Worth the Fall (Sugar Mountain #1)

OH, HELL NO

THOMAS

T he knock on my door alerted me to the fact that my unexpected and unplanned appointment was here. If this wasn’t such a priority, I would have pushed the interview off to another day. But since this Brooklyn person was already in the building, I might as well meet with her. Hopefully, she was as good as both Sierra and Patrick had said.

“Come in,” I said as my assistant opened the door and led Brooklyn inside.

My eyes started at her bare legs before moving up the length of her tight pencil skirt. Her blazer was short, but still found a way to accent her hips and curves, and I’d be an idiot if I didn’t find them appealing. Continuing even further up her body, I noticed fiery-red hair spilling across her shoulders, and that was when my breath caught in my throat.

It wasn’t the fact that she was attractive that had me shaking my head. No. It was the fact that this woman was the drunken hotel guest from the other day. This interview was over before it ever got started.

I groaned inwardly and mumbled under my breath, “You have got to be kidding me.”

Brooklyn stepped inside and planted herself in the chair across from my desk, her eyes latching on to mine. “Look, about the other day,” she started to explain before I even said a word.

“No. That’s okay. You can go,” I said, dismissing her.

“I can”—she paused—“go?” She dragged out the last word, like my request was some kind of negotiation instead of a demand.

“Yeah. You can leave,” I said. “This obviously isn’t going to work.”

“You’re kidding, right?” She crossed one leg over the other and leaned back into the chair instead of moving to get the hell out of it.

“No.” I waved her off as I stared at my computer screen. “I’m not sure why Sierra and Patrick thought you’d be such a good fit,” I said more to myself than for her to hear. “I’m sure you can see yourself out.”

“I’m not leaving. You haven’t asked me a single question,” she argued before tossing those red locks over her shoulder.

I was going to have to be more blunt with her. “You clearly have a drinking problem, and I can’t have someone working events who can’t handle their liquor. It’s unprofessional and unethical.”

That set a fire under her ass. She stood up so fast that the chair behind her was on the brink of tipping over. Her cheeks were almost as red as her hair, and I knew I’d struck a chord. People didn’t like being called out on their issues.

“I have a drinking problem?” She choked out a laugh. “That’s rich. Didn’t realize we knew each other that well. Please, Thomas, tell me more about myself since you’re such a fucking expert,” she spat out before sitting back down, her temper clearly getting the best of her.

Brooklyn was a loose cannon with a foul mouth. It would have pissed me the hell off if it didn’t actually make me feel something else entirely. I felt alive and, to be honest, a little turned on. Two things no woman had made me feel in years, no matter how hard they tried.

I stared at her, my eyes narrowing as I regained my professional demeanor and self-control. “You were drunk in the middle of the afternoon during the workweek. You said you wanted to go rock climbing,” I reminded her, and she cut me off before I could finish my sentence.

“That’s stupid. I don’t rock climb,” she disagreed as her lips formed a snarl.

“On my chest, Brooklyn. You wanted to go rock climbing on my chest.”

She sucked in a long breath before giving a one-shoulder half shrug. “I kind of remember that now that you mention it.”

“So, you can see why this won’t work then?” I pretended to sound bored.

“Why? Because you have a rock-hard chest? That just means you should ease up on the workouts at the gym. Has nothing to do with the job I’m completely capable of doing.”

This woman was exasperating. And laughable. I didn’t even own a gym membership, but there was no point in telling her that. Going to the gym was a luxury I had no interest in. Anything that took more time away from my daughter, I wasn’t doing. Every morning, I completed a routine that included push-ups, pull-ups, and sit-ups. Sometimes, I ran on the treadmill in my garage. Usually when I was pissed off, frustrated, or needed a release. Like today. After dealing with Brooklyn and this disaster of an interview, I’d most likely need to run it off later until my legs threatened to give out.

“Did you hear me? I said I was completely capable of doing this job,” she repeated, and I shook my head.

“I already told you, I’m not hiring someone who can’t handle their liquor.”

She made a sound that I couldn’t describe, but I knew it signaled that she was angry. Or at least angrier than she had been.

“I can’t believe that Sierra said you were nice.”

“I am nice.”

“You’re not. At all,” she fired back.

“Just because I tell the truth, that doesn’t make me mean.” I leaned back in my chair, and it creaked, the noise filling the space between us as a loud, unexpected laugh escaped from her lips.

“Tell the truth? And what is that exactly?” She didn’t give me a second to respond before launching into a diatribe and pushing out of her seat and into a standing position. “Oh, that’s right. I’m an alcoholic. Or I have a drinking problem. Are you this judgmental to everyone or just me? Because you saw me one damn time, Thomas. One time. And, yeah, I was drunk. Did you ever stop to think about why that might be?”

“Because you drank too much alcohol?” I countered, and I swore if looks could kill, I would have died where I sat.

Here lies Thomas O’Grady, dead from pissing off a woman.

No one would have been surprised.

“Of course I drank too much, you pompous ass. I was celebrating. I’m allowed to do that, you know. I had the day off from work. I didn’t drive. Everything was great, until I ran into your stupid chest and almost broke my neck. You really should take it down a notch on those workouts. Men should be a little softer.”

I couldn’t stop the small grin from spreading across my face. “You said that on that day too.”

“Well, at least I’m consistent.” She grabbed her purse and turned on her heel. “And you’re still a jerk. I don’t know how anyone works with you.”

She stormed away, opening my door and slamming it so hard that I thought the pictures might fall off the wall. I hadn’t expected that. Her leaving. And before I knew it, I found myself desperate to stop her.

Pulling my door open, I yelled, “Brooklyn, wait!”

Her ass swayed in her skirt as she kept moving down the hallway. She was going to make me chase her. And I did not chase.

Jogging down the space, I reached for her arm and grabbed it. She yanked it from my grasp and looked at me like my touch repulsed her.

“I’m leaving. I have a job to get to that actually wants me there.”

“Please,” I started to say. “Will you come back into my office?”

“Why?”

She jutted out her hip, and I swore this woman tested my patience with every fucking word.

“Because I’m sorry. I was being judgmental.”

Apologizing wasn’t something that was difficult for me to do, no matter what anyone else thought. I had an eight-year-old daughter. I spent half my day telling her I was sorry for shit.

“And you were being a jerk,” she added.

“And I was being a jerk,” I repeated.

She blew out an annoyed breath. “Ugh. Fine. I’ll come back,” Brooklyn said before she started leading me toward my own damn office. “But you have ten minutes, O’Grady. Clock starts now.”

I shook my head as I watched her walk away, tossing demands at me. I wanted to throw her over my desk, spank her ass for being so mouthy, and then fuck some sense into her. Who did she think she was, talking to me that way? And why the hell wasn’t I angry about it?

Because you like it, idiot.

When she got to my office door, she grabbed the edge and threw me a look. “Nine minutes.”

The things I want to do to that mouth.

I gave my assistant a cursory glance before shutting my door and making my way back over to my desk, gripping it with both hands. “So, tell me,” I said as I sat in my chair and leaned toward her as she sat down.

“Tell you what exactly?” She sounded annoyed with me.

“What it was that you were celebrating that day. You said you were celebrating.” This was not a question that would be asked in any typical interview, but I had this fierce desire to know what had caused her to get so inebriated.

She sucked in an audible breath, and I wondered for a split second if she might tell me a lie instead of the truth.

“My divorce. We signed the papers that morning.”

“And that made you... happy ?” I emphasized the word because I wasn’t sure how most people felt when they ended their marriages, but the ones I’d been around were mostly bitter and angry. Happiness always seemed to come later.

“Yes. Because I’d been un happy for so long.”

Her tone was defensive, and I wondered how many people had made her feel bad for putting her feelings above her husband’s.

“I think a lot of people stay married for the wrong reasons,” I said like I was suddenly an expert on the subject.

“I agree.”

“So, it was your idea to end things then?”

It was an entirely inappropriate question, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself from wanting to get inside this woman’s head and read every single thought in there.

She nodded. “It was.”

“Any regrets?”

What the hell was wrong with me? I half expected Brooklyn to stand up and call this whole thing off because of my line of questioning. She would have been well within her rights to tell me to shut up, so imagine my surprise when she didn’t.

“No. None.” Her voice was strong. Determined even. “If I were still married, I’d be miserable. I felt like I was dying inside. And I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but it’s the truth. Leaving was the right thing to do. For me . And I know you probably think that sounds selfish, but I don’t care. Because I feel better today than I have in the last year and a half combined.”

I hadn’t expected her to confess all of that. And while I couldn’t necessarily relate to it on a personal level, I still felt like I understood what she was saying. “I don’t think it’s selfish at all.”

“You don’t?” Her tone finally softened as she focused those emotional green eyes on me.

“No. I think your husband”—I paused—“ex-husband sounds like the selfish one. Did he even notice you weren’t happy? Did he even care?”

Another. Inappropriate. Question.

“If he did, we wouldn’t be divorced.”

I couldn’t imagine Brooklyn being married to someone so blatantly unaware. It didn’t suit my impression of her at all. She came off as strong and independent. I imagined any man who won her over would hold those same qualities, if not more.

“It’s his loss,” I said, and I meant it. The guy sounded like a fucking idiot who hadn’t deserved her in the first place.

“I agree.” She smiled.

“So, you don’t have an issue with alcohol then?” I asked, changing the subject.

She laughed. It sounded so free and joyful. And I was instantly happy that I hadn’t known her when she wasn’t either of those two things. I had a feeling it would have made me very angry to see her shine dulled.

“No. I don’t have an issue with alcohol. It was all Bella’s fault anyway. She was practicing her new drink recipes on me and my best friend, Lana.”

I’d known Bella since she was a kid. Her older brother was one of Matthew’s closest friends. It was crazy to think about Bella not only being old enough to drink alcohol legally, but to serve it as well.

“She’s a good kid,” I said.

“Not really a kid anymore.” Brooklyn grinned.

“Well, listen, I am very sorry for accusing you, judging you, and being unreasonable earlier. If you can give me more than ten minutes, I’d like to conduct a proper interview now.”

“Better get started then.”

That damn mouth.