Page 107 of Burning Embers
What is up with all of the men in my lifehuggingme? Ugh.
“Can’t. Breathe,” I puff out dramatically.
“Shit. Sorry.” Jake pulls away and then immediately attempts to straighten a piece of my hair that his freaking chest messed up. “How are you feeling? Does your head hurt? Hale told me to keep an eye on you, so I want to make sure?—”
I place my hand over his mouth. “I’m fine. Promise. Stop worrying.”
Something wet brushes against my palm, and I pull my hand back, aghast.
“Did you justlickme?” I demand.
Jake flashes me a shit-eating grin. “Anything you put in front of my mouth, I’ll lick. It’s the new rule.”
“So if I put a piece of dog shit in front of your mouth, you’ll lick it?” I deadpan.
Jake doesn’t even blink. “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
“You’re such a dork.” I shove his shoulder and step farther into the lobby.
It’s small, with wooden floorboards, cream-colored walls, and a single stand that seems to sell both concessions and tickets. Movie posters decorate the walls, though I don’t spot any from this century. A hall to the right leads to the bathrooms and theater one. The opposite hallway has theaters two, three, and four, as well as what appears to be a closet.
“So, I’m here for the interview.” I attempt to inject confidence into my voice. “Do you know where I need to go?”
I have to stop myself from shifting on the balls of my feet or fiddling with my hair—both of which are nervous habits I haven’t gotten rid of, even after all these years.
“Yeah, one second.” Jake practically skips to a door I hadn’t noticed earlier directly behind the counter. He knocks on it twice. “Silas, Isabella’s here for her interview.”
There’s no answer.
Oh god. Is this the wrong day? Is he not expecting me? Did Jake pull my leg when he said he got me an interview?
My stomach roils madly, and I fear I’m going to throw up.
I should just walk away before I can embarrass myself further.
Yup.
Leave.
Just leave.
Before my feet can catch up with my brain, the door swings open, revealing a scarily large man.
He isn’t just tall but muscular. He looks as if he can bench press both me and Jake without breaking a sweat. His dark hair hangs in disheveled waves on the top of his head, the exact same shade as his trimmed beard. Tattoos cover both his arms and hands.
And where his left eye should be, there’s now nothing but white, puckered scars.
He appears to be in his mid-thirties, early forties, though it’s hard to guesstimate his age. There’s something hardened and almost ancient about his scowl. That sounds cheesy as fuck, but it’s the truth. He looks like a man who has been through someshit.
“Silas, Isabella’s here for her interview,” Jake says formally, and if I wasn’t freaking the fuck out, I would’ve snorted.
I’ve never heard Jake sound so well-mannered in all the days I’ve known him.
Silas’s gaze slides to me and sticks there. His jaw clenches, and he immediately turns away, almost as if it pains him to stare directly at me.
“Come on now.” His voice is gruff. Low. A rich baritone. “I don’t have all day.”
He leaves the door to his office open, and after one parting glance at Jake, who gives me a thumbs-up, I hurry to follow after the scary theater owner.