“There you go,” he says, handing them over.
My keyboard becomes a symphony of clicks and clacks as I transfer the data in a flash, eager to get this transaction over with and get this man from my past out of here and get Anna Ebri off my back.
Then, halfway down the page, my eyes come to a jarring stop.
“I think you might’ve put in an extra zero here in the ‘Requested loan amount’ section,” I say, handing the form back to him.
“No, that’s right.”
“That’s fifty thousand dollars. That’s a considerable amount for a loan.”
“Well, I have a considerable issue to take care of.”
“I see,” I say, pushing on with the paperwork and praying there are no more obstacles to getting this man his loan. “Can I ask what it is?”
“You just did,” he says, turning up the wattage on his grin.
I roll my eyes. Breathe deep. Remind myself that I need this job because I’ve got no other options. Unless I consider Froyo saleswoman at a mall kiosk to be a valid career choice.
Then I get to the income section of his form.
I stop. Again.
“Did you leave a zero out of the declared income section, here?”
Please, please, please let that be the case.
“No, that’s right.”
“That’s not much.”
His grin turns sideways a bit. His eyes look me over in a way that takes the oxygen from my lungs.
“There’s other income, Ms. Santos, but, well, I don’t want to declare it.”
“Is it illegal income?”
“Uh, shit. Fuck. No. It’s not illegal.”
My eyes scan the form. “Are you really just a mechanic? Or are you something else?”
“Just forget I said that. The form is accurate. Or not. Whichever you think, in your excellent and professional opinion, is the most likely to get me this loan.”
Oh god.
“Are you literally asking me whether it’s better to declare that you’re a criminal or a poorly paid mechanic?”
“Listen, Ms. Santos, whatever it is, I’m good at what I do. Fixing cars… or other things.”
“Mr. Dunne, I’m going to stop you right there and just tell you it’s better for you — and for me — if you just go with being a mechanic. Please.”
“Got it. Thanks, Ms. Santos.”
He beams another megawatt, too-charming, incredibly disarming smile at me. If only he had the financial history to back up his confidence.
And if only we didn’t have the kind of shared history that his not-as-bright-as-his-smile brain thankfully seems to have forgotten. It would be so much easier to turn him down if that was the case.
“You’re welcome. Now, I’m going to run a credit check on you and we’ll see what we can do about that loan.”
I roll my eyes back to focusing on my computer screen. All the information is there and, after saying a prayer that somehow he’s been playing a prank on me and is actually a financially stable man in disguise, I depress the Enter key and let the computer do its thing.
It takes two seconds. It’s never that fast.
Then I look to Anna. She’s across the bank, sitting on the edge of Derek’s desk — perched like a vulture awaiting its next meal. When she notices me looking to her, she runs her finger across her throat in an unmistakable portent about my career prospects if Mr. Dunne leaves my desk without a loan agreement in hand.
Still, the number that pops up on my screen is enough to make my jaw drop.
“Wow,” I say.
I shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t help myself.
“I get that reaction a lot,” he says. “So, when can I sign this paper and get my loan?”
He’s still smiling.
Oh, that poor man.
“I’ve never seen a score like this,” I stay. My eyes find Anna’s and she makes that gesture again.
“It’s OK to be impressed. I get it. What do we need to do to finalize this loan? It’s kind of urgent.”
A few moments elapse where I just stare at the screen and the impossibly low score on it, trying to reconcile my sense of ethics with the fact that I need to keep my job.
Ethics win.
“Mr. Dunne, I’m afraid I can’t approve you for this loan. Or any loan. Not even if you wanted to borrow some change for a vending machine.”
“You’re joking. Don’t mess around with me, Ms. Santos,” he says. His once confident and jovial voice takes on a hard, icy edge.
“I’m not joking, Mr. Dunne. Your loan application is denied.”
His icy voice takes on a tone of permafrost. He leans in, calloused, powerful hands thudding onto my desk with sheer menace. This man is different from the boy I remember from high school.
“Check it again. For your sake.”
The threat in his posture, the malevolence in his voice, shock me and send me back to a dark memory I’ve spent years trying to forget; for a second, it’s not Declan in front of me — it’s someone else. Someone I’d rather forget. A man I haven’t seen in years, but who visits me every day in my weakest moments and makes me feel less than human every single time.
I’m frozen.
He clears his throat. The icy suggestion in his voice warms, just a little. “Ms. Santos, are you OK?”
Shaking my head clear, I sit up straighter. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, I’m making a suggestion. Just look it over.”
A notification pops up on my screen. An interoffice instant message from Anna: Approve him. Now.
I raise my voice loud enough that she can hear from where she’s sitting on Derek’s desk, glowering at me over the screen of her brand
