Unwanted Days of HOLY HOLIDAY

INTERVIEW

Zack’s Pov.

My father’s office felt suffocating, just as it had so many years ago. The heavy scent of leather and old books, the slight chill of the air conditioner, the polished mahogany desk that seemed to tower over anyone who approached—it all felt the same. The only difference was the streaks of grey in his hair, the faint signs of time he refused to admit elsewhere.

A knock interrupted my thoughts, and the door swung open. His secretary stepped in, her expression briefly flickering with surprise as she noticed me. I could see the hesitation, the professional pause that said, I wasn’t expecting this. My father cleared his throat, sharp and commanding.

“Leave it there,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. She obeyed, setting the envelope on his desk before swiftly retreating.

He picked it up, leaning back in his chair. His eyes narrowed as he read the contents silently, the creases of his brow deepening.

“Who was the lady?” he asked, eyes still locked on the paper.

I assumed he meant the woman I had escorted to the wedding. “My student,” I replied cautiously.

“You had to teach her at the wedding?” His eyes still didn’t leave the page. I didn’t bother to answer; the question was rhetorical, loaded with his usual judgment.

“She’s cancerous in your life. Stay away from her,” he said, shoving the paper back into the envelope. He leaned back, scrutinizing my expression as I stared at him, incredulous.

“You still order people to do what you want?” My tone was sharper than intended.

“And they do,” he replied simply.

I scoffed, frustration rising. “You know nothing about my life. I’ll decide for myself.”

“But I know her. I’m warning you,” he said, his voice heavy. I could feel his irritation, his relentless need to control, pressing against the walls of the room.

I straightened my coat, standing tall. “Thank you, but I’ll decide.” Without waiting for further admonition, I stomped out, the door clicking shut behind me with finality.

Walking toward the elevator, I noticed his secretary lingering nearby, hesitant as ever. I caught her gaze and quickly approached, determined to break the awkward pause.

“Good noon, Miss,” I greeted.

“Good noon, sir,” she replied professionally, her eyes flicking toward me.

“I’m sure we’ve never met. I’m—”

“Mr. Zack Moore,” she completed, her tone crisp, professional. “I saw you at the wedding.”

I smirked, a hint of amusement in my eyes. “I didn’t know I had a name tag at the wedding.”

She stepped into the elevator, and I followed. Standing behind her, I watched her fingers press the buttons, the soft hum of the elevator moving us downward.

“I wonder what you handed my father a few minutes ago,” I said casually, though I didn’t expect a response. His employees were as tight-lipped as he was.

“If he didn’t tell you himself, I can’t,” she replied, her voice unwavering. She maintained professionalism to a fault, and I had to admire it.

“Sure,” I said, faking a cough to cover my impatience. “What about having dinner together? I’ll pick you up after work.”

She sighed, her eyes briefly scanning the descending floor numbers: 19… 18… 17… 16…

“I’ll take it as a no,” I said lightly, though my eyes lingered on her, “but I’ll be back. I promise.”

The elevator slowed, the numbers dropping until it reached 12, and the doors slid open. She stepped out quickly, leaving me behind. “Your dad asked me to background check Evelyn Mosa. I assume she’s the lady you came with at the wedding,” she said in passing, hurrying off before I could ask more.

I pressed the button for the ground floor, the doors closing again. My mind raced. What could he have found in his search? Was that why he called her “cancerous”?

The ride to the ground floor felt interminable. When the doors finally opened, I rushed to my car, eager to investigate further. I pulled out my tablet and tried to dig into Eve’s life, but the internet was frustratingly uncooperative. I could only find scraps: her academic history, scattered pieces of her present.

Finally, practicality overrode pride. I dialed her number. If I wanted to know about Eve, I needed to ask her directly. The phone rang a few times before she picked up.

“Mind if you talk faster? I have a baby to feed,” she scowled, her words sharp but tinged with amusement.

“I’m sending you my address. If you want to hit the news with the novel, be there at 16:00 sharp,” I said.

“What?” I could hear the surprise in her voice. “Wait, wait, wait—”

I hung up before she could protest, sending the address immediately. My place was forty-five minutes away, traffic included. An hour at best. I parked in front of my building, replaying my father’s warning in my mind. Staying away from her made no sense—especially since I was falling for her.

I rushed inside, spending nearly half an hour in the jacuzzi tub, letting the warm water soothe the tension in my muscles. When I emerged, I dressed casually: a pair of jeans and a crochet sweater, a gift from my sixteenth birthday. I paced, stole glances at the clock, anticipation building with every passing minute.

The doorbell rang, and I was certain it was her. My heart leapt. I opened the door to find Evelyn Mosa standing there, her tracksuit perfectly casual yet somehow endearing.

“Are we going to talk here?” she teased, stepping inside as I gestured for her to come in.

“I was preparing for the interview tomorrow. Why did you call me so fast? Are you leaving or something?” she asked as we walked toward the kitchen.

Her boldness made my chest tighten. She moved with an effortless grace, opening a bottle of wine from the bar and pouring two glasses before taking a seat. I watched her, noting the way her fingers curled around the glass, the slight crease of concentration on her forehead.

“You’re not talking,” she remarked, breaking my thoughts.

“How was your day?” I finally asked, keeping my voice steady.

“Tiresome, and ruined by you. Don’t ask how,” she said, sliding a glass toward me.

I smiled faintly, raising my own glass in acknowledgment. “You mentioned the interview?” I prompted.

Her eyes brightened. “My uncle signed me with a kids’ journal weekly publication. I have to write kids’ stories each week. They invited me for an interview tomorrow,” she explained, a spark of excitement in her voice.

“Why kids’ stories?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“I used to write them for my niece, Amanda. She loved them, which made my uncle think I had a knack for it,” she said, her face lighting up.

I noticed a shadow cross her expression as I asked about her parents. Her smile faltered.

“I don’t like to talk about them,” she said simply, forcing herself to smile again. Her eyes searched mine. “Hey, what’s up? Are you okay?”

Her gaze lingered, and I caught myself glancing at her lips for a split second before she quickly brought her glass to her mouth, breaking the moment.

“About the book?” she asked, redirecting the conversation.

I shook off my wandering thoughts and met her eyes. “Let’s stick to the interview. I don’t want you to mess it up tomorrow.”

“Sure,” she agreed, the enthusiasm returning to her tone.

“Good,” I said, standing. “I’ve been through many interviews in my life. What I’m going to ask you now is strictly for practice. Okay?”

She nodded, her attention unwavering.

“First, they’ll want to know about your writing history,” I began. She nodded again.

“Then, they’ll want to understand your personal history. About your life.” I paused, watching her prepare herself.

“Give a brief explanation. Avoid becoming emotional,” I instructed. She adjusted herself in the chair, clearing her throat.

“My mom used to write thrillers and horror,” she began, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Though she never published anything, my dad and I were her only readers.”

I noted the passion in her tone, the pride she carried quietly. “I can see where you got your spirit from. And your parents… what did they do?”

Her expression flickered slightly, as though weighing how much to reveal. “My dad was a…” she hesitated, studying my face. Then a sly grin. “You really want to know about my family, don’t you?”

I exhaled, relief washing over me. “I want to know a little more about you,” I said, mirroring her posture.

“You know nothing about me, and now you want to know about my family?” she laughed softly, gulping down the remaining wine. “You must be crazy.”

I grinned in response, feeling the tension between us ease slightly, though the storm of unspoken emotions lingered just beneath the surface.