9. Mira

9

MIRA

"I can't believe you talked me into this outfit." My phone is wedged between my cheek and my shoulder while I wrestle with the hem of Taylor's unseasonably warm wool dress.

"What are you talking about? That is my go-to ‘dress to impress' outfit. It's very ‘ kick ass and take names ,' but in, like, a respectable business-y way. It toes the mid-thigh line gracefully, y'know?"

On Taylor's petite, fairy-like frame, this dress probably is business-y. On me, it's a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen.

"This thing hits me mid-thigh… if , and only if, I never breathe or talk or move."

Just saying that brings the hem up another inch.

"Okay, well, if you'd actually listened to me, then you would have heard me tell you that this interview is casual ." She enunciates the word slowly. "There's a reason my dad was the point of contact. These people are rich enough to go through an agency if they wanted to, but they chose word-of-mouth. No one expects Mary Poppins."

"That doesn't mean I shouldn't dress like a professional." I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince Taylor or myself. Considering I'm standing in front of the nicest apartment building I've ever seen and it's way too late to change clothes, I decide to focus on the latter. "I'm dressing for the job I want."

"Do you want to be a hot weatherwoman?" Taylor teases.

"You're not funny."

Her voice turns disturbingly breathy. "‘There's a heatwave coming through, ladies and gentlemen. The forecast is hot and wet. You'll all be dripping with ? —'"

"Shut up and remind me who this guy is again." In hindsight, I should have skipped scrounging through Taylor's closet and done an aggressive Google search instead. "He isn't, like, weirdly religious or anything, is he? No cults or weird diets?"

"Girl, I've seen your pantry. You don't get to judge anyone's diet."

The glass front doors automatically opens and I walk into a cool, sleek lobby. A woman in a shiny black bob sits behind a high desk, but she doesn't even glance at me as I walk past.

"Just tell me what I need to know," I hiss into the phone. "What's he like?"

Taylor sighs. "I don't really know him. My dad is weird about me being around the team too much. He's afraid my ethereal beauty and effervescent charm will distract them from winning."

"Of course. That's rational."

"It's ridiculous. Those guys are swimming in puck bunnies already. If they were going to get distracted by a woman, it would have happened long before me."

I whistle low. "Okay, well, we're definitely going to circle back to what a ‘puck bunny' is later. Right now, you have sixty seconds to prepare me for this interview."

"I only need about ten. I've run into Zane three times over the years, at most. He's… nice, I guess. Quiet."

"Nice and quiet. I'd love a few more adjectives, but I could do a lot worse than ‘nice and quiet.'"

The elevator doors open and I punch in the code his personal assistant emailed me.

"Call me as soon as the interview is over," Taylor orders. "Good luck, Mimi. You're going to do great."

A hesitant knot of excitement tightens in my chest. "Thanks, Tay."

"And if this goes poorly, my dad has a friend down at FOX 10. We'll have you doing the weekly forecast in your teeny tiny dress in no time. ‘Oops, I dropped my pointer! Better bend over and ? —' "

"You're the absolute worst. Goodbye."

Taylor is still cackling when I hang up.

I scowl at my own reflection as the stainless steel elevator doors slide closed. The dress is short—there's no getting around that—but I still look nice. It's been a long time since I've seen myself in anything that isn't workout spandex or Bean & Brew green. If I had a child, I'd trust this version of me to watch them.

Maybe.

I shake out my arms and try to loosen up. I can do this. After my mom left, I practically raised myself. If I can make it out of my childhood home alive, I can definitely make sure some hockey star's posh little baby is fed and happy.

I should avoid bringing up childhood trauma, though. I'll stick to the strengths I listed on my resume: organized, a self-starter, clever with homework help. School wasn't exactly a priority of mine growing up, given all the other shit I was dealing with at the time, but I'm sure I can handle whatever assignments this kid's private preschool can throw at me.

I blow out a nervous breath as I stop in front of a set of solid wooden doors.

Anxiety bubbles up inside of me, so I play my favorite game: What's The Worst That Could Happen?

If the answer doesn't involve broken furniture, gaping wounds, and fleeing into the night barefoot and homeless, then yeah, I can handle it.

I can handle anything.

I knock before my small burst of confidence can wane. I tug the hem of my dress again and stand tall. Or maybe I should slouch a little, look comfortable? I try it both ways and then end up wondering, How do I normally stand? I pray to whichever god takes pity on hopeless people like me that this guy doesn't have a doorbell camera.

Look casual. Be casual.

I cross my ankles just as I hear movement on the other side of the door. All at once, it's clear that I've never been "casual" a day in my life. Also, who stands with their ankles crossed?

I move to uncross them, just as the door opens… and I promptly topple forward on my borrowed heels and smack face-first into a warm, firm body.

He grunts in surprise, the reverberation of which I feel in my cheek, seeing as how my face is buried in this stranger's chest.

"Oh my God." I throw my hands out to steady myself and end up massaging what turns out to be a very firm set of biceps. "I'm so—I tripped and I—This is?—"

A nightmare.

The worst-case scenario I never anticipated.

He smells like wintergreen gum, all minty and frosty. You only know this because you groped him, so forget it immediately—and for the love of God, GET OFF OF HIM.

"I'm so sorry," I pant, shoving away from him. I teeter on the heels for a second before I find equilibrium, but I can't bring myself to look up. The heat from the humiliation rippling off of me could be used to power several city blocks. "I tripped."

"I noticed," he drawls sarcastically.

I try to force out a polite laugh, but it comes out strangled. I'm still staring at his legs—and they are undeniably nice. Nice, lean, muscular legs wrapped in perfectly tailored pants. Good thighs. Strong thighs.

Don't think about his thighs, perv.

"I'm sorry," I say again, shaking my head. "This is not the first impression I wanted to make. I swear I'm not usually such a mess."

"You sure about that?" There's amusement threaded through the words. Some joke I don't understand. "And I wouldn't worry about a first impression. You've already made one. Sorry to say, it stuck."

I frown and finally look up at him.

And I freeze.

I stood in this hallway and played my anxious little worst-case scenario game, but I clearly lack creativity. The horrors I can dream up have nothing on what the universe likes to throw at me.

Because this is the actual worst-case scenario.

He smiles, but there's something else in his eyes. It's the gleam of knowing exactly what I look like in lacy underwear and dripping with macchiato.

He thrusts out a large hand. A hand that, not too long ago, curled into a fist and punched a creep in the face for me. A hand that brushed blood from my forehead.

"Nice to see you again, Wednesday. I'm Zane Whitaker."