"Excuse me, miss. Do you need some help?" I ask when I get close.
"God, yes! I’m late for an interview and I have no idea where the hell I am. The cab driver dropped me off here, but I think this is the wrong place. Oh, and my phone died, because really—that’s the kind of day I'm having. You don’t happen to know where State Street is, do you?" she rushes out then blows her hair out of her eyes with a huff.
"Yeah. That’s, like, two streets back. You’re not far. Come on. I’ll walk you there."
"Oh, thank you so much." She sighs with relief.
I extend a hand toward her. "Hi. My name’s Leo James."
"Nice to meet you. I’m Sarah Erickson."
"Do you need to call and let them know you are running late?" I ask, offering her my phone.
"I wouldn’t even know who to ask for. My friend’s dad pulled some strings to get me this interview. He didn’t even tell me who I’m meeting with." She shrugs, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear.
"I’m sure they’ll understand. What kind of work do you do?"
"Uh, I’m not really sure about that either." She smiles uncomfortably and glances at me out of the corner of her eye.
"So, this is, like, a surprise interview?" I laugh, causing her smile to spread across her face. I nearly stumble at the sight.
"Something like that." When she winks, I swear I almost choke on my own tongue.
Fuck, this woman is gorgeous. Her slender figure is covered by a black skirt that hugs the curve of her ass and a white blouse unbuttoned just enough to show a tasteful amount of skin. She’s tall in her black heels, but I still have her by an inch or two. Her blond hair hangs down her back and her blue eyes sparkle in the midday sun.
I clear my throat and barely manage to stop my wandering eyes. "Where are you from? That definitely isn’t a Chicago accent I hear."
She looks over and laughs. "No, definitely not. What gave me away? I haven’t even said y’all yet."
"No, you haven’t. Although I’m sure it will be worth the wait to hear it again." I smile back at her.
She holds my gaze for a minute before biting her bottom lip and looking away. It’s not a shy reaction. It appears as though she’s just trying to cover her own flirtatious grin.
"I’m from Savannah, Georgia. Born and raised. But I’ve lived here for years now. How much farther?" she asks, stealing an impatient peek at her watch.
"Just another block or so," I respond as we stop at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.
"There is no way I’m going to get this job. I’m, like, fifteen minutes late already."
"So you really have no idea what kind of job you’re interviewing for?" I ask when an awkward silence fills the air around us.
"Nah, I do. It’s a very glamorous receptionist position at the newspaper, but that’s about all I do know. "
"Well, that’s bound to be interesting at least."
"Right. Answering phones and filing paperwork all day is my dream job," she says sarcastically before clarifying. "Don’t get me wrong though. I’m really excited about having a job again. What do you do?"
"I own a security agency," I answer, and for some reason, it seems to surprise her.
She looks at me with her head tilted. "Like installing security alarms?"
"No, more like personal protection type stuff. Here." I reach into my back pocket and pull one of my business cards out of my wallet.
"Guardian Protection Agency," she reads aloud, continuing her quick steps down the sidewalk. "You’re a bodyguard?"
"I don’t do much of the actual street work anymore. I run more of the business side of things and train the new guys, but yeah, I guess bodyguard is the easiest explanation."
"Wow. That actually does sound interesting. You’re making me feel completely inadequate with my receptionist position now. You know, the one I won’t be getting because I’m officially almost twenty minutes late now. Shit." She cusses to herself as I chuckle.
"Well, you’re in luck, because we’re here." I motion to the large door of the Chicago Tribune. Stepping forward, I open it for her.
"Oh, thank God." She smooths out her skirt and runs a hand through her hair before walking inside.
"Miss Erickson?" an older woman snaps, making it quite clear that my blonde thankfully isn’t married.
"Yes, uh, that’s me," Sarah responds hesitantly, and I can’t blame her for her trepidation. Even with just two words, this woman has made it clear that she’s pissed.
"You’re late. I’m sorry but the job is no longer—"
I jump to interrupt her before she has a chance to dismiss Sarah completely. "I’m sorry. It’s my fault that Miss Erickson is late. Mrs. …?" I lift an eyebrow, fishing for her name.
"Fernandez," she finishes for me, obviously trying to figure out who the hell I am and why she should care.
"Ah, hablas espa?ol?" (Ah, you speak Spanish?)
"Sí," she answers, still perplexed.
"De donde eres?"(Where are you from?)