my fingers twitch with the urge to touch it. And his eyes. Dear sweet universe, those eyes. A vivid green that seemed to glow, locking onto mine with an intensity that sent my pulse into a sprint.
For a moment, I forgot the job, my nerves, and possibly my own name.
“Are you Taryn?” he asked again, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. He probably thought I was malfunctioning. Honestly, he was not wrong. “I’m Mr. Jensen. I’ll be interviewing you.”
I stared. I absolutely stared. I might have been drooling. My brain was screaming, Move over Magic Mike, there is a new man in town and he is a five alarm fire of deliciousness.
Get it together, Taryn.
“Huh?” I managed, my voice cracking like a teenager’s. I mentally smacked myself so hard I was surprised my head did not tilt. This was mortifying.
He chuckled, the sound warm enough to melt every coherent thought I had left. “Are you Taryn?” he repeated, his voice smooth and deep. This man was dangerous in ways I was not prepared for.
Just breathe, I told myself.
“Yes. That’s me,” I blurted, my cheeks heating like I had been microwaved. Why was I acting like I had just met a celebrity? I cleared my throat, trying to salvage whatever dignity I had left. “I mean, yes, I’m Taryn. Nice to meet you, Mr. Jensen.”
His smile widened, soft and disarming. “Nice to meet you too. Ready to get started?”
I nodded, pretending I was calm while my heart did the cha cha inside my chest. As he turned and began walking toward his office, I followed, unable to stop myself from noticing the confident way he moved. There was something about him, a quiet swagger that made it impossible not to look.
And I looked. Oh, I definitely looked.
Might As well as add “unable to function around men” as a skill on my resume, apparently. He takes a seat and gestures for me to do the same.
“Sit please,” he says.
I sit across from him and try to focus on the actual interview, but the room is gorgeous and the view is stunning. None of it compares to the real distraction though. Him.
He leans back in his chair, those hypnotic eyes locking onto mine. I feel like a deer caught in headlights, except the headlights belong to a Greek god on wheels. My brain tries to come up with something clever, but all I can think is that this man defies every known law of attractiveness.
“Are you ready to begin?”
“Huh,” I manage, trying not to melt into a puddle. “Oh! Yes, let’s start.”
My inner voice jumps in immediately. Great job, Taryn. You sound like a middle schooler trying to flirt with their crush at summer camp.
He chuckles and raises an eyebrow, like he is waiting for me to recite Shakespeare or break into a tap dance routine.
What is wrong with me? Get it together.
Then he laughs again, and somehow the pressure eases.
“So, are you always this charming or just when you are nervous?” he asks with a smile that should honestly be illegal.
“Oh yeah, my charm is my secret weapon,” I say, trying not to sound like a malfunctioning robot. “I save it for special occasions, like job interviews.”
He laughs again, warm and easy. “Everyone has their quirks when they are nervous.”
I stare. I absolutely stare. I might as well be drooling. My inner monologue screams, Move over Magic Mike, there is a new heartthrob in town and he is a five alarm fire of deliciousness.
He laughs, and it is the sweetest sound. “Don’t worry. Everyone gets nervous.”
“Right. Nervous, very nervous.”
“So, Mrs. Mitchell, tell me about yourself.”
“I’m not married,” I blurt, instantly regretting it. “Just a single mom of two kids.”
He leans in, genuinely curious. “That sounds like quite the adventure. How do you handle all that chaos?”
I finally feel a bit like myself again. “My life is basically a circus. My daughter thinks she is the next Picasso, my son believes he is a superhero, and I spend half my day refereeing Lego wars.”
He smiles, clearly entertained. “And do you have a support system?”
“Definitely. My sister Olivia is my right hand woman. And I have a group of mom friends who are basically my lifeline. We have a chat called Mommy Survival Squad where we share memes and parenting tips. It is like therapy but with more GIFs.”
He laughs softly. “Sounds like you have a solid squad. What about you? What do you do when you get free time?”
“Free time is rare, but when I get it, I read. Thrillers are my weakness.”
He nods, amused. “You are a woman of many talents. Why do you think you would be a good fit for this office assistant position?”
I sit up straighter. “I have a strong background in administration and customer service. I am organized, detail oriented, and a multitasking ninja. If I can manage my kids’ schedules while dodging Lego landmines, I can handle anything this job throws at me.”
He raises an eyebrow, impressed. “That is quite the skill set.”
“Oh, I know. Just the other day I diffused a meltdown over a missing toy dinosaur while convincing my daughter that broccoli is a superfood. If I can negotiate peace in Toyland, I can handle an office.”
He bursts into laughter, and pride warms my chest.
As he leans back, I notice the sleeve tattoo winding down his forearm. Tattoos too. Of course. A quick glance at his ring finger shows it is bare. How is this man single? If he asked me to elope, I might say yes on the spot.
“Well?” he asks, pulling me from my staring.
“Hmm? Oh, well what?” I say, cheeks heating.
He laughs again. “I was wondering how soon you can start.”
Oh god. Breathe.
“Two weeks ago would have been ideal, but I could start tomorrow,” I say, twisting my hands.
“Fantastic. You’re hired. HR will finalize your salary.”
A wave of relief and joy crashes over me. I can barely breathe.
“Thank you so much. May I ask who I will be assisting?”
Please do not say you.
He leans forward, that mischievous smirk returning. “You will be my assistant.”
Oh no. I am so doomed.
“Okay,” I squeak. I actually squeak.
He looks thoroughly entertained. “Don’t worry. We’re going to make a great team. Welcome to Skyline Developments.”
I smile, even though inside I’m a tornado of nerves and excitement. How did I even get this job? He barely asked about my qualifications. Maybe he took pity on a frazzled mom who can barely form sentences.
This could be the best decision of my life. Or a complete disaster. Maybe both.
