Love, Utley (Love Letters #1)

But if that was true, I don’t think they’d call them interviews. It would just be a meeting.

“I just finished mine,” Brandon says, referring to his interview. “Wasn’t too bad.”

“Did they take the whole forty minutes?” I ask.

He makes a face. “Pretty much. But the questions seemed standard. Didn’t feel like they were trying to trip me up or anything.”

“That’s good.” A bit of my anxiety melts away. “Is it really three people at once?”

Brandon’s been here since I started four years ago. I know he’ll stand there talking whether I ask questions or not, so I might as well ask.

“Yeah. The new CEO seems alright. I think her name was Dana. And the CFO dude was pretty chill. But the last guy.” He rolls his eyes. “He didn’t even say anything.”

“Who was the last guy?” I can tell Brandon doesn’t like him, so now I’m intrigued.

“The owner.” He scoffs as if he wouldn’t love to own a multimillion-dollar company.

“He can’t be that bad if he didn’t say anything,” I try to point out.

Brandon lifts the shoulder he’s not leaning on. “I mean, I guess it’d be worse if he was trying to grill me about my position. Considering he probably knows nothing about it.”

Ah, yes, there is the obnoxious man I know.

“If he owns the company, I’m sure he gets the basics.” I try to keep my annoyance out of my tone.

Brandon is a sales guy, not a freaking mechanical engineer. It’s absurd to assume the owner of the company couldn’t keep up with his day-to-day selling of solar energy equipment.

I’m an internal auditor. My job is a bit more nuanced, but it really just boils down to me overseeing accounts and expenses. If this guy has enough money to own a solar company large enough to buy and absorb our company, then I’m sure he understands money. Probably even better than I do.

“Maybe,” Brandon says skeptically. “But he’s only been in the business for like two years. Before that, he played football.”

A small chill creeps up the back of my neck, and I sit up straighter in my chair. “What do you mean he played football?”

Brandon glances over his shoulder to check that the hallway is clear, then steps farther into my office. “Have you not heard who the owner is?”

I slowly shake my head. “No. Who is it?”

“It’s Mad Dog Maddox. He was the defensive tackle for us for like five years. And before that, he played for Arizona for—”

I don’t hear any more of what Brandon says because my ears are filled with a high-pitched ringing sound.

Mad Dog Maddox.

Maddox Lovelace.

The Maddox.

The Maddox I spent one life-altering night with in college.

The man who swept me off my feet, literally, and more than once, only to never ever call.

The one whose career I followed closer than I’ll ever admit.

The Maddox I forced myself to stop looking up when he retired from football.

The man who broke my twenty-year-old heart.

The one I’ve thought of too many times over the past fifteen years.