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Embarrassed by my verbal dump and unable to look at the man in front of me, I stare at the table. His hands grasp both of mine. They’re big, rough, and calloused—the hands of someone who works hard.
“Tess, you got this.”
“How do you know?” I can’t believe I’m getting comforted by a strange man in a coffee shop, but at this point I’ll take it where I can get it.
“Not everyone would do what you’re doing. Putting your life on hold to help your family. It takes a special kind of strength.” He squeezes my hands, like he’s emphasizing his point.
I don’t know what to say. Nodding, I try to pull my hands away. He allows it, but only because he needs one of them to tilt my chin up so I’m looking into his burning brown eyes.
“I’ve been around a lot. I’ve known all different kinds of people. Some people give up. Some people keep fighting.” His thumb skims along my jaw, and I breath in a hint of freshly cut wood. “You’re a fighter.”
Rand’s words ring with the truth and purity of a church bell through my chest. He’s right. I am a fighter. I’ve gotten this far, and I’ll keep going.
He must see the new resolve in my eyes because he smiles, leans back, and takes a sip of his drink. “What job are you interviewing for, fighter?”
“I have an interview with Moreau Construction. All I know is they build houses for the rich and famous. The job is for some kind of administrative assistant.”
“And you don’t meet the qualifications?”
“I’m two-thirds done with my degree in architecture, and I know how to answer a phone. But they’re asking for three years of experience as an administrative assistant. I guess they liked my resume enough to give me an interview, but I’m still nervous. I know I can do the job, but you know how it is. Sometimes, even when you’re completely capable, if you don’t fit the mold then people don’t want you.”
Rand frowns at me, a contemplative look in his eyes. “I know what you mean, fighter. But I think this time you might just get lucky.”
