My eyes stay focused right on the paperwork in front of me and I fight to keep my mouth shut; it’s not my fault that most everyone who came in this month — business owners and individual clients alike — were too high risk to merit a loan. And besides, Anna doesn’t want to hear it — I know what she wants to hear. It’s the same song and dance near the end of every month and has been for the way-too-many months I’ve been working here.
Anna wants to hear a very specific phrase. One she can never hear often enough.
It’s just going to make me sick to say it.
“OK, Anna, you’re right. I’ll try harder.”
The hair spray shimmer floating in my coffee cup wobbles as Anna taps my desk in satisfaction. “Good. Despite your attitude, Tiffany, I know you’re smart and I know that eventually you’ll learn your place here. That’s why I’m going to throw an easy one your way. You see that big guy standing over there by Derek’s desk?”
I look over to where Tiffany’s pointing. I don’t see a man, so much as I see the back and side of a flannel-wearing mountain with a beard so full that it looks like he’s just emerged from a ten-year hermitage in the mountains, blinking at the brightness of the sun and grumbling at the foreignness of civilization.
Do we make loans to cavemen?
He turns as I’m looking at him; he’s being called by my co-worker, Derek. As he turns, his front side comes into full view; the sharp, handsome lines of his face, the brightness of his blue eyes, his ready smile — all of it makes my toes clench in my high heels.
“Yes. I see him.”
And I enjoy seeing him. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
“He came in to fill out a loan application.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re going to help him.”
“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” I say. Those words come out way more shaky than I’d like. But Anna doesn’t seem to notice and a quick look up at her reveals why — she’s staring at this new guy just as much as me.
“You need to get your numbers up. Derek doesn’t. He should be an easy client, Derek told me he seems desperate for a loan. So, I’m going to tell Mr. Paul Bunyan over there that Derek is needed in an urgent meeting and that you’ll assist him. Here’s your chance to prove that you can bring in more than two new accounts in a month.”
“OK,” I say. Two syllables are about all my Stanford-educated brain can manage right now. I can’t stop staring at the man across the bank. Not just because he looks like he could — in the very best way — pick me up, sling me over his shoulder, and take me to some forgotten cabin the woods where he would do things to me that would make me forget all about the outside world, but also because there’s something about him that tugs at my memory. Maybe it’s his eyes. There’s something about how much they shine.
“Good. Because if you don’t do this, you’re fired. I don’t care what my dad says, I will boot your ass out of here and I will fight tooth and nail to keep you from getting unemployment. So don’t test me, Tiffany. Do your job.”
She’s made this threat before, and each time has failed to follow through on it. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t scare me, because working here at Southwest Regional is the closest I can get to working in the area I studied for — Finance — considering I finished my education at the prestigious Torreon Community College.
Anna turns on her heel and saunters across the room to Derek’s desk.
As she gets close, there’s the briefest of moments where her saunter turns to a stumble and I see a flash of recognition flicker across her face — so brief that maybe it’s a mirage — but then she’s back to being all smiles and, with a crook of her finger and a turn of her wrist, she sends Derek scampering and the Paul Bunyanesque client ambling toward me.
As he gets closer, his confident smile and bright eyes do more than tickle my memory, they jolt it to life. And my stomach sinks.
I know him.
He stops at my desk. His eyes flicker to my chest, hold there for a second — long enough for a blush to break my cheeks — and then those bright eyes wander down to the nameplate on my desk. They scan it without recognition.
He extends his hand.
“Ms. Santos, nice to meet you. My name’s Declan Dunne and that lady over there said you’re the woman to see about a loan.”
The smile on his face is nearly hot enough to set fire to the stack of papers on my desk, and I flush in places that he can’t see.
His hand hangs in the air for a moment before I gather myself enough to rise and shake it; his grip is unbelievably strong, even though I’m sure he’s doing his best to be gentle, and his hands are firm and scratchy with callouses.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Dunne. Have a seat, please.”
The flannel-clad Adonis does as I ask and I take a deep breath and focus on the routine of the loan application process — I hand to him a few forms to fill out and I fire up the credit-checking software and turn all of my attention to the screen of my computer.
I am so glad he doesn’t remember me, I think to myself as I sit in silence, pretending to work on my computer while he completes the forms. It takes several minutes. All the while I keep stealing glances
