Page 9 of Hotline
And she’s never, ever coming back.
Chapter Three
Opal
Marilyn runsover and grabs my hand the second I walk through the door.
“There’s aguyhere,” she whisper-yells at me as she tugs me through the office, “and he wants to seeyou.”
My heart sinks. He could be anyone. A bill collector. A police officer. The landlord whose apartment I ghosted while I still owed $200.
“What guy?” I say, my skin going cold.
“I don’t know,” she says, leading the way, whipping through the labyrinth of cubicles, her platinum-blond ponytail bouncing as I follow. She throws a glance over her shoulder. “But he’s hot. And I meanfuckinghot.”
I give her a weak smile. She means well. The guy might be hot, but it really doesn’t matter.
Unless he’s some dashing prince who’s come to whisk my sad self away from all of this.
I blame the movies for putting this silly idea in my head.
Reality isn’t like the movies. If a guy rolls up to your house in a horse-drawn carriage, call the humane society. If he brings youto a gorgeous restaurant with foods you’ve never even heard of, look out — he’s going to dine and dash.
And if you think he’s here to fall in love with you, pinch yourself. Because girl, you’re dreaming.
No matterhowhot he is.
I hustle after Marilyn, wondering how bad this is going to be, wondering if I’m in trouble. Or maybe it’s all a big mistake.
Maybe he’s looking for a different Opal Harper.
Marilyn drags me through the rows of girls. Some of them have laptops open on their desks, coding or writing while they talk through their headsets. One has her nose in a thick textbook. There’s an older lady, crocheting. There are a few girls who look just as wide-eyed and innocent as I am.
A chill takes me over as the boss’s office comes into view. She’s standing there, checking the time on her watch and tapping her toe with her arms crossed over her chest.
Okay. She looks pissed.
My steps get slower. Maybe I should leave. Maybe I should make a run for it. Marilyn’s still holding my hand, and a sort of gentle glee drifts across her face as she looks back at me.
“New girl,” the boss says, snapping her fingers in my direction. “My office.Now.”
“Go on,” Marlyn says gently, giving me an encouraging push.
The boss rolls her eyes as she swings the door open with a dramatic flourish.
And when I see who’s inside, my heart stops. The blood in my veins freezes. My brain goes blank. My knees get weak.
There is a man sitting behind the desk. A gorgeous man. The kind of man you lose your mind over. The kind you lose sleep over. The kind that is so incredibly perfect and sexy that it makes you squeeze your thighs together and makes your throat so dry that you can barely speak.
He stands up slowly, like he knows how I’m reacting to him. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, neat but casual, and his black suit jacket is tossed over the back of his chair. His forearms are covered in faded tattoos, the kind that hint at stories he doesn’t tell, and his hands—rough, calloused—look like they’ve done actual work, not just signed off on other people doing it, despite the very expensive-looking watch adorning his wrist.
His eyes are this deep, sharp green that hits you like a punch. I swear they look right through me. Being seen by him feels electric—like I’ve just been pulled into his orbit and I should be grateful for the gravity.
I swallow thickly.
"Who is this?" I squeak out, turning to my boss.
She shoulders past me, swinging her hips, and steps into the office.
