Love, Utley (Love Letters #1)

Only he’s not dressed in a T-shirt or a football jersey. He’s in a button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms— exposing tattoos he got during his pro years.

His slightly undone appearance makes it look like attending these interviews has been as taxing on him as they’ve been on us.

I want to see his eyes. See if they’re the same. If I can recognize the man I once knew.

But his head is tilted down. He’s typing something out on his phone, not paying attention.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll keep his head down the entire time. And I can escape this room without him ever realizing who I am.

Dana gestures to her other side. “And this is Peter, the chief financial officer. Considering your positions, you’ll probably chat on a regular basis.”

I smile at the man who looks to be about fifty. “Nice to meet you.”

The urge to talk in a higher tone to disguise my voice is tempting, but I know I won’t be able to keep it up. And considering that Maddox hasn’t moved, I don’t think it’s necessary.

Dana starts off with a few questions. Simple things. Asking about my history with the company. What I like about it. If I’d like to stay in the same position or eventually move to something else.

I answer her as honestly as possible and keep my eyes on her and Peter, avoiding the owner. The man who couldn’t look less interested.

Peter points to a piece of paper in front of him, which I can see is my résumé— probably sent up by HR. “I see you were the accountant for Petals, Ms. Utley. Is that the flower shop that used to be over on 24th Street?”

When Peter says my last name, two things happen at once.

I hold my breath, and Maddox jerks his head up.

THREE

MADDOX

Utley.

Hearing that name is like getting hit in the chest with a pair of electric paddles.

Ms. Utley.

It can’t be.

I stare at the profile of the woman sitting across the table from me.

It can’t fucking be.

But…

The hair color.

The slope of her nose.

I lean forward in my chair.

I narrow my eyes.

There they are. The tiny dots across her cheek. The freckles. The ones that don’t just dust her face but also her chest, dipping between her breasts.

A weird sort of adrenaline pumps through my veins as I reach for the stack of résumés ahead of me.

I have to flip through the sheets, skipping past the ones I never bothered to look at.

Then I find it, and my fingers still.