His Until Dawn (Kissing the Boss Book 3) Page 22

  "Hi!" she said brightly, her smile practically hooked over her large ears, and I smiled somewhat bashfully.

  It was about ten steps from the door to the counter, and I leaned against it, hands clenched into the edge as I mentally girded my loins for battle.

  "Hi," I stammered, voice trembling just a bit. "I'm…I'm here to interview."

  She tilted her head to one side, industriously polishing a metal canister kind of container without even looking. "Interview?"

  She was cute in a small, pixieish way and reminded me of Ai Otsuka with her small chin and round, almost Chinese-style eyes.

  "Um. Yes. Interview?" I asked. "There was a sign on the front door and the man, er, Takumi told me to come back later, so I did…"

  Her eyes snapped open even larger. "Oh! Yes! One moment, please. Let me get him for you."

  Rag stuck in the back pocket of her dark blue baggy jeans, she disappeared through a side door, behind the register, leaving me to tap my fingers on the bar counter, too nervous to stand still and composed.

  She emerged a few moments later, still smiling.

  And right behind her…

  Him.

  My knees began to shake, and I was glad he couldn't see them.

  He swept a lock of hair behind his right eye. and I saw a glint of an emerald earring shining from his ear lobe.

  A man wearing an earring.

  A stud, no less.

  God, he was beautiful.

  And I badly wanted to draw him.

  Just whip out my portable easel, prop my sketchbook on it, and just sketch him right then and there.

  But I was pretty sure he'd think I was more than a little crazy.

  And I very desperately needed this job.

  No one gives work to someone they think is insane.

  He smiled slightly. My mouth went dry.

  "You came back," he said. "What about your friend? I thought she wanted an interview?"

  I opened my mouth to speak and my lips cracked.

  Oh God.

  His dark eyes widened, and I hastily grabbed a handful of tissues from the bar, dabbing them against my bleeding lip and wishing very much that the ground could swallow me up and spit me back at home.

  "Um." I hoped blood didn't get on my teeth. "Actually, I was the one who was interested in the job. She…she already has a job."

  Being a mistress was technically a job, wasn't it?

  "Ah, I see," he said, nodding. "Very well, then. Come on back. Why don't we talk someplace private, then?"

  He gestured me to join the pair behind the bar counter, and I followed, still dabbing at the stinging place on my lip, feeling more than a little stupid.

  I was pretty sure I wasn't going to get the job.

  But at least I tried.

  And in any case, surely more time with Takumi couldn't hurt, could it?

  The more time I spent looking at him, the more I could commit to my memory and make it easier to recreate his image.

  I was going to paint him.

  The idea that I was going to create an artwork of him without the subject's awareness made me feel more than a little like a crazy stalker, and by the time he led me down a flight of concrete stairs into the storeroom and into a small room with a computer, a filing cabinet and a stack of papers on a scratched desk littered with pens and pencils, I was completely and utterly miserably.

  "Why don't you sit down? What's your name, again?"

  He waved me to a small stool sitting in front of the desk, and I took it gratefully, hiding my clenched hands in my lap. "Thank you. Er. Saya. Saya Kogure."

  "Nice to meet you, Saya." He sat down across from me at the desk.

  "Nice to meet you as well, um…"

  "Just Takumi is fine. We don't stand on ceremony here. Everyone calls everyone by their first name here."

  "Then…Takumi," I whispered, a hot blush rushing over my face. "Nice to meet you, Takumi."

  He leaned back in his seat, sitting just outside the light of a small desk lamp that only seemed to accentuate the shadows in the small room.

  "Well, then," he said, long, elegant fingers cradling his strong, angled chin.

  I fought to keep his gaze, my heart pounding almost painfully hard against my chest. "Yes."

  A corner of his lips kicked up. "I think your lip isn't bleeding anymore."

  I had forgotten all about it. "Oh! I'm sorry!"

  I stuffed the used tissues into my pocket and faced him again with a tremulous smile that matched none of the magnificence of the one he gave me.

  "Um." He pressed his lips together, as if withholding laughter. "Mmm."

  Oh no. What was wrong now? "Um…yes? Is something…wrong?"

  "Mmm," he said and then looked away.

  "Excuse me?"

  He tapped his lips. "You've…you've got tissue stuck to your lips."

  Oh no!

  Face hot enough to fry an egg on, I pulled away the offending piece and flicked it to the ground. "I'm so sorry! I'm not usually so clumsy!"

  You're so distracting.

  Please let me draw you.

  That is my one and only wish in this world.

  I just want to paint you.

  Please.

  His laughter was like honey, low, slow, sweet.

  I loved the sound of it.

  "No, no," he said, shoulders shaking, hand over his eyes. "Not at all. I'm the one who should be apologizing. I should have told you as soon as it happened, but I just couldn't help myself." He swiped at his eyes, teeth glinting white in the dim light. "I haven't had a lot to laugh about lately. The cafe is so busy and I've been having problems trying to keep an employee long enough to train them."

  "May I ask why?"

  He shook his head slowly. "I don't know the reason, I'm sorry. The work isn't very hard, but it can be very stressful during the rush times in the morning and after school, around five to seven in the evening."

  "I'm very good with stress," I said honestly.

  Living with my father who was a retired police officer was proof.

  One elegant, winged dark brow rose. "Oh?"

  I nodded, trying to smile as unthreateningly as possible. I'm cute, don't hurt me, just hire me, please? "Also, I like being busy. I don't like being bored. At home, I'm always looking for something to do."

  "Good, very good," he said quietly, tapping a pen on a piece of paper that I now recognized as an empty resume form. "Are you, perhaps, an art student?"

  "Yes, I am," I said, surprised. "How did you know?"

  He smiled. "You smell like a painter."

  I stared at him. "How does a painter smell?"

  He sniffed the air, once, twice. "Just the faintest tinge of turpentine. A bit of linseed oil."

  How did he know?

  Mortified, I resisted the urge to lift up my arm and sniff. "Oh. I'm…I'm sorry! I usually spend a lot of time in my studio and even though I leave the windows open, the smell is very, very hard to dispel. Is it…is it a problem? If I work here, I can wear some—"

  He held up a hand, stalling any more words from me.

  "No, don't get me wrong," he said. "I rather like it. It reminds me of someone. She was a painter, as well. Oil. She always thought watercolor was too boring and she didn't like the way acrylics felt on the brush and canvas. How long have you been working with oil paints?"

  "Um, maybe five, six years?" I replied, trying desperately to remember when I first became enamored of that medium "I think I began in my third year of junior high."

  "You must be quite good."

  I shook my head so hard I almost sprained something. "No! I'm still learning. I'm always learning something new every day!"

  Wait.

  Why were we talking about me?

  This was supposed to be a job interview.

  Had he already decided I wouldn't be suitable and just wanted to make small talk until I got tired and left?

  "Um," I began, desperation tinging my words. "If you hire me, I promise
I'll work as hard as I can! I won't let you down, I promise!"

  His eyes widened and the pen stopped tapping. "You're very adamant about wanting this job, aren't you?" He paused. "May I ask if there's a particular situation you are dealing with that you need this job so much?"

  I looked away, unable to meet his straight-forward gaze anymore. "My father…he doesn't approve of my art study. He cut off my tuition and if I don't get a job, I won't be able to continue to paint."

  "Ah," he said after a moment of painful, toe curling, nauseating silence. "That indeed is a serious situation."

  I nodded, staring at my clenched hands writhing together in my lap. "I don't ever want to stop. But…"

  "It's like a disease, isn't it?" he asked, voice soft, like velvet rubbing along my skin. I shivered. "Not being able to do what you want to do most in the world. She was like that, too. She used to fidget when she couldn't do her art."

  I cleared my throat and somehow managed to summon up the courage to look Takumi in the face. "Who are you talking about?"

  This time, it was his turn to look away. "Never mind. Sorry, I was just commiserating. My apologies."

  "Please, not at all."Judging from his voice, the slight tilt to his crimson lips, she was obviously someone very close to him.

  Who was it?

  I wanted to know.

  But not as badly as I wanted to draw him.

  "Anyways." He started tapping the pen tip on the paper again. "You seem to be eager enough."

  Dare I be hopeful? "I am very eager, and I'm a very hard worker!"

  He smiled. "How soon can you start?"

  Oh my. "Today!" I almost shouted. "Right now!"

  He laughed softly. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow at noon. Can you come then?"

  "Yes! Yes, I can!"

  "Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow. Uniform is just dark blue jeans and a white shirt. You don't have to worry about shirt design since I'll give you an apron once you start. How does that sound?"

  Without thinking, I reached across the desk and grabbed Takumi's hands, shaking them enthusiastically.

  "Thank you! Thank you so much! I won't let you down. I'll work as hard as I can!"

  Gently, he extricated his hands from my death grip. "I look forward to working with you, Saya."

  And that was how I began working for Takumi Nakagawa.

  Soon to be my lover.

  My demon.

  And my greatest artwork.

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