NovelEnglish
Abby
It’s halfway to closing time, and my desk is scattered with index cards. My
computer is open to an email from Mr. Thompson outlining some of the potential
questions I may be asked during the interview. I’ve written them down, along
with my potential responses on the back of each card, so I can practice.
I want to be prepared. I have to be prepared. This interview is the beginning of
everything; it’s the deciding factor behind whether I’ll garner positive or negative
attention.
And although the article went well in the end, I need to play it safe. I’ve already
got enough trouble when it comes to my restaurant’s reputation, and I want to
Enter title…
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make sure everything runs smoothly.
Taking a deep breath, I pick one of the index cards up. “What inspired you to
become a chef?” it reads. I turn to face the mirror hanging on the wall, tucking a
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stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“Growing up,” I start, talking to my reflection, “my mother’s kitchen was always
the heart of our home… No, that’s not right.” I pause, flipping the card over to
read my pre-written response. “My mother’s kitchen was my favorite room in the
—”
Just then, the door bursts open. I jump, a startled gasp escaping my lips as the
index card slips from my fingers and flutters to the floor.
“Abby, I was wondering if you—” Karl stops mid-sentence, his eyes meeting
mine in the mirror. “Am I interrupting something?”
A blush instantly colors my cheeks. “No, no, not at all,” I stammer, hurriedly
snatching the fallen index card from the floor and hiding it behind my back, as if
that would somehow make the situation less awkward.
Karl arches an eyebrow, his eyes dropping to my hands, now awkwardly
positioned behind me. “Hiding something?”
“Me? Hide something? Never!” I force a chuckle, my face heating up even more.
For a moment, he just stands there, eyeing me curiously. Then, in one fluid
motion, he steps forward, snatching the hidden index card from behind my back.
“Ah,” he says, reading the question out loud. “‘What inspired you to become a
chef?’ Preparing for the interview, are we?”
I groan, rolling my eyes dramatically. “Give that back, you thief!”
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He chuckles, holding the card just out of reach, his eyes lighting up with
mischief as I try and fail to jump and grab it from him. “So, what’s the answer?”
he asks. “I’m curious.”
“Fine,” I huff, my face redder than a beet. “I was practicing, okay? I want to be
prepared for all of the questions, no matter how trivial.”
He grins, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Oh, I see. You’ve always been a
perfectionist.”
“Maybe I am,” I retort, feeling a sense of playfulness wash over my initial
embarrassment. “What’s wrong with being prepared?”
Karl finally hands the index card back to me, his eyes softening. “Absolutely
nothing. Your preparedness is something that I’ve always admired, actually.”
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The blush creeps back into my cheeks. It’s only now that I realize how close
we’re standing, and how our fingers brush when I take the card back from him. It
sends a shiver through my body, and for a moment, I can pick up his scent. It
makes me feel weak.
“Um, thanks,” I murmur, tucking the card back into the pile.
He leans against the door frame, folding his arms across his chest. “Would you
like some help preparing for this interview? Two heads are better than one, after
all.”
My eyes meet his, and a tingle of something—nervousness, excitement, maybe
even a bit of both—runs down my spine. With Karl’s presence filling the room,
bringing with it a mix of tension and comfort, I feel a newfound confidence.
His offer makes my heart race. “How would you even help me?” I find myself
asking. “You’re an Alpha, not a television interviewer.”
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Karl grins, pushing himself away from the doorframe. “Oh, you’d be surprised.
Besides, I can act as your mock interviewer. You’ll be yourself, and I’ll be the
scary, intimidating person who decides your fate. What do you say? Tonight,
after closing?”
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