Chapter 2
1709 Words
Lara-Jean POV
One month since I'd pressed my last sixty dollars into a motel clerk's hand and cleaned a stranger's knife wound in a bathroom that smelled like bleach and regret.
Twenty-eight days of living in my car. Of Planet Fitness showers. Of gas station granola bars and library job applications. Of pretending I wasn't drowning.
But today was different.
Today, I had an interview at Kavinsky International.
The most prestigious design firm in the country. The kind of place where careers were made. Where designers actually designed instead of just formatting Mark's family's boring corporate newsletters.
I'd spent last night pressing Maggie's blazer with a flat iron. I'd walked forty minutes to save the bus fare. My portfolio only had three pieces in it—my best work, ripped from my old laptop before HR locked me out, but they were good. They were really good.
The building loomed before me. I took a deep breath.
You belong here, I told myself. You earned this.
I walked through the revolving doors.
The lobby stole my breath.
My designer eye cataloged every detail even as my anxiety spiked.
Focus. Interview. You're here to interview.
The reception desk was a curved slab of white marble. I approached, clutching my portfolio like a lifeline.
“Lara-Jean Song. I'm here for the ten o'clock interview. Junior designer position."
The receptionist, flawless makeup, silk blouse, hair that probably cost more to cut than my entire wardrobe, scanned her screen. Her eyes flickered with something. Pity? Amusement? I couldn't tell.
“Forty-five floor. Check in with the executive assistant when you arrive."
Executive assistant? For a junior designer interview?
I didn't ask. I just smiled, thanked her, and headed for the elevators.
The elevator ride was endless.
Forty-five floor, I repeated in my head. Junior designer. You belong here.
The doors opened.
The waiting area was all glass and sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the entire city, I could see my aunt's neighborhood from here, the houses tiny as toys.
I found an empty chair near the window and sat.
Twenty minutes passed. I didn't check my phone. I didn't fidget. I just breathed and practiced my pitch in my head.
I bring fresh perspective and a dedication to sustainable design. My previous position ended due to circumstances beyond my control. I'm here to build something new.
Twenty-three minutes.
Twenty-five.
Then a door opened, and everything changed.
He walked out flanked by assistants like a general with his troops.
Tall—easily six-three. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair perfectly styled, suit charcoal gray and tailored within an inch of its life. He moved with predatory grace, like a man who owned everything he surveyed. Which, based on the building, he probably did.
He was dictating notes to an assistant without looking at her, his voice low and commanding. The other assistant held a tablet, a coffee, and what looked like a contract. They scrambled to keep pace with him.
Then he turned his head.
Our eyes met.
Silver-blue. I knew those eyes. I'd stared into them for hours in a flickering motel room while I pressed gauze to his side and pretended my hands weren't shaking.
But instead of pain and vulnerability, those eyes now held calm, terrifying control. He was clean-shaven. Powerful. Devastatingly handsome in a way that made my chest tighten.
The man from the alley. The man I'd assumed was a broke model or maybe a victim of random violence.
He was him.
Peter.
He stopped walking.
His entire entourage froze. The assistant with the tablet nearly tripped. The one with the coffee looked confused.
Those silver-blue eyes locked onto me, and I saw the exact moment recognition hit. Surprise, yes. But something deeper too. Something almost like warmth.
Then it vanished behind professional composure.
“You," he said.
It wasn't a question. It was an acknowledgment. His voice was a low rumble that I felt in my chest.
The assistants exchanged confused glances. The other candidates stared. I couldn't move.
“You're here for the interview," he said. Not a question.
I nodded. Swallowed. “Yes. Junior designer."
Something flickered in his eyes. “Wait here."
He turned and walked back through the door he'd come from, his assistants scrambling after him. The door closed.
The waiting area was silent. Every candidate was staring at me now. The woman next to me whispered something to her neighbor. I heard the word "lucky" and something that sounded less friendly.
I stared at the closed door and tried to breathe.
Five minutes later, the door opened again.
“Ms. Song?" A different assistant—younger, harried, with a headset and a clipboard. "Please, come in."
I stood. Walked toward her on legs that felt like rubber. She led me through a maze of cubicles and offices, all glass and clean lines, until we reached a corner office with doors that were actual wood—real wood, not veneer.
She knocked once. Opened the door.
“Ms. Song, sir."
I walked in.
The office was enormous. A desk that was more sculpture than furniture, all flowing curves and dark wood.
But I barely registered any of it because Peter wasn't behind the desk.
He was standing by the windows, backlit by the sun, holding my scarf.
The scarf. My cashmere blend. The one I'd pressed to his wound. The one I'd left behind.
It was clean now. No blood. Framed on his bookshelf like a piece of art.
“You kept it," I heard myself say.
He turned. Those silver-blue eyes met mine.
“Sit down, Lara-Jean."
I sat. He didn't take the chair behind the desk. Instead, he pulled the chair across from me—close, too close, close enough that I could see the faint scar through his shirt where my butterfly bandages had held. Close enough that I could smell him. Something expensive. Something male.
He didn't look at my portfolio. He just watched me.
“You showed me a kindness you didn't have to," he said quietly. “You used your last money for a stranger. You didn't ask for anything in return."
I met his gaze. “Because it was the right thing to do."
He nodded slowly. A decision made. “You're hired. You'll start Monday."
I blinked. “Just like that? You haven't even looked at my portfolio."
“I don't need to." He leaned back, those eyes never leaving mine. “I know everything about you, Lara-Jean. I know about Mark. I know about the fourteen thousand dollars. I know about your aunt's house and the car you've been sleeping in for the past month."
My stomach dropped. “You investigated me?"
“I protected myself." No apology in his voice. No shame. “A stranger saves my life, disappears into the night...you think I wasn't going to find out who you were?"
I should have been furious. I was furious. But underneath the fury, something else stirred. Something that felt dangerously like relief.
“So you know I'm not a threat," I said flatly. “Congratulations. You've verified the homeless woman isn't dangerous."
Something shifted in his expression. “You're not homeless anymore. The position comes with a signing bonus. Fifty thousand. It should cover an apartment and a new car."
Fifty thousand.
I couldn't breathe.
“Why?" The word came out strangled. “You don't owe me anything. I didn't save you for..."
“I know." He cut me off, leaning forward. Those silver-blue eyes pinned me to my chair. “That's exactly why you're hired. I have two hundred employees who want things from me. Money. Power. Access. Connections. You're the first person in years who wanted nothing."
I stared at him.
He held out his hand. “Do we have a deal, Lara-Jean?"
I should have said no. I should have walked out. This man was dangerous in ways I didn't understand yet. He'd investigated me. He knew where I slept. He'd kept my bloody scarf on his bookshelf like a trophy.
But he'd also looked at me like I mattered. Like I was real.
I took his hand.
His grip was warm. Strong. It lingered a second longer than necessary.
“We have a deal," I said.
I floated out of the building.
Literally floated. My feet didn't touch the ground. Fifty thousand dollars. A corner office. A salary that would let me pay back Maggie and buy real groceries and sleep in an actual bed.
Only later—hours later, lying on Maggie's sofa while she was at work did I fully process what had happened.
Peter Kavinsky had investigated me. He knew everything. He'd kept my scarf. He'd looked at me across his enormous office like I was the only person in the world.
And when I'd taken his hand, when our fingers touched...
Something had passed between us. Something I didn't have words for.
You're done with men, I reminded myself. Done with love. Done with trusting anyone.
But as I drifted off to sleep, I could still see those silver-blue eyes. I could still feel his hand in mine. I could still hear his voice saying my name.
Lara-Jean.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number. A text.
‘You forgot your scarf again. Keep it this time. —P'
I stared at the screen.
Attached was a photo. My scarf, folded neatly on my portfolio which I'd left in his office. I'd walked out without it. Of course I had.
I should text back "thanks." I should text back “I'll get it Monday."
Instead, I typed: ‘You have my portfolio.'
Three dots appeared immediately.
‘I know. I read it. Your work is exceptional. Better than half my current designers.'
I blinked.
‘Monday. 8 AM sharp. Don't be late.'
‘I won't.'
‘And Lara-Jean?'
I waited.
‘Get some sleep. You look exhausted.'
I should have been offended. Instead, I laughed. Actually laughed, alone on Maggie's sofa, in the dark.
I typed back: ‘Bossy much?'
‘CEO much. Goodnight, Lara-Jean.'
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I saved his number.
I told myself it was professional. I told myself I was just being organized.
I almost believed it.
- Writer
