Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,7
Taking a breath to steady my voice, I describe all the babysitting and tutoring I’ve done throughout the years, and then I go over my internships, including my last summer job at a special-needs camp, where I worked with children of all ages. “It was a great experience,” I conclude, “both challenging and rewarding. My favorite part of it, though, was teaching math and reading to the younger kids—which is why I think I’d be perfect for this role. Teaching is my passion, and I’d love a chance to work with a child one-on-one, to tailor the curriculum to his or her interests and abilities.”
He sets the resume down, still without bothering to look at it. “And how do you feel about living in a place that’s so removed from civilization? Where there’s nothing but wilderness for dozens of miles around and only minimal contact with the outside world?”
“That sounds…” Like a haven. “…amazing.” I beam at him, my excitement unfeigned. “I’m a big fan of the wilderness, and nature in general. In fact, my alma mater—Middlebury College—was chosen partly because of its rural location. I love hiking and fishing, and I know my way around a campfire. Living here would be a dream come true.” Especially given all the security measures I spotted on the way in—but I don’t say that, of course.
I can’t appear to be anything other than a brand-new college grad looking for adventure.
He arches his eyebrows. “You won’t miss your friends? Or family?”
“No, I—” To my dismay, my throat constricts with a sudden rush of grief. Swallowing, I try again. “I’m very independent. I’ve been traveling around the country on my own for the past month, and besides, there are always phones, videoconferencing apps, and social media.”
He cocks his head. “Yet you haven’t been posting on your social media profiles for the past month. Why’s that?”
I stare at him, my heartbeat skyrocketing. He’s looked at my social media? How? When? I have the highest privacy settings in place; he should be unable to see anything about me other than the fact that I exist and use social media like a normal person. Has he had me investigated? Hacked into my accounts somehow?
Who is this man?
“I actually don’t have a phone right now.” A trickle of sweat runs down my spine, but I succeed in keeping my tone level. “I got rid of it because I wanted to see if I could function on this road trip without all the electronics. A personal challenge of sorts.”
“I see.” His eyes are more green than amber in this light. “So how do you keep in touch with family and friends?”
“Email, mostly,” I lie. There’s no way I can admit that I haven’t kept in touch with anyone and have no plans to do so. “I’ve been visiting public libraries and using the computers there once in a while.” Realizing my fingers are laced tightly together, I unclench my hands and force a smile to my lips. “It’s quite liberating, not being tied to a phone, you see. Extreme connectivity is both a blessing and a curse, and I’m enjoying the freedom of traveling around the country as people have done in the past, with only a paper map to guide me.”
“A Gen Z luddite. How refreshing.”
I flush at the gentle mockery in his tone. I know how my explanation sounds, but it’s the only thing I can come up with to justify my lack of recent social media activity and, in case he looks at my resume closely, absence of a cell phone number. In fact, it’s a good excuse for everything, so I might as well roll with it.
“You’re right. I’m a bit of a luddite,” I say. “That’s probably why city life holds so little appeal for me, and why I found your job posting so intriguing. Living out here”—I motion at the gorgeous views outside—“and tutoring your son is the kind of job I’ve always wanted, and if you hire me, I will dedicate myself to it completely.”
A slow, dark smile curves his lips. “Is that right?”
“Yes.” I hold his gaze, even as my breath turns shallow and prickles of heat run over my skin. I really don’t get my reaction to this man, don’t understand how I can find him so magnetic even as he sets off all kinds of alarms in my mind. Paranoia or not, my instincts are screaming that he’s dangerous, yet my finger itches to reach out and trace the