Smitten Kitten

chapter nine

     I'M LATE.

Which isn't anything terribly new, honestly, but in this case it is just terrible. Because I'm late for something actually important, which is essentially the rest of my life, and as someone who rather enjoys partaking in the general human experience, being late is crushing any and every hope for the rest of my life not being homeless, starving, and cold in an alleyway. And that's not good.

I'm wearing my smartest blazer, hair pulled back in a way that says I'm not doing this because I forgot to take a shower but because of efficiency, and a pair of plain black flats I'd stolen from Nat's closet.

I even shoved a muffin in my face as some excuse of breakfast before I'd dashed out the door.

I've determined that the people who eat breakfast are the people who have any semblance of their life together, and damn it, I'm going to be one of them, even if for show.

Except now, I probably won't, because I am very, very late.

I'm haphazardly weaving through the crowds of people ambling down the sidewalk, my steps are a beat too quick and slightly off kilter. The leather folder clutched in my sweaty palm has my poor excuse of a resume pressed neatly inside, and I keep running my tongue over my teeth, unable to escape the nagging thought that there's a lipstick smudge, even after the thirtieth time.

My eyes dart down to my phone again, and as another minute ticks by I feel another morsel of my soul die.

Although, really, it's just less for Nat to kill when she finds out I completely bombed the interview she set up by being dreadfully, appallingly late and she slashes me into itty bitty pieces with a machete.

As the sign Viva La Breakfast comes into view, my heartbeat picks up pace to follow suit with my legs, and then I'm bursting through the doors with a small gasp and a river of I'm sorry's.

Then, as if no time has passed at all, I'm shaking this tall man's hand, mouth stretched in what I hope is a bright, employable smile, and thanking him for his time, really, so much, looking forward to hearing from him, honestly, truly, thank you so much for the opportunity.

As I push open the door from the back office, with a white-knuckled grip still on my resume, I can barely remember what happened. My weak sense of logic reassures me I clearly had some sort of interaction, since it's hour an hour later, but all I can focus on is how dry my mouth feels.

Just as I'm heading out and seriously considering throwing myself into traffic, a familiar head of dark hair catches my eye, and I pause.

Tucked in the corner booth is Noel. His thick frames are settled on the bridge of his nose, a coffee hovering underneath his lips and an honest to god newspaper spread out in front of him. I can see his eyes scanning down the page, and it's the first time I've seen him since he'd been dragging my bottom lip into his mouth.

There's a split-second where I see myself stepping out onto the street, climbing onto a bus and going home to bury myself within the sanctuary under my covers, but then my feet pivot.

I drop in the seat opposite to Noel, grinning brightly at him as my leather folder smacks hard against the wooden tabletop.

"Fancy meeting you here."

His head shoots up, eyes wide and swimming with bewilderment. There's a beat where his eyebrows furrow as if he's trying to decipher if I'm a sleep-deprived figment of his imagination or not. I grin brighter.

"Are you stalking me?"

I snort, curving my fingers around his porcelain cup and pulling it towards me. "No," I say, before finishing his coffee in one swift gulp. "And that isn't a very nice thing to ask someone who went through the worst interview in the existence of the entire universe. I'm sensitive right now. Also, was that decaf?"