Page 103 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Forty-Four
Iris
When I wake up, Tony’s still in the same position, one hand stroking my hair and the other holding his phone.
“You’re still here.” I can’t imagine someone as busy as Tony just…sitting around patiently. Or letting me use him as a pillow the entire time.
“It’s only been half an hour. Not even.”
I sit up, and he puts an arm around my shoulders as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I like having it there. I lean against him, my head resting on his shoulder and my eyes half-closed.
“Hungry?” he asks, his breath tickling my forehead.
“Not really. But if you want to eat, we can get something. I’m not picky. Just no mushrooms.”
He stiffens. “Why not?”
“I’m allergic. Nothing life-threatening, but I break out in hives and feel really itchy for about a day or so, depending on how bad it is.”
“I see.” He says it casually, as though a mushroom allergy is something he hears about every day, but his arm muscles are tighter than a piano string. He hits a few keys on his phone. “How about roast beef sandwiches?”
“Sounds great.”
We get lunch delivered. It comes with plain baked chips, pink lemonade and Coca-Cola Classic. When Tony hands me the pink lemonade, it surprises me again. How does he know what I like to drink? And my sandwich has nothing except Dijon mustard, tomato and pickles, exactly how I prefer it. His has more—cheese, lettuce and tomato plus horseradish mayonnaise.
Tony seems to know me very well, even though Sam said we most likely didn’t know each other. But if Tony and I were close enough that he knows my food preferences, I would’ve remembered him. I recall the sense of déjà vu I had when he stayed with me after Jamie’s attack. Was that because of Tony himself? Or was it just my mind getting ready to let me have more of my memories back…?
“You said something about getting a job,” Tony says.
“Yeah. I need to work on my résumé. I listed a few things I could potentially put on it, but… I don’t know anything or have any interesting job experiences,” I say, embarrassed and discouraged. I skimmed some how-to articles on résumé writing and looked at sample résumés last night, but I don’t have anything to make mine sound as good as the samples, especially when the examples featured people with a master’s or PhDs with a bazillion skills and experiences that I can’t even dream of having.
“Everyone has a few useful skills. It’s just you aren’t used to thinking about yourself that way. What if I help you with it? There’s an opening at a charitable foundation I know. Everyone says it’s a great place to work.”
“Really?” I lean forward eagerly. “What kind of position?”
“Administrative assistant. The pay’s pretty decent, and the woman in charge is a fair boss.”
“That sounds great, but won’t there be a lot of applicants?” I nibble on my sandwich and wash it down with the lemonade. “I honestly don’t have any experience. And no college degree.” I was nineteen when I woke up. Instead of going to college, I was stuck in hospitals for rehabilitation and counseling for close to two years. A few months after my doctors declared me healthy enough, Sam sent me on a series of trips to help me get over my depression—even though I wasn’t exactly depressed—and find some joie de vivre.
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem. And if you don’t try, you’ll never know. Right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“But first, you should finish your sandwich. It’s important to eat well,” he says, looking at me with concern. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you that?”
“Of course, but nobody was this persistent about eating.” Except for a doctor two years ago who said I was too thin and encouraged me to find food I enjoy and eat more, no one cared enough to say anything. Most people assumed I was on a diet. Julie even openly admired my self-control. But not Tony.
“If you don’t like the sandwich, just toss it and I’ll get you something else. It’s not a problem.”
“No, it’s fine.” There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the food.
As soon as we finish lunch, Tony helps me with the résumé. He sits next to me on the couch, one arm stretched along the back, toying with my hair. Instead of being distracting, it’s soothing, like it’s exactly what should happen between us. Tony gives me a few pointers. It’s magic how he crammed “excellent time management,” “ability to calmly deal with chaos and unexpected last-minute changes,” “works well with people from many different backgrounds and cultures” and “highly adaptable” into the résumé using my travel experience.
“You’re good,” I say after we’re done.
He smiles lazily. “I impress even myself sometimes. Now send it off.”
I email it to the foundation he mentioned, plus a few other openings just in case. Then I turn to him. “How did you know about the job opening at the foundation?”
