Page 21 of Worth the Fall
She sucked in a long breath before giving a one-shoulder half shrug. “I kind of remember that now that you mention it.”
“So, you can see why this won’t work then?” I pretended to sound bored.
“Why? Because you have a rock-hard chest? That just means you should ease up on the workouts at the gym. Has nothing to do with the job I’m completely capable of doing.”
This woman was exasperating. And laughable. I didn’t even own a gym membership, but there was no point in telling her that. Going to the gym was a luxury I had no interest in. Anything that took more time away from my daughter, I wasn’t doing. Every morning, I completed a routine that included push-ups, pull-ups, and sit-ups. Sometimes, I ran on the treadmill in my garage. Usually when I was pissed off, frustrated, or needed a release. Like today. After dealing with Brooklyn and this disaster of an interview, I’d most likely need to run it off later until my legs threatened to give out.
“Did you hear me? I said I was completely capable of doing this job,” she repeated, and I shook my head.
“I already told you, I’m not hiring someone who can’t handle their liquor.”
She made a sound that I couldn’t describe, but I knew it signaled that she was angry. Or at least angrier than she had been.
“I can’t believe that Sierra said you were nice.”
“I am nice.”
“You’re not. At all,” she fired back.
“Just because I tell the truth, that doesn’t make me mean.” I leaned back in my chair, and it creaked, the noise filling the space between us as a loud, unexpected laugh escaped from her lips.
“Tell the truth? And what is that exactly?” She didn’t give me a second to respond before launching into a diatribe and pushing out of her seat and into a standing position. “Oh, that’s right. I’m an alcoholic. Or I have a drinking problem. Are you this judgmental to everyone or just me? Because you saw me one damn time, Thomas. One time. And, yeah, I was drunk. Did you ever stop to think about why that might be?”
“Because you drank too much alcohol?” I countered, and I swore if looks could kill, I would have died where I sat.
Here lies Thomas O’Grady, dead from pissing off a woman.
No one would have been surprised.
“Of course I drank too much, you pompous ass. I was celebrating. I’m allowed to do that, you know. I had the day off from work. I didn’t drive. Everything was great, until I ran into your stupid chest and almost broke my neck. You really should take it down a notch on those workouts. Men should be a little softer.”
I couldn’t stop the small grin from spreading across my face. “You said that on that day too.”
“Well, at least I’m consistent.” She grabbed her purse and turned on her heel. “And you’re still a jerk. I don’t know how anyone works with you.”
She stormed away, opening my door and slamming it so hard that I thought the pictures might fall off the wall. I hadn’t expected that. Her leaving. And before I knew it, I found myself desperate to stop her.
Pulling my door open, I yelled, “Brooklyn, wait!”
Her ass swayed in her skirt as she kept moving down the hallway. She was going to make me chase her. And I did not chase.
Jogging down the space, I reached for her arm and grabbed it. She yanked it from my grasp and looked at me like my touch repulsed her.
“I’m leaving. I have a job to get to that actually wants me there.”
“Please,” I started to say. “Will you come back into my office?”
“Why?”
She jutted out her hip, and I swore this woman tested my patience with every fucking word.
“Because I’m sorry. I was being judgmental.”
Apologizing wasn’t something that was difficult for me to do, no matter what anyone else thought. I had an eight-year-old daughter. I spent half my day telling her I was sorry for shit.
“And you were being a jerk,” she added.
“And I was being a jerk,” I repeated.