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With my eyes half-shut in horror, I quickly click back into the application and change my answer beside the question asking me to indicate my designation. Then I grit my teeth and hit Submit before I change my mind.
chapter
two
“We’re definitely not nervous,” Remi chimes, her voice floating out of my car speakers.
The double-layer of scent-blocking, slick-absorbent panties under my navy pencil skirt makes a liar out of her. I pinch the pearly blouse tucked into the tight fabric and pull it out a bit so it billows around my ribs, drawing attention away from the bulky material covering my hips.
Whatever. I’m not here to walk a runway. If their current (pitiful) marketing is any indication, my interview will be a room full of clueless straight men who don’t know the first thing about aesthetics. No one will notice a frumpy skirt.
Just in case, I forced myself to wear my highest nude pumps, even though I cringe slightly every time my toes scrunch. I wonder if all omegas secretly hate heels or if that’s a ‘me’ problem.
Exhaling slowly and tamping down the urge to abandon my whole plan, I do a double-check of my scent. It’s buried under the industrial-strength de-scenter I sprayed liberally over my entire body. The cloud of fumes almost gagged me, but now I’m grateful I used so much.
I can’t take any chances.
Following my GPS, I turn right. A sunny yellow building across the road catches my eye. It’s big, with a yard and a picket fence. My face splits into a smile at the sight of it… until I notice the sign over the door.
New Horizons Children’s Home.
There’s a girl on the front porch, one much too old to be holding the doll hanging from her grasp. I get it, though. It’s probably the only thing she has left from whatever her life was before. My heart lurches, remembering that feeling all too well.
“Meg?”
Get it together, I tell myself. There’s no time for that shit.
Shaking myself out of my own head, I paste my panicked smile back on and glance at the GPS. “Yep. Still here. Hold on. It looks like I’m about to turn in.”
After one more left turn, I find myself on a wide drive surrounded by man-made lakes on both sides. Huge, magazine-worthy palm trees frame the road leading to an enormous parking lot.
“Um, wow.”
The Ospreys’ offices aren’t crammed into some downtown high-rise or suburban strip mall. No; they have a whole freaking compound.
I’m starting to suspect I may have underestimated what a big deal this interview is.
“Tell me everything,” Remi squeals. “I need details!”
She’s been so sweet and supportive, staying on the phone with me for the whole drive. I gulp, my eyes wide while I blink at the scene in front of me and try to come up with a description.
“It’s…” A lot.
Off to the left, I see fields. Plural. Three football fields slotted side-by-side, their goal posts shining yellow. Behind those, their team training center gleams, all steely beams and silvery windows. Through the glass walls, I make out dozens of alphas milling about the first floor. A shiver shimmies down my spine.
Up in the distance, over several acres of grassy hills and valleys, I spot the silhouette of the Ospreys’ home stadium, all twisting metal and glass. Parking garages and other buildings surround it, but I can’t make out any of the businesses from what I estimate to be about half a mile away.
I turn my attention down to my Maps app, hoping my ultimate destination is not inside that gym or the stadium. Thankfully, the dot pinpointing the address is slightly off to the right.
Which means it must be the scary-looking building looming over me. I bend forward and try not to whine as I crane my neck to take it in.
Yikes.
The Ospreys’ ten-story office sucks the sun right out of the sky. It’s massive. Imposing. Pure matte-black from top-to-bottom. Even the windows.
I am so out of my league here.
Remi listens to me mumble some lame description, parking my car as close to the building’s side entrance as I can get. Just in case I need to make a quick get-away. When I tell her I have to go, she assures me I’ll do great and clicks off.
