Chapter Two –
I stood behind a line of wooden boxes crammed with secondhand toys, neatly folded clothes, and passed-on pieces of literature with wilted ears on their covers. With a genuine beam stretched across my rose-frost painted lips, I surveilled the happy faces of the shopping patrons milling about the rented space. The monthly charity drive I organized seemed to be kicking off to a good start, with a decent haul from the church donations.
“Mommy, look! A Molly doll, just like yours!”
“That's very nice, sweetie.”
A little girl with an adorable, chestnut pixie cut, who couldn't have been more than eight, hovered over one of the toy bins, rifling through the tangled limbs. She picked up a stuffed, beanbag doll garbed in a ruffled, teddy-bear printed sundress, with long, coffee-brown yarn for hair and a miniature straw hat. The girl wrinkled her nose at the missing button of the doll's eye.
“Oh no,” the little girl exclaimed, pouting, “But she's only got one eye! She's ugly.”
“Now, Nadine, that's not very nice,” her mother hissed, flustered.
I bent forward, smiling, “Hey, Nadine. That's a lovely name. Can I tell you something about the Molly Doll?”
“What's that?”
“A little girl just like you used to love her with all her heart, but she's gotten too old for her. Now, the girl told me that the Molly Doll's eye was actually chewed off by her pit-bull, Scarface.”
“Wow, really?” the little girl's eyes widened, marveling.
“Really,” I assured her, grinning, “She's a fighter, this one. Look at it this way – she's special, dare I say, one-of-a-kind. You'll be the only little girl in all of Portland to own a Molly Doll with such a fierce backstory.”
“Awesome!” the little girl beamed, clutching the doll to her chest, “I'm gonna take her home! Can I, Mommy? Please?”
“Alright, alright,” her mother muttered, a faint smile on her lips as she delved into her purse, “How much for the doll?”
I fished a crumpled twenty out of my pocket, dropping it into the cash box, nodding, “Don't worry about it – it's on me.”
The mother handed me a twenty-dollar-bill, her brows furrowed, “Oh no, we shouldn't –”
“I'd be happy to get it for Nadine,” I reassured her, ruffling the child's soft crop of hair, “The children at St. Paul's Orphanage thank you.”
“Well, alright,” the mother relented, placing an arm around her daughter's shoulders, “What do we say?”
“Thank you so much!”
“No problem, Nadine. Have a great day!”
I rearranged the old records on the box to my left, biting down on my lip in concentration as I straightened the rows of faded vinyl cases. Deeply engrossed in my reorganization frenzy, I hardly noticed the looming shadow of the mysterious figure across me.
“I saw what you did with the little girl – Nadine, was it? That was real sweet of you.”
The back of my neck prickled at the crisp tone of an orotund, silvery voice. I glimpsed up from the stacks of records, my cheeks flushing beet red, gawking at the devilishly handsome stranger before me. The man's short, but luxuriant, vanilla blonde hair was sleekly parted to the side, his smoldering, pool-blue eyes piercing straight into my soul.
I pushed a strand of my spirally, brick-red curls behind my burning ears, clearing my throat before mumbling, “Was for a good cause. I – can I help you with something, sir?”
“I've actually been looking all over town for the Road House soundtrack on vinyl, any chance you've got that in your collection?”
I shook my head slowly, fumbling through the cases, “Lemme check that for you right now, but I don't think we have it. I've been through all the records...”
I sighed, defeated, “No, sorry. Are you a collector or are you looking for a gift?”
“A gift – it's my buddy's birthday this weekend –”
“So I take it he's into old action flicks?” I selected two records from the box, suggesting, “We've got the original soundtracks of Smokey and the Bandit and The Dukes of Hazzard – the TV show. These are both pretty rad – I've got them both on cassettes myself.”
“Great, I'll take them both.”
“That'll be thirty –”
“Here, keep the change. It's for a good cause, yeah?”
My shoulders shivered as his eyebrows wriggled sexily, accepting his hundred-dollar bill.
I stuttered, “That's – that's very generous of you, sir. Thank you.”
He reached into his pocket and slipped a name card into my hands. Adjusting the buttons of his fitted, burgundy henley shirt, he explained coolly, “Kane Crawford, of –”
“Crawford & Co. Modeling Group?” My eyes bulged in disbelief, “Don't y'all represent Kira Moore and Laney Chavez? Are you serious? What're you all doing in a town like –”
“Are you interested in coming in for a position? I'm looking for a personal secretary.”
My lips popped open in shock. I was bewildered, unsure I heard him correctly, “You're – you're what now? Me? Work for you? But I've never –”
“I don't look for experience – I'm looking for an eager learner.”
I raised my eyebrows thoughtfully, the corners of the card barbing my fingertips, “I'm really flattered, Mr. Crawford, sir, I'm just not sure I'm the right –”
“Your salary's guaranteed to be triple your usual rate, all benefits included. We can talk.”
“Mr. Crawford, it's not the money, I –”
“Think about it, Ms. – ?”
“Walsh. Cleo Walsh. I –”
“Very well, Ms. Walsh. The address is on my card. Like I said – think about it. I hope to see you in my office for an interview at nine AM sharp, Monday morning.”
As he strode away, my eyes fell to the snug silhouette of his sculpted cheeks, visibly tight through his jeans. I blushed, immediately ripping my eyes away, my heart fluttering excitedly in my chest. The wave of exhilaration quickly evaporated, the image of Mathias' ruddy, growling face sneaking into my mind. I breathed deeply, slowly piecing together how I would break the news to him.