Show Time (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies #1) - Tawna Fenske Page 0,6
shamefaced. “I didn’t really think it through. But it made Lana stop crying.”
I don’t even know what to ask. “Does she have the same scar?”
“Nah, hers wasn’t even that deep,” he says. “Head wounds just bleed a lot. Mine probably would have been fine, too, but it got infected.” He grins and there goes my stomach rolling like a kid doing a somersault down a grassy hill. “Apparently, bottlecaps aren’t hygienic surgical instruments.”
“You don’t say.” I’m seriously reeling right now with this tidbit from Dean Judson. Maybe he’s told this in magazine interviews, but I don’t think so. For some reason, I’m almost positive this is a story few people know.
I peer at the scar, seeing it with fresh eyes. “That’s quite the scar. And quite the story.”
“Thanks.” He picks up his coffee cup and nods at me. “Now you.”
Damn. I don’t know where to begin. “I can’t compete with that.”
“It’s not a competition.”
“Right.” I clear my throat, determined to offer Dean the same sort of insight he just gave me. “I’ve run three ultra-marathons. I’ve climbed Kilimanjaro and K2. I got scuba certified and went cage diving with sharks in Fiji.”
“So you’re a daredevil.” He looks impressed, though not as much as you might think. “Or an adrenaline junkie.”
I shake my head, glancing down at my hands. “I’m actually a huge chicken.”
Just ask my mother. I don’t say that bit out loud, but Dean’s regarding me with intense curiosity.
“How do you figure you’re a chicken?”
“I’ve done all that stuff because I’m scared as hell, and I want to prove to myself I can get over it.” Not just prove it to myself, if I’m being honest. “Also, I have severe globophobia.”
His brow furrows as he puzzles out the word. “Fear of world travel?”
“Nope.” I bite the edge of my lip. “Fear of balloons.”
I stare him in the eye, waiting for the laughter that always follows.
Dean sits silent. “You’re afraid of balloons.”
“Yep. Terrified. If I walk into a little kid’s birthday party and see them, I have to walk back out or I’ll have a full-on panic attack.”
“You’re kidding me.” It’s not a question, so he knows I’m not kidding. “Is it a fear of the balloons or the balloons being popped?”
“Both,” I admit. “I’ve seen several shrinks about it and even got hypnotized once. But nothing seems to cure it.”
Dean quirks an eyebrow. “Not even wading through a sea of balloons.”
I suppress a shudder, shaking my head. “Not that I’ve tried that specifically, but no. It’s not like rock climbing or sky diving where doing the thing helps me get past my fear. It’s been the opposite, really.”
“Huh.” His expression is thoughtful with a touch of confusion.
It’s possible this was not the best story to share in a job interview. I’m about to explain. To tell him it shouldn’t be an issue as long as he’s not planning some sort of fucked up office party with clowns twisting oblong latex forms into zoo animals.
But then his face breaks into a smile. Folding his hands together on the table, he gives me a nod. “I’d like to offer you the job.”
I blink. “Because of, or in spite of my weird phobia?”
He laughs and leans back in his chair. “Neither. I was planning to do it anyway, but you kinda sealed the deal with that story.”
I’m honestly not sure what he means, but I don’t ask him to elaborate. I got the job, and that’s what matters. “Is there a contract I can look over or—”
“Yeah, hang on.” He whips out his phone, and I watch as his thumbs fly over the screen. For a guy with such oversized digits, he sure is dexterous. I’m the world’s clumsiest typist on my phone, but this guy’s fingers move like he’s stroking clitoris-covered piano keys.
Stop staring at his hands.
“Done,” he says, putting the phone down. “Mari will be here in a couple minutes with a contract for you to review. You can take your time looking it over, but we’d love to have a response by the end of the week.”
It’s all I can do not to fall off my chair. “Wow. That was—uh—quick.”
He shrugs. “When you know, you know.”
I feel my smile start to falter, though I rally to keep the edges of my lips tipped up. How many times have I been sure—absolutely freakin’ positive—that some guy is THE ONE. The guy I’m meant to spend the rest of my life with?