Freedom Read Free

my nerves. Between his management style, and my mother’s breakdowns over wanting to flee New Jersey, I was suffocating.
    After I interviewed with Carson Blackard at his furniture factory last week, I knew he would be so much more pleasant to work for than my father, and I already have Lauren and Imogene here as friends—people that have no connection to my Jersey life and the other family I am trying to forget about.
    In my interview, Carson mentioned that the office is casual unless they visit clients out of the office. Nevertheless, I want to make a good impression on my first day, so I wear a charcoal gray pencil skirt that falls just above my knees; low black pumps; and a fitted, white silk blouse with a relaxed neckline. It’s not casual, but it’s not too conservative, either. I consider wrapping my long hair up into a loose twist, then decide that will look like I am trying too hard. I have seen the shop—guys wearing flannel and covered in sawdust and the receptionist wearing jeans—so I don’t want to look ridiculously out of place. I leave my hair down in loose waves and put on some mascara and lip gloss before heading out the door.
    When Carson gave me the tour, I paid strict attention to the details of the process—from weathering the wood in the ovens to the actual craftsmanship that takes place in the studio. I took copious notes like I was in chemistry class, repeating everything he said and writing it down like I expected some big test on all the material. Carson kept glancing at my clipboard and smiling, probably because I was clearly so nervous and overzealous in my all-business attitude.
    Once in town, I drive off the main street and around the building where others have parked behind the factory’s extension that houses new equipment. The employees’ vehicles are parked any which way on the dirt area, so I wedge my little car up along the far back wall, parking parallel to the side of the building and close to the side door. I have the smallest car on the lot, so it seems like the best spot for me.
    I grab my huge leather satchel, which only holds my wallet and cell phone, hoping it makes me look more professional despite its sparse contents. I take the side entrance inside and walk through a hallway of offices that leads me out to the front desk where Daisy, the receptionist, sits.
    “Good morning, Emma!” Daisy says, jumping out of her chair. “It’s so nice to see you again.” She is a very chipper person, the kind you want greeting everyone who comes through the front door.
    “Hello, Daisy. It’s nice to see you, too. Where should I put my bag? Carson never showed me where I’d be working.” I step behind the receptionist counter to join her.
    “That’s because we had to clean out the back office to make space for you and Dylan. He’s really a sweetheart. You’ll like—”
    Daisy is cut off when a tall, broad-shouldered guy comes striding around the front of the receptionist’s counter. “Who took my spot?” he demands. “Someone parked in my bike—”
    “Cool it, Rambo!” Daisy snaps and tosses her headset on her desk. “This is Emma Keller. She’s starting today. Emma, this is Dylan Blackard. You two will be working together.” She shoots Dylan a look that says he needs to play nice.
    “Huh?” He sounds like Scooby-Doo, and I would laugh except he looks like a trained assassin, though a handsome one, in my humble opinion. Still, he looks tough. Actually, he’s very attractive despite a dark sandy buzz cut that shows off long, thin, white scars on either side of his head. He has aqua-blue eyes that complement his sculpted features, and there’s a fierce, rugged quality to him, like someone who has spent a lot of time outdoors. It doesn’t hurt that he is wearing a gray sleeved Henley that hugs his thick chest and his beefy biceps.
    Beefy biceps? Since when do I care about guys’ arms? That’s not like me. I must be a little over-excited about starting work to