I had stopped in for caffeine while waiting on an update from Henson about zoning permits for a project. The place was loud, cramped, and smelled like lavender.
I used to take Brianna to that cafe all the time when she was little on Saturday mornings. Hot chocolate with extra whipped cream for her, black coffee for me. She’d sit on my lap and sip her drink, leaving foam on her upper lip and giggling when I’d wipe it off with a napkin. Now, between school and my schedule, and Brianna becoming a teenager, those mornings are long gone.
Which explains why I’d never seen that barista before.
Now that I’m getting a real look at her, without the distractions, I realize why she stuck in my head in the first place. She’s stunning. Striking, even. Beautiful curls, curves to die for, dark doe eyes.
“Mr. Miller?” someone says. “Sir?”
I feel a light kick under the table. “Worth,” Dre hisses.
I snap out of it. “Yes. Sorry.” I reach for my water bottle, twist the cap too hard, and take a giant gulp to hide my own reaction.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Dre begins her intro, outlining the interview format, introducing everyone on the panel.
I can’t hear a word.
All I can see is the woman sitting in front of me. Her lips. Her eyes. Her tight pencil skirt and the way she’s biting her bottom lip like it’s a nervous habit. I shouldn’t be noticing that. I really,reallyshouldn’t.
My gaze lingers too long on her mouth. Our eyes meet. Her pupils dilate and her chest rises like she’s holding her breath.
I am too. This is bad.
“And this is Mr. Miller,” Dre finishes. “He’ll be leading the interview.”
I clear my throat. “Right. Thank you, Andrée.”
I lift the papers in front of me to break eye contact and buy myself a second to get it the fuck together.
“Name?”
“Mya,” she replies, her voice a little shaky. “Mya Dessen-Jones.”
The same name I saw on that résumé two nights ago.
“Mya,” I repeat, letting it settle on my tongue. “Tell me about yourself.”
Mya shifts in her seat. “Um, I’m a senior in the Graphic and Architectural Design program at U of W.”
Young.Tooyoung.
“I’m graduating with my master’s with high honors in Sustainable Architecture,” she continues, finding her footing. “I’m driven, detail-oriented, and passionate about design?—”
“I read your file,” I cut in. “You don’t have field experience. This is a multi-billion dollar firm, Ms. Jones. We don’t hire just anybody. So, what makes you special enough to be an exception?”
Mya goes still.
Then, slowly, she exhales. I can feel Andrée looking at me, probably scolding me telepathically for my tone.
“My father—” Mya starts. “He worked in construction. He’d come home with blueprints in his hands, and he’d light up when he talked about what he was designing. He loved his job. He loved design. When I was little, he’d explain site plans to me like they were bedtime stories.”
Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t stop.
“He died in a fall on-site. I was just a kid. But I remember how proud he was of what he did. I fell in love with design, and Imade a promise that I’d carry that pride forward. That I’d finish what he started. It’s why I'm relentless about succeeding. If you put me on a project, I’ll give it everything I have.”
Something in my chest tightens at the obvious grief she’s feeling, but my gaze keeps betraying me, sliding to the curve of her mouth, the shine of her brown eyes under the harsh fluorescence, the way her blouse stretches just enough when she breathes in.