Page 6 of Breaking Point (IceHawks #1)

“Bella.” She smiles.

I have to slightly crane my neck to peer up at her.

She must be at least six foot and at my short five-foot-five frame, she towers over me.

One of my close friends from high school swam competitively and they have the same build and carry themselves in the same manner.

Perhaps she used to swim or played some other sport.

I’d like to say I’m a great judge of character—my intuition usually lets me know who to avoid—and I’m not getting any egomaniac or serial killer vibes from Lucy.

Yet again, never underestimate a woman.

Spinning on her heel, she ushers me inside the house.

It takes everything in me not to stumble.

It’s as if the owner stole inspiration from my Pinterest board. People may call it basic or cliché but I’m in love with warm tones and the farmhouse style. And this house—with its tall ceilings, large open rooms, and stunning floor-to-ceiling windows—creates the most gorgeous home.

“Your home is beautiful,” I gush as she pulls two water bottles from the fridge.

“This isn’t my home.” She offers me a water bottle and as I clutch it, I must not hide my confusion very well. “I’m interviewing for my client,” she goes on to explain, ushering me onto one of the kitchen bar stools.

The marble counter is so shiny, I’m scared I’ll ruin it.

Even the kitchen looks like it was plucked from my Pinterest board.

“Who’s your client?” I ask, my eyes trailing over the deep navy paintwork and gold fixtures. Perhaps it is an egomaniac after all.

“I can’t disclose that.”

My head whips to Lucy, noting the no-nonsense attitude she’s suddenly slipped into.

Without giving me a chance to respond she dives into the interview.

Throwing questions out at me left and right, I can’t even take a sip from my water before she’s asking another.

The friendly smile that greeted me is gone and who sits before me is a strong woman not wanting to deal with anyone’s bullshit.

Including my own.

Once she wraps up, I have no idea how I’ve done. I don’t know if I’ve impressed her, answered questions to her liking, or if she’s even leaning toward a second interview.

The mask she’s slipped over her features is impenetrable. I’ve been staring at her gray eyes for forty-five minutes now and she’s not showed a flicker of emotion.

“One last thing.” She turns to me. “Why are you applying for this job?”

It’s the first question that stumps me.

If this was a tech or design job, I’d give a spiel about growth and goals and dreams, but she saw my resume. She knows what field I was in before, and it’s why she’s no doubt asking now .

“The tech world is oversaturated at the moment,” I start by saying, choosing to go with the truth despite my many lies to my mom today.

I’m unsure just how much truth to share, though, so instead I go with, “I have a family member who’s ill and I will take anything that helps support their hospital bills. ”

Her brow quirks, a slight flicker in that impenetrable armor of hers. “I’m sorry to hear.”

I dip my chin because I never know what to say. Thank you always feels odd rolling off my tongue when talking about my mother’s ovarian cancer.

Lucy pauses before asking, “If an opportunity arose for a job in your previous field, would you take it?”

Now it’s my turn to pause.

She’s a smart woman and the question doesn’t surprise me. What does is that I also answer this question truthfully, all my interview training flying out the window as I say, “No.”

I hated my job and I hated the field. I only went into it because I thought it would offer job security. What I truly wish I could spend my time doing is drawing and painting.

“The salary for this position puts me in a position to comfortably take care of myself and my family member’s bills. I don’t need more than that or to put myself in a position to be left redundant by AI.”

The corner of her lip quirks. “I like your honesty. It’s refreshing.” Sliding off the chair, she rummages in the kitchen as she calls over her shoulder, “The job is yours if you want it.”

A surprised squeak escapes me before I can squash it. The sound makes her pause, tilting her head to check on my sanity before she pulls out folders of paperwork.

“The schedule, you’ll find, changes depending on my client’s work.” Handing me a manilla envelope full of documents, she sips from her water before going on. “As long as all your duties have been completed, you’ll find a lot of flexibility to work with your family member’s needs.”

My heart soars with hope for the first time in months. I forgot what it feels like to hear good news. To have something go right in a period of life where everything goes wrong. It’s like the first ray of sun against your skin after weeks of endless rain.

“The job requirement is standard for a personal assistant. Cleaning, errands, booking appointments when needed…”

“Cooking?” I wonder out loud.

“He has a personal chef.”

He.

Clearing my throat, I lift my head. “May I know who your client is now? You’re not telling me because his name will scare me off, are you?”

She barks out a laugh, the mask slipping off her shoulders like a coat. “There’s that honesty again. No, he’s a professional athlete who cherishes his private life. I’ll divulge his name once the non-disclosure agreement in your hands is signed and handed back to me.”

My brow quirks. “I take it you’re his manager?”

“Sports agent, but unfortunately with this one, he pays me enough I have also fallen into the role of manager.” She folds her arms as she watches me study the folder in my grip.

I presume my earlier assessment of her having previously been an athlete was true. You don’t get into sports unless you adore it.

“You don’t have anything against professional athletes, do you?” she asks, eyeing me.

“No,” I half lie.

I don’t have anything against sports or athletes. At least, I didn’t until my mom got sick. My father is a huge fan of ice hockey and if I had to guess, I’d say that luck of mine just ran out.

“Can you at least say the sport he plays?” I ask.

Her lips purse, her chin dips, and finally, she sighs. “Ice hockey, but I can’t say more than that.”

My luck most certainly ran out.

I have no doubt her client plays for the one and only Colorado IceHawks. My father’s favorite team. It takes everything in me to tamp down on the anger that rises when I think of him .

Clearing my throat, I change the topic. “Do you mind if I take this home with me to look over?”

“Yes! Please do. The legal paperwork goes on for miles. I can give you emails and numbers if you want a lawyer to review it.”

“That’s all right, I know someone who can help me.” I offer her a warm smile as I pick up my purse. “Thank you, though.”

She places her phone, keys, and bottle in a large black purse. “Very well, then. I hope this means you’ll take the position.”

Following her lead, we stride down the hallway toward the front door. Sliding my coat on, I get ready to step out into the cold afternoon air. “Yes. As long as the contract doesn’t ask me to sign away my life, I’ll take the position.”

Her eyes spark. “Perfect, I have a good feeling about this. Please feel free to reach out to me if you have any questions. My number is on the top of the paperwork.”

“No worries. Thank you, Lucy.”

As I back out and travel down the long winding driveway with the mountains and my dream house peering back at me through my rearview mirror, there is just one thing that fills my mind.

The large number printed in my contract that is now my salary.