Chapter Three

I was most definitely going to lose my fucking job.

Last night's rendezvous hadn't exactly gone as planned. Danielle's unabashed flirting with the gullible male specie had earned us free drinks from the bartender-and well, they were free vodka martinis! With three olives!

I had-and I admit with uttermost shame-consumed way more than was necessary; which certainly accounted for the terrible headache I woke up with, the time I woke up, and the 120 mph that flashed on Trixie's speedometer (Dave had thankfully fixed and delivered her in the morning) as I sped to West Seattle.

Towards Caleb, my subconscious taunted. I shut her down.

I was duly prepared to face Caleb. Be confident, act uninterested, keep emotions at bay, be polite, endure the interview, say my goodbyes, then leave.

Easy peasy right?

The low feeling in my gut stated otherwise. I shook my head and focused on the stretch of road before me.

By the time I parked outside Hudson's, the time was flashing a brazened 11:36 a.m.

A long list of profanities echoed inside my head.

I dashed towards the entrance of the restaurant, stopping only once for a few seconds to give myself a quick appraisal.

Even though I had been in a rush, I'd dressed very carefully and casually. My ensemble consisted of my favorite gray dress-pants, a white button down, the treasured designer trench-coat Danielle had gotten me for Christmas, and a pair of snowy, low heels. A nice enough effort for a casual interview, but not too much effort. I didn't want him getting the wrong ideas.

I'd decided to let my hair down mostly out of laziness, and because I didn't have much time to do anything else. It was behaving, thankfully, and fell onto my shoulders in dark waves. My bob was growing out, I examined, and made a mental note to book my hairdressing appointment as soon as I could.

I inwardly groaned when I noticed that my lipstick could use another coat- but decided that I didn't have time and it didn't matter.

I wasn't there to impress.

Before I could pull open the translucent glass door, it swung outwards forcefully, causing me to stagger rearwards.

"Shit," a male voice cursed and I suddenly found myself being hoisted up by a strong arm and crashing into a muscular heaven.

I was momentarily disarmed by the person's intimidating height, compact chest muscles and ethereal male musk.

"Are you alright?"

His voice was low and warm, possibly amused, but I couldn't exactly tell.

Embarrassed and a bit flustered, I quickly scrambled away from the man with the amazing scent, ready to give him a taste of my very colorful mind.

I finally got a look at my almost-killer, and the first thing that rendered me speechless (and had me feeling all pudgy inside) was his good looks.

He was attractive- very, very attractive and impressively statuesque.

He regarded me shrewdly, if not a bit exasperated, with acute but familiar amber eyes- and cheekbones just as sharp and strong as his chiseled jawline.

His hair was a well-kempt forest of brown and he was clad in a dark fitted suit, white shirt and a black tie.

The second thing that made my breath hitch in my throat was that it was him. It was Caleb A. Wyatt- and my oh my, he had grown up well.

He'd always been good looking, and when we were younger, I'd given him the name 'Pretty Boy'. Clearly he had grown up, and the nickname seemed quite lacking. Caleb Wyatt was no pretty boy. He was a full blown hot-blooded, take-me-to-bed Greek God.

Well, I'd be damned if I let my tongue loll out of my mouth because he was attractive.

He wasn't about to break through my composure.

"Are you alright Miss?" He inquired again, this time seemingly blasé and annoyed by the entire ordeal.

The formal title stung.

Miss? Didn't he remember who I was? Or was he playing some sort of game?

Fine. Two can play that game.

I jutted out my chin confidently. "What, you mean after you almost killed me?"

He stared at me impassively, and I could've sworn that his eyes flickered to my lips.

"My apologies for your near-death experience. If there is any way I can possibly repay you then by all means inform me-"

"That won't be necessary Mr.Wyatt," I interrupted and watched his reaction at the mention of his name.

He cocked his head to the side in scrutiny. "Have we met?"

Ouch. So he didn't remember me. I tried to tell myself that the revelation didn't hurt in the least.

"We haven't," I cleared my throat and extended an arm, "My name is Ava Castellaño, the envoy from Brent's."

His features remained neutral even at the mention of my name. My stomach plummeted. How could he not remember me?

His nonchalant expression suddenly transmuted to one of fury.

"Is this some sort of joke?" His jaw muscles clenched tightly.

Geez, the jawline.

He continued his rant. "I have been waiting here for almost forty-five minutes!"

Screw you, I wanted to say.

However, being the dignified lady that I was, I held my discomposure and spoke to him not as the distant neighbor he didn't seem to remember- but as the professional journalist that I was.

"I am aware Mr. Wyatt and I sincerely apologize for any inconveniences that-"

He waved me off rudely. "I distinctly told your senior editor that I had a business flight to catch today, and I still do. Now if you would excuse me, Miss Castellaño, my driver will be here in five minutes."

His attitude still sucked after a decade.

He began to walk away, and I tried to focus on the situation I was faced with instead of his body.

Too late.

The elegant fabric of his dark pants moved and bent to his will, outlining long athletic legs. His broad back muscles stretched and spanned beneath his fitted jacket. The gracefulness and animal litheness of his movements intrigued me, and I struggled to keep my thoughts clean.

Focus Ava!

Shit.

I hobbled towards his retreating form, careful not to twist my ankles in the heels.

"Mr. Wyatt if you would please just give a listening ear. I have to do this interview or I will lose my job."

"How unfortunate," he turned to glare at me then retrieved his cellphone, unconcerned about my desperation.

"Stan," he spoke brusquely over the phone, "Where are you? Okay. No. Good."

My patience was wearing thin.

"Mr. Wyatt-"

He spun around to face me, his tan face radiating frustration. For a brief moment, recognition flashed across his eyes, but it disappeared as quickly as came.

God was I so desperate for him to recall who I was? And why did he have to be so damn gorgeous?

"I have a job to keep as well. Now I don't know what sort of publishing house Miss Lucy Cameron is operating over there but I am honestly doubting its professionalism."

I bit the insides of my cheeks, closed my eyes, exhaled slowly, then reopened them.

"Mr. Wyatt," I stated calmly, "I can assure you that Brent's has nothing to do with my tardiness. I am to be blamed."

"Oh?" He sneered," Well I guess I should give Brent's a little phone call."

"That's unnecessary," I half-shouted, a bit angst due to his threat.

"Is it?"

"You know how you could repay for almost killing me a couple minutes ago?"

He narrowed his beautiful eyes at me.

"You could give me just twenty minutes of your time."

"Are you trying to bribe me Miss Castellaño?" He cried incredulously.

"To keep my job, yes."

"Unbelievable."

We stared each other down- and the familiarity caused a pang in my chest.
He was, as expected, the first to look away.

With what sounded like a deep growl, he took his phone out again.

"Stan. Wait for another fifteen-"

"Twenty."

He ignored me. "-fifteen minutes when you arrive at Hudson's. Yes. Ofcourse not. Good. Ok. Bye."

He hung up the phone. "You have fifteen minutes and no more."

I kept a straight face, thanked him, then strutted in the direction of the restaurant, making sure to put on a good show of the rear.

That would give him something to recall.

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