Redesigning Fate (Revive #1) - A. M. Wilson Page 0,4

an interview out here? I hope not. Glancing down at my black skirt and satiny top, I suddenly feel overdressed. His outfit looks so casual; at least, what I can see of it anyway. Maybe he’s a client or a friend. Perhaps a boyfriend.

The woman shifts, turning her head slightly, and I can see her in profile. She’s beautiful—straight perfect nose, high sharp cheekbones, slender, flawless face, and long blonde hair pulled into a low, sleek ponytail. She has on a pair of perfectly pressed black slacks and at least 4-inch heels. The bright red blouse she adorns is sophisticated and classy. The feeling of being overdressed just flew out the window. Now, I appear not dressy enough.

Their conversation is near silent to my ears, but she looks comfortable and relaxed, talking animatedly with both of her hands. Her cheek facing me stretches into a wide smile, displaying perfectly straight, white teeth.

The burn in my stomach continues rising higher towards my lungs, cinching the air from my chest, making my focus falter. My palms begin to sweat.

I am about to look away when the woman shifts to the right, and I am caught in the gaze of a pair of bright cerulean blue eyes. My heart speeds up, but for an entirely different reason than my anxiety about the interview. The owner of that inquisitive stare is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. He’s not conventionally beautiful, like the modern celebrity, but everything about him pieces together so perfectly, his body screams sensual male ruggedness.

The pants I glimpsed before are tight black pants that form to his muscular thighs, but not in a girlish way. He sits with one ankle resting on the opposite knee while leaning his arm on the armrest. His black and gray striped long sleeved shirt fits tightly to his chest, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows exposing tanned muscular forearms. The black ink tattooed along the outside of his wrist draws me in, and I trace the thick lines up his forearm, stopping just below his elbows. I can’t quite make it out: a shaded tribal design or symbol of some sort. A gray beanie rests casually on his head of dirty blonde hair, the front bangs swept off to the right side of his brow, and his hair has a slight curl peeking out around the back of his neck and ears. His nose is perfect. Not entirely straight, but curved in all the right places and centered above two smooth, sensual lips, the bottom slightly larger than the top.

Images of kissing those lips, experiencing the taste of his mouth, and finding out if those lips are as pillow soft as they look, converge in my depraved mind. I haven’t had sex, of any sort, in months, and this dry spell has me creating scenarios I’d much rather replay when I’m alone. My fingers twitch to run up his biceps, along his nape. To caress the smooth line of his jaw and glide my fingers through that long hair…

“Marlena Aldrich?”

The soft, lyrical voice calling my name snaps me out of my inappropriate fantasy. My anxiety was temporarily at bay by my wet daydream, but those two words bring it flooding back with vengeance.

Glancing towards reception, I see the gorgeous blonde woman, who had been talking to my current distraction, has called my name. So absorbed in my daydream, I didn’t even realize she had vacated their conversation and was now standing by the receptionist’s desk.

I glance towards that beautiful man—who is now watching me thoughtfully—before ruefully tearing my gaze away. Throwing my shoulders back, I walk with the confidence I know I don’t have, while hoping my embarrassment isn’t obvious.

“Yes, I’m Marlena,” I call out as I approach, reaching out my hand to her. She shakes my hand with a firm grip. The burn in my stomach is rescinding a little with each step I take; although, I know my palms are slightly sweaty in her grasp. My cheeks flood with warmth while I pray she doesn’t notice.

“My name is Michelle Bryant. I will conduct your interview today. I’m sorry I’m running late. If you will follow me right this way, we can head up to my office now.” She gestures her arm to the bank of elevators behind the reception area.

I smile an affirmative at her as I follow her to the elevator. This is it, I think, while trying to control my racing heart. Although, now I don’t know