“Hurry up.”
Reagan paced back and forth behind the empty chairs surrounding the long conference room table.
She impatiently checked her Chanel watch again and scowled when she realized only a few more seconds had passed since the last time she looked. She made a point to be early this morning, but now at a quarter-past ten, her interviewer was very late. She thought again of abandoning the appointment altogether, but the memory of what she’d left in Dallas reminded her that she had no choice.
She could never go back.
Landing this job would secure her freedom—for now—but every second the interviewer wasted allowed her past to get a step closer to dragging her home.
She glanced at her watch again—what is taking so long?
The clicking sound of the rotating doorknob made Reagan sit back down at the conference room table. A rush of annoyance and fear swept over her as the door began to open. The interviewer would either make her day or ruin her life. She watched a tall man move into the doorway, his broad frame blocking out most of the light from the hallway outside the conference room. Reagan swallowed hard, half-expecting him to thunder into the room, throw her over his shoulder, and cart her back to Texas. Not sure whether she should run or hide, she stayed helplessly glued to her seat.
