Page 8 of Zimyra

I ask, “Did my brother put you up to this?”

“I don’t know your brother, Zimyra St. Claire.”

My heart is beating swiftly in my chest after he calls out my whole government. I ask, “And how do you know my name? I never told you that.”

“It’s on your desk.”

“Oh. Right.”

I attempt to release the tightness that has converged with frustration to have a meeting in the dead center of my forehead and ask, “What makes you think I need a maintenance worker right now?”

He shrugs his muscular shoulders. “I don’t know if you need one or not. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

I look him up and down again. I study his hands – not for a ring, even though I see he’s not wearing one. I’m looking for signs that he’s good at working with them, and I don’t find that. His hands are – dare I say –pretty? I see no scars and I doubt if he has callouses even though I can’t see his palms. This man ain’t never worked maintenance or any other manual labor job a day in his life. I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling, but I’m not the one to be played with. Mama didn’t raise no fools. She raised St. Claires.

I say, “Judging by your well-manicured hands, I call your bluff. You’re not a maintenance worker.”

“I am.”

“In the words of Judge Judy,I don’t believe you.”

He stifles a smile. “I wear gloves when I’m working.”

“I highly doubt it.”

“Whatever the case, you must need a maintenance worker since you’re giving me the third degree.”

“I do, but I find my own workers. They don’t come to me like this.”

“Isn’t this better? I’m showing initiative. Doesn’t that count for something?”

I cross my arms. Okay. If he wants to play this game, I’ll let him play it. I walk over to the file cabinet, pull an application, and say, “Here. Fill this out. I will also need a copy of your current resume and you better believe I will be checking every past job and doing a full background report.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, taking the application.

“If anything comes back dirty, it’s all going in the shredder. Now, was there anything else?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Good. You’ve wasted enough of my time. Have a good day.”

He turns to leave, but not before that smirk flashes across his flawless face, enhancing that hard jawline. While I can admit that he’s gorgeous, I don’t like being played for a fool. If he wanted a job application, he could’ve just said that upfront and saved me the trouble of doing a pointless tour.

Ugh…my brain hurts already this morning.

First the rain, then my wet feet, the leaking ceiling in the bathroom, and then this?

As soon as he exits, I return to my desk, take off my shoes, and call Zander back. After four rings, he finally answers. “Myra, you’re killing me.”

“Hush. You need to get out of bed, anyway. It’s after nine.”

“What part of ‘I’m off work today’ didn’t you understand? I’m sleeping in until noon, and then going to have lunch with Lizzie…only if that’s okay with you, your highness.”

“Whatever, Zan,” I say, rolling my eyes.

His yawn bleeds into my ear canal before he asks, “What’s so urgent that you had to disturb my rest?”

“Question—did you send someone over here this morning to apply for a maintenance position?”

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