10:53

Damn it.

I'm always fifteen minutes early for a job interview, but that cab driver drove like he was waiting for cows to cross the road. I would've gotten out and ran, but sweaty armpits in my brand new Ann Taylor blazer probably wouldn't scream, "Please let me be your assistant! I handle pressure so well."

I inhale through my nose, straighten my back and tug the front of my blazer down. I button the top button back up on my pink shirt underneath. Cleavage works to get a cab, but isn't so awesome in a job interview for an assistant wedding planner. Don't want the groom to fall for the sexy strawberry blond girl with an earpiece, now do we?

10:54

"You got this, Brooke." Internal pep talks are never as good as the ones out loud. "You're organized, efficient. You think love kicks ass. You know the name of every flower, every candle, every hors d-oeuvres, wedding song, tuxedo service, and you can rattle off the number of every impromptu priest in seven different cities. You know your stuff, girl."

I wipe the corners of my mouth with my French-tipped nails, clearing it of any gloss, set my determined and classy smile on my face, and swing the door open.

Okay, who smokes while waiting for a job interview? I mean, I expected the room to be full of candidates. Marks Weddings and Events is like a dream job for anyone who wants money, hours that are crazy, and amazing benefits-a boutique event planning business that deals mostly in high-end. But I only see one person, and he's blowing smoke into the air over his laptop.

10:55

I try not to breathe in as I sit in the farthest possible seat from Clueless Interviewee. Which is only about ten feet away because the waiting room may be pristine, but it's miniscule. There's one small table in the corner with a vase full of begonias, one enlarged photo of a bride and groom hanging on the wall opposite the entrance, and seven chairs. One occupied by myself and one by the man who totally forgot to shave this morning. Well, if he's the only other guy up for the job, I have this in the bag. I want to smile to myself, but the smoke is making my eyes tear up. My perfect "interview" makeup look will wash down my face if he keeps going. And that smoke is going to soak into my clothes.

Shifting in the leather chair, I look for any sign that says this is a non-smoking zone, but I can't find one. So I go for subtle, coughing lightly into my fist and covering my nose... but he just sits there, scrolling through something on his computer as if the entire world exists there.

Well, he should look up "How to Interview" on Google, because everything he's doing is on the "Do Not" side.

Smoking... we've established this.

Computer... okay, I guess, but not really. It's polite and professional to sit and read a magazine that's been placed out for you, go over your résumé, or sit there and do nothing like this is exactly where you want to be.

Haircut... always get a haircut before an interview. My strawberry strands are nicely trimmed right below my chin. Long enough to tuck away from my face, short enough to stay out of the way. Professional. This guy and his dark hair that's longer than mine is doing this so wrong. At least brush it or style it or something. He has ultimate bed head. And yes, if say I was spotting this man at a bar and he asked for my number, I may give him an invitation for a first date. But this is not a bar. This is an interview.

Outfit... Casual dress or business dress. My eyes roam over his worn-out grey high top leather Vans, holey jeans, to his open button-up shirt, and all it does is make me shake my head.

I let out a "pfft," which is completely involuntary. I try to turn it into a cough again.

His eyes finally flick from his screen to me, and I smile because I'm civil even though he's sort of choking me, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Do you need a cough drop?"

"Excuse me?"

He puts his cigarette to his lips, takes a drag, and blows it out over his computer. Seriously...

"You keep clearing your throat." He nods to my neck, and I'm tempted to do up another button. "It's distracting."

Forget civil. What a pretentious ass. "I wouldn't be clearing my throat if you weren't filling this room up with smoke. I can feel my lungs die a little every second."

He smirks, and I want to punch myself. I bet he's one of those guys who acts like a major douche to get a rise out of the people they piss off. I quickly look at my watch before crossing my arms and eyeing the door labeled Ms. Marks.

10: 59

"My apologies," he says, pulling my gaze from the door to his bed head. He sticks the cigarette toward me and then makes a show of snuffing it on the glass table next to his laptop.

"Not very smart, are you?" I say, because I can't stop my tongue from spewing that out. But disrespect much? "I'll give you a piece of free advice..." I keep going because it's nearly interview time, and I don't want to get caught arguing with another interviewee the second before I nail this thing. "If you want a job, don't make an ass of yourself right before you interview."

Now he's smiling up to his ears, and I look at my watch again because I want it to move faster.

11:00

No wonder this woman needs an assistant. If I was working for her right now, and we were holding interviews for a new assistant-because she obviously wants me as partner-I'd have the 11:00 person in the room right as the clock struck-

"Brooke Winters?"

A lovely woman who has aged fantastically stands in the doorway, her white pant suit looking freshly pressed. She has a warm, yet tight smile that tells me she knows how to conduct an interview just as much as I know how to nail one. When her blue eyes flick to the cigarette butt on the beautiful glass table, her smile fades and jaw clenches.

I've totally got this.

I clear my throat, ignoring the light laugh I get from Mr. Smirk, and put on my interview smile. Standing, I stick my hand straight out and give her one hard shake. I am a pro.

"Nice to meet you, Ms. Marks."

She smiles and drops her hand, waving me through the open door to her office. I catch a whiff of strong perfume which I actually hope overpowers the smell of secondhand smoke lingering on my linen. I don't glance back once. I'm always focused on what's in front of me, and right now it's this kickass job.

I wait for the invitation to sit, but I don't get one.

"Nathaniel, are you going to join us?"

Okay, I have to look back. Ms. Marks stands by the door, sliding to the side as Bed Head and his laptop enter the room. He extends his hand for me to shake, which I do, but it's not hard or confident. It's a dead fish handshake. He smiles and takes a seat in the corner, whipping his leg up on one knee. Panic is not a good look for an interviewee, but I'm sure it's contorting my perfect smile right now. Especially when I feel my stomach drop through the floor when Ms. Marks clicks the door shut.

"This is my son. He's our photographer, and I usually like him to meet everyone we interview because you'll be dealing with him closely. More than me most days."

Shit. Big pile of heaving smelly shit. I want to crawl in a hole and die. It's true what they say... the first impression always happens before the actual interview.

I know I'm trying to smile. I'm nodding and going through the process that's ingrained in me, but blood pounds through my ears, making things pretty much impossible to comprehend. I wouldn't have known to sit if she hadn't pointed to the chair.

My heart squeezes a little when she hands him my résumé. I know she's beaming about it, but all I'm doing is analyzing every expression on his face. His jaw clenches... Crap, does that mean there's something awful on there? What the hell does it matter? I've already ruined this. Why is he letting this play out? He should've sent me straight out the door when I first opened my mouth.

"Do you think you can handle that?"

I shoot my eyes back to Ms. Marks and her arched brows, smile and nod. "Absolutely." I have no idea what she said. But whatever it was, I sure as hell can handle it. Whatever gets me out of here faster.

"Excellent." She pulls a pencil from her twisted bun, and her fake nails click against the table as she jots a note down. "Now that we have that out of the way, let's start with the questions."

She leans back in her chair, and I search my panicked and scattered brain for all the rehearsed lines I had ready for every possible interview question. What's my most positive attribute? What's my one weakness (that's really a strength)? Am I punctual? What are my views on this scenario, that scenario... I was ready for this, but now... I'm suddenly not.

My strong and confident interview voice flies the coop, and I'm left with this sweaty, shaky version of myself. It's hot in here. Stuffy. Still smells like smoke. I want to take my blazer off before I soak it in sweat.

Every answer I give, I know I botch. The confused expression on Ms. Marks face says I'm not living up to any expectations. My résumé isn't enough on its own, but I knew I could win them over with my professionalism, my organization, my go-to attitude.

Well, so much for that.

"Good, good," she says, cutting me off from my babbling answer to "Where do you see yourself in five years?" I have no idea what I said. I know what I rehearsed, but I don't know if that's what popped out. She puts her pencil back in her hair and looks over at Nathaniel, who I've avoided looking at this entire time. "Anything you want to add?"

I know I need to give him eye contact. Interview 101, but I'm so beyond getting this job, I wonder if there's a point to following the rules anymore. I do, because I'm not a rule breaker, but still... there's no point.

He slides his foot off his knee, leans forward, keeping my résumé in his hand. He cocks his head a little to the side, and I really have to fight the urge to look away from his stare. But I keep eye contact, concentrating on the almost-black irises and only blink when I absolutely have to.

"Just one thing. You said you weren't opposed to traveling. What does that mean for your educational future?"

Wait... when did I say I could travel? "Eh?" Oh, that was real smooth.

He gestures to his mom. "Before we started the interview you said you didn't mind traveling. This job sometimes requires travel. I wondered, since you also said you'd like to continue college in your five year plan, how you plan on doing this."

I need to have a talk with my tongue. What sort of trouble has it gotten me into? "Um... online classes?" Ugh. Confidence, Brooke, even though this job has been shot to hell. "Yes, online classes."

"Do they have those available for your major?"

Why not? I don't have a major, so I lie my ass off. "Of course." I nearly growl at him. Then shake my head and put on that big fake smile. "My education is important, but my head is always in my work. I'm dependable. You need me for something, I'm there. I know how to prioritize, and I do it well."

There's confident Brooke.

He leans back, not tearing his gaze from me, nor I him. He wants to act all high and mighty, that's fine. I'm not getting this job anyway. I won't let him intimidate me.

"Well, then, I guess that's it."

I give him an overly sweet smile, and when I look back to Ms. Marks, I give her a genuine one. She stands, and I follow, ignoring the shift from the chair in the corner.

"We'll let you know. Again, it was lovely to meet you."

Ah, nail in the coffin. Classic "Nice try!" line. I shake her hand again, trying not to let my hollow stomach suck the life out of me. I'll cry when I get home.

"You too. Thank you for the opportunity." I hope she didn't notice the pushed back emotions there.

Nathaniel opens the door for me, and I try to be smooth about thanking him politely and swerving around him as much as possible. I speed walk from the room and to the main lobby, where I bury my face in my hands. I'm used to perfection. I plan for perfection. And I go and screw it up by yelling at the boss's son two minutes after I meet him. All because of a cigarette. Which really, he should've smoked outside, but I shouldn't have said anything.

"Brooke?"

I drop my hands to my sides, straightening my jacket and turning. Hanging from Nathaniel's outstretched finger is my purse. I'd forgotten I even had it with me.

"Thanks," I say, careful not to touch him as I wrap my hands around the strap.

"No problem."

Great. Now we're standing in awkward silence when really I want to go home, eat Chunky Monkey, and watch Gilmore Girls. I let out a sigh. "Anything else I can do for you, Nathaniel? Because if it's okay, I think I've already humiliated myself enough today."

There's that damn smirk. I roll my eyes and step through the front doors onto the sidewalk.

"Actually, a couple things," he says, making me stop in my tracks. He slides in front of my line of vision, smoothing the back of his hair as if it'll help its unkemptness. "First, call me Nate. Only my mother calls me Nathaniel, and she's one of those romantic types who named her kids with names of love." He rolls his eyes. "I go by Nate, because I think that's ridiculous."

I don't say anything, because like, what the hell do I say to that? So I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms while I wait for more.

"And second..." He straightens his stance which I hadn't noticed was leaned into me before. "A word of advice"-he gives me a grin-"if you want a job, don't make an ass of yourself right before you interview."