Christmas Kisses Page 8

  I’m surprised at his candor, but don’t react. I don’t want this job, I remind myself. I have nothing to prove to him. I don’t care if he thinks I suck. I know better. I know Sophia Sottero was excited when she met me. I know I want that internship and not this one.

  Cole leans forward, “The reason I wanted to meet you, the reason you caught my attention, was because you chose the worst interview time we offer... ” He grins at me, and leans back into his chair again. “It implies that you wanted this position very much.”

  I shrug, folding my arms, mirroring him again, “It was the only slot left.” The lie slips easily off my tongue.

  “No, it wasn’t,” he replies, leaning forward, calling me on the lie. There’s a gleam in his eye that wasn’t there before, like hot curiosity igniting a match-tip. His gaze is intense, and I can’t help but squirm when he looks at me like that. “You were the first person to sign up. So tell me something, Anna, if you would—“ he looks down at the ring on his index finger and then back up at me, “why did you wake up at the crack of dawn to come to see me? Why do you want to work for Le Femme?”

  His words say one thing, but his tone says something else. It’s a dare, a challenge almost, to continue with my plan. My pulse is racing. I march ahead with my idea, muttering things that Sophia assured would get me tossed out. Ignoring that gaze of his, I lower my eyes and pick at my nail polish while I speak, “Well, Le Femme has been around for a while. I mean, the company itself was formed nearly two decades ago. I mean, you’re not a fly-by-night studio, so that’s appealing. But, you’re not ridiculously old, either.” I flick my nail and a piece of red polish flutters to the carpet. I continue speaking, watching it fall, “It’s not like you’ve never seen a digital camera and insist on using an ancient Brownie or something crazy like that.” Immediately, I want to laugh and shirk off the nerves that are spilling down my spine like ice water, but I can’t.

  “Thanks,” he says, smirking at me, his eyes shifting to my fingers as I pick and flick. When the piece of polish lands on the carpet, we look up at the same time. “I’m thirty-eight by the way

  I’m not old, he means, I have a lot I could teach you.

  “Yeah,” I clear my throat and lean forward. I’m tactless, crass, and rude. Everything he wouldn’t want, yet he is looking at me like there is nothing he wants more. That gleam in his eye tells me that something is off. I redirect, trying to offend him, “Like I said, not that old.” I pat his knee like he’s a geriatric patient who got lost in the mall parking lot and lean closer, speaking a little too loudly, “I know things are changing fast and that’s why interns are good—they’re young and can help older people in our industry with shifting trends.” I wink at him and lean back in my seat. My heart is pounding in my chest. It’s the most brazen thing I’ve ever said to someone’s face. I slammed his age, ability, and company in one breath.

  “Really?” his expression is hard to read. Leaning back, he steeples his fingers and taps them one at a time, his eyes never leaving mine. The room fades away and the only thing I can see are his eyes, dark as sapphires, and glinting like he’s amused—or pissed—I can’t tell which one. Damn it. Why does he hide his reactions so well? It’s obvious that I don’t belong here, and yet, he’s still talking to me.

  “Yeah, of course.” I shrug and lean back, draping my arm over the back of the chair. In the back of my mind I’m thinking that he should have ended this already and shown me the door, but he prods me to talk. And the more I talk, the more insane I sound. Pretentious brat doesn’t even come close to some of the trash coming out of my mouth.

  “Coming here would be a risk for me though,” I say. “People say you’re losing your edge—that it’s only a matter of time before Le Femme is replaced by someone else.”

  “And what do you think?” he taps his index fingers together once and waits for me to answer.

  I’ve been flying by the seat of my pants, making up passive-aggressive insults for over twenty minutes. I decide to give him the shove he needs to show me the door. Glancing at my arm draped over the back of the chair, I pause and then look back up into his face. Maintaining a calm exterior is getting harder and harder. I’m lying, blurting out anything I can think of to get him to dismiss me as some arrogant twit.

  Looking him square in the face, I answer, “I think you’re already past your prime. I mean, come on. Let’s be honest. Your work’s been slipping for years.” I feel bad saying such a thing. I may not like his subject-matter, but Cole is a good photographer. Saying anything else is a lie, but I need to get him to show me the door and he hasn’t.

  When I finish, no one speaks. His expression is neutral even as I verbally bitch-slapped his company, and then him personally. It’s clear that I think he’s a has-been. At least I think it’s clear. Cole just stares at me from behind his palms, occasionally tapping his pointer fingers together.

  I stare back.

  We watch each other in silence for a few moments. When Cole speaks, he’s looking at the table. Suddenly he moves and pulls a cell out of his pocket and rests it in front of him. The light stubble on his cheeks is distracting me a little. He is easy on the eyes, even if he is nearly twice my age.

  Cole’s voice is deep and rich, “You know what I think?” He glances up at me from beneath his brow. He takes his phone and taps it on the table, then continues, “I think that you’re trying to blow this interview—that you don’t want this job.”

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