Chapter One—Lidia

The toe to my pointed-toe heel tapped rhythmically on the tile beneath me, echoing against the huge concrete walls in the opened space of the gallery. I'd spent the last thirty minutes counting the off-white tiles on the floor, ignoring the uncomfortable look from the receptionist.

I was used to it though. The long skirts and modest dressing weren’t fashionable nowadays, and honestly, it hadn't been for a while. Unfortunately, skin and cleavage drew much more attention to men than a brain.

To receptionists, too, apparently. After getting the rude up and down look and a small smile, she pointed toward the—you guessed it—white chairs in the corner, where she reassured me Mr. Jace Archer would be right with me.

Thirty minutes ago. I mean—no one is in here—what could possibly be keeping this guy so long?

My cell buzzed in my overlarge tan purse, and I dug around trying to find it. My dad called it an endless void of nothing, which wasn't too far off. It did take me longer to find things then an average purse, but I needed the space for—necessities.

After several minutes of hunting, I sat my purse down in my seat and on bended knees, started to dig for it.

Where are you?

I found my cell next to my tampons in a forgotten corner and yanked it out, items spilling over to the tile while I answered the call. "This better be important—"

My best friend since junior high, Scott, scoffed. "He's still got you waiting? I mean—this isn't the white house."

I snorted, still bent down on my knees, gathering my things. I heard the receptionist say something, but I didn't acknowledge her with a glance. Staring was her game, not mine.

"Yeah, I've been waiting thirty minutes," I said. "I hope this is worth it. It kind of looks snooty in here—are you sure I'll fit in?" I asked, standing slowly.

I noticed the shine in his leather boots first, and then the crease in his navy blue expensive slacks as I climbed to my feet slowly. My eyes shot over his tucked in button-down and to his face quickly.

The breath I was about to take caught in the depths of my throat. This man did not look happy to be here, which wasn't reassuring me that a job as his personal assistant would help my walk in life. Did someone kill his dog this morning?

I coughed roughly, letting my phone slip into the endless void of my bag, and shoving the tampon I realized was in my hand behind it. His eyes followed the move of my hand to my purse and then drug back to my eyes.

Geesh—they resembled dark orbs of evil.

"Hello," I said with a chuckle. "Are you—you must be Mr. Jace—uh—"

"Archer," the receptionist answered for me.

Heat bloomed underneath my skin, as if the long leopard print maxi dress and wide-brimmed fedora didn't already have me sweating in the Houston summer heat.

His jaw twitched underneath a blanket of chocolate scruff, and he intently watched my face. Maybe he wasn't used to seeing women apply for positions without their boobs to their chin—or didn't like the fact that I called his business snooty.

I was going to lean toward the latter.

If he hadn't worn a scowl that resembled Satan, I would have noticed how good-looking he was, not that I didn't already know that from Google.

Playboy of the art gallery world—if there was such a thing.

Mr. Archer cleared his throat, his hand running through the length of his upright hair and then back to his pocket. "That would be me. If you will make your way with me, we'll start the interview—if you're still interested since this place is—" he glanced around the floor-length windows and the flawless white furniture—"snooty."

I cringed inwardly. So, he saw my tampons and heard me insult his art gallery. Way to go, Gabby Big Mouth. "I didn't—"

He leaned forward with a dark gaze that pierced through any hope I had at landing this job and said, "Yes, you did. Now, follow me."

He turned on his heel and started toward the floating staircase in the corner, as I tucked my tail and followed behind him. The receptionist smirked when I walked by, crunching on a carrot that I assumed was her breakfast and lunch rolled into one.

He led me upstairs to a small loft area that looked out of place in such a huge office building. "Sit," he said.

I sat in a chair adjacent to his desk and pressed my thighs together in a nervous way. What did Scott get me into? When I graduated UH, I knew finding a job wouldn't be easy with a BA in Art Design, but I got lucky when Scott knew someone who worked at a local gallery.

No excuse me—the local art gallery. Even though it was just an assistant position, it had room to grow—or at least that's what Scott told me. Maybe it had, especially before my grand introduction from Hell.

Mr. Archer sat back in his chair, fingers laced over the top of his stomach and his hard eyes narrowed in on me. A nervous chuckle left my lips, and my eyes searched the blank space of his office.

For someone interested in art, he didn't have much of anything in his office. Just white furniture, which was a smooth contrast to his energy that came off like blazing shots of black and dread.

Someone get this guy a Snickers.

Biting my lip, I nodded my head slowly at the silence slowly eating away at my insides. "Listen, Mr. Archer, I'm so sorry about before. Can we start over?"

The corner of his mouth momentarily pulled into a smirk before he leaned on his elbows.

What was that my debate professor always said? Silence is compliance. I stood up, leaned forward and offered him my hand. His palm swallowed mine as he took me into a firm handshake.

Okay that went—I pulled back, hitting the only thing on his desk—literally the only thing besides his shut laptop—a jar of pens that loudly scattered around the floor.

Oomph. I dropped down to my knees and began gathering them into my hands, all the while praying for anyone to come in and tell this man that he was needed elsewhere. Wasn't there anyone else to conduct this interview? I didn't know if his extremely good looks were making me nervous or the fact he'd heard me talking about his gallery.

"Leave them," he said. His voice was deep and held no accent like most of our Texas community.

I stood up with wide eyes and sat back down, my hat formed sweat on my head, leaving it itchy but I didn't dare scratch it. Or move. I was afraid he could sense my fear like an animal.

Mr. Archer cleared his throat. "So, Lidia what a first impression you've made today." I could almost see a hint of a smile, but his lips twitched, and it disappeared again. "When Derrek handed me your application, I have to admit, I didn't think you'd be—" His hand gestured over me. "—this."

This? Frustration formed in my chest and maneuvered its way up to my mouth, which was a bad habit I'd used as a guard in high school. Not everyone accepted a modest woman. And Mr. Player of the Art World was proving to be one of them.

"What does this mean?" I asked, mimicking his hand wave. "Do you mean modest? What were you expecting? What does an art major look like? A skinny hipster with a vegan coffee shirt? Or did you expect someone with their totties hanging out?"

His brows shot up to his hairline and he chuckled humorlessly. "No. I meant with so much talent. Your portfolio was faxed over this morning."

Oh. Someone get the chum—I'm shark bait. What is wrong with my mouth today? "I'm so sorry—"

"No, Lid," a muffled voice said. "You always stick your foot into your mouth."

I froze when I realized where that muffled voice came from. I hadn't hung up the phone with Scott earlier. Had he been listening this entire time? "Just stop. Stop talking. It's happening—word vomit."

My phone must have gone on speaker in the bottomless pit of my purse. "Just a second," I said, holding up one finger. I began to dig for my phone, giving him small looks as I tried to plan my way out of this wreck of an interview.

"Why is it quiet? Are you alive? Did you faint again?" His deep laugh echoed loudly as I hung up the phone and shoved it back into my purse.

I'm going to kill him when I get home.

Mr. Archer eyed me closely. "Do you always have your boyfriend on the phone while you interview for a job?"

I tucked my hair nervously. "Oh, no—no—he isn't my boyfriend. He's baseball friends with Derek and got me this interview. I thought he hung up. I guess I should have known better, he loves to give me a hard time, ya know, he's just your typical best friend. Scott doesn't think before he speaks, which seems to run in our friendship apparently. I can't even imagine what he was thinking this entire time. Probably laughing because I've completely embarrassed myself—"

Mr. Archer leaned forward and held his palm up to me. "No more. Please." It almost sounded like a plea.

I sighed and gave him a curt nod.

"I'll look over this and get back with you." He leaned back, rubbing his forehead with his index finger. "Do you know your way out?"

"I do. Thank you for the opportunity." I went to walk out, crunching on the litter of pens beneath me and wobbled over them toward the door.

When I glanced back at him, a small smile pulled at the corner of his full mouth. I appreciated him waiting until I was gone to laugh. My pride couldn't take much more.

***

The apartment door was unlocked when I forced myself through the threshold and tried to make a beeline for my room. Scott and I shared an apartment downtown, which proved necessary in such a harsh economy.

My parents didn't pay for my share of anything. My dad thought it built character, but what he didn't know was that Scott was the only reason I didn't eat ramen every night of the week. Not only because it was all I could afford, but because I sucked at cooking.

I burnt mac-n-cheese the first week I moved in with Scott, and after three nights of him shoveling in burnt food, he said, "How about you clean?"

Smart guy.

Scott popped out from behind the kitchen wall, a bag of popcorn in his hand and his baseball hat on backward. A bundle of his light blond hair poked through the front hole. "He heard me on the phone?"

I gave him a knowing look, then tossed my purse onto our hand-me-down dining table and flopped down on one of the stools. "Oh my gawd. I'm dead on the inside now," I whined, shaking my head.

Scott came over, placed his palm on the back of my head and hugged my face into his stomach as I screamed. "Was it that bad? I got most of it but—"

I pulled back and glanced up at him. "It was terrible. I couldn't stop talking. He heard me call the place snooty, I knocked over his pens and then he heard you on the phone. I stuck my foot in my mouth so many times today. And he saw my tampons."

I pouted.

Scott gave me a lopsided grin and sat down beside me. "What did you say?"

"Phew," I said, taking off my heels and tossing them over my shoulder dramatically. "Basically asked me to stop talking and said he would think it over. I’m sure it won't be a hard decision."

Scott shrugged. "You win some and you lose some."

"That's easy for you to say," I said. "You have a career with your family, and I have nothing. I have to find a job in one month before my savings dwindle and I can't pay my share of the rent and eat."

His family owned a huge car dealership, which he planned to take over one day—hence his degree in business management. I wished I had a path preplanned for me, but I didn't.

My mother taught grade school and my dad worked in a small garage downtown. And I wasn't about teaching disrespectful kids that listened to Cardi B and thought they were grown.

They did not understand the meaning of grown—it isn't what it's cracked up to be.

It wasn't their fault I picked a useless degree. I curse myself for following my heart and not my brain.

He sighed and rolled his amber eyes. "Stop worrying. It'll be fine. I'll ask around and see if I can find something else. Come on, let's watch Criminal Minds, grab some wine and order out. I'll buy."

I rested my elbow on the dining table and sighed. "Is that for code get drunk and let me cry on your shoulder?"

Scott grinned. "Would that make you happy?"

I twirled a piece of my chocolate hair around my finger. "When does wine not me happy?"

He shrugged. "When it has you up until three with the poops."

I pointed my index finger down my throat. "You know me too well. I think we need sometime apart."

He snorted while pulling out our to-go menus from on top of the refrigerator. "Right, who would cook you something to eat besides ramen, or show you how to work the TV."

I pointed my finger at him like I was going to defend myself, but I sat back in my seat. "Touché."

He braced his palms on the kitchen counter and glared at me. "But who would decorate our apartment with free artwork?" He gestured toward the sunset I painted for our living room. "And clean my underwear because I can't seem to get a grasp on laundry."

I walked over, snatched the Mexican to-go menu from the pile and shoved it toward his chest. "You know how to do laundry; you just don't want to do it."

He caught my wrist and gave me his best lighten up smile. "You're going to do great. We'll get you a different—better—job that isn't in some snooty art gallery. But first," he said, grabbing a bottle of wine from the top shelf of the cabinet—"we drink."

I grabbed our only two wine glasses from the cabinet. "What are we drinking to?" I asked.

Scott chuckled. "To three am diarrhea and embarrassing job interviews."