I wave my hands over the table with a flourish, plaster a toothy smile on my face and hope for the best.
Neither of them move.
I scratch my wrist. Have they turned the furnace on? Maybe it's to keep the, apparently none existent, kids warm? I'm sure it wasn't that hot when I left this morning.
The silence is stretching long enough for my sweating to reach uncomfortable levels, though that might be from the way viking boy is still looking at me. Maybe both.
Clearing my throat, I shift awkwardly and grab from the spread I produced.
"Sooo," I say, voice a little too chipper. "Juice pouch?"
I hold it out in front of me, not to either of them, just to the room in general. Neither move.
"Fruit punch flavour," I wiggle it in the air, making it do a little dance between us. "Peak hydration."
Still nothing. Tough crowd.
I rummage through the chaos of wrappers. "Okay, what about…" I dig deeper, grazing hard candy. "...a lollipop?"
Nope, no response. I sigh, toss the juice pouch onto the table a bit too hard and unwarp the sweet. If they won't have it, I will. Blue raspberry is my favourite anyway, and it will give me a good sugar rush on my shitty walk back to the main road.
Because I am out of here. It's too weird.
I pop it in my mouth with a dramatic little click, when it happens.
Finally a response, but abso-fucking-lutely NOT what I was expecting.
They both growl. My eyes snap up at the feral sound that obviously comes from low in their chests. What on earth?
"You guys don't have…allergies or something right?" I pull the lolly out of my lips with a pop and wave it at them both in turn.
Their eyes widen, man mountain takes the smallest step forward. So much heat now it's pulsing across my skin in waves, pulling goosebumps from places I didn't know could goose.
Please don't be a fever. The last time I got the flu I thought it was all over, my end was coming. Not dramatic at all.
I fidget, crunching the candy a little too hard, then mutter, "It's hot in here, right?"
To myself, because they don't reply, again. But both sets of eyes drop when I reach for the hem of my hoodie and tug it off in one smooth, overheated motion. My tank top sticks in places it shouldn't and finally snaps free to reveal my shirt slogan of choice.
'Don't bully me. It turns me on.'
Look, it's funny. But honestly, I didn't think I would be taking my hoodie off. If I thought I would be coming to a job interview on the surface of the god damn sun, I would have gone for something more appropriate.
Corrian's mouth twitches.
Viking licks his bottom lip.
And me? I'm one sweat-glossed inch away from crawling back into the woods and letting a possum raise me. Really time to go now.
"Right, thanks for the opportunity, but…"
Before I can finish that sentence, the door slides open again.
He enters like he owns the oxygen. And he probably does, this one has to be their CEO or some shit, he screams offshore accounts. Massive still, but slightly shorter than these two, but I suppose everyone's smaller than viking boy.
Pale skin, silver hair cropped short at the sides and the longer top slicked back, a muscle bound villain in a luxury fragrance ad. China tea cup in one hand, tablet in the other.
I don' see his eyes move, he looks focussed on the screen.
"Of course she's wearing that." His voice is low and velvet.
I blink. "I'm sorry, who the fu…"
He raises a single finger, stopping me mid flow, indicating I'm a particularly annoying Google pop-up and finally looks at me. Those eyes are polished ice, calculating and cold.
"Ezra," he says. "You're late."
Corrian makes a noise in his throat, Ezra ignores it and takes a casual sip of tea. Treating this hell room like a board meeting and not a very real standoff involving candy and unprocessed tension.
"She's scenting the whole goddamn room," he mutters.
I freeze mid-suck. "I'm sorry, what now?"
But he's no longer looking at me, he's staring just past me. And then I feel it.
A prickle.
I turn slowly.
There's a fourth one, and he didn't push his way in. He arrived.
Leaned in the doorway, carved out of shadow, silence and green-eyed hunger. Broad, barefoot and shirtless. Hair white blond and buzzed at one side. Tattoos crawl across his entire carved torso, every muscled inch is covered, moving up his thick neck like smoke, licking at his jaw.
Across his hairline ink stretches as a dark halo. Down the side of his cheek, neat script is inked in the same language viking boy has.
Oh he's dangerous.
Without blinking, he inhales. A deep breath he draws in and holds. I swear on every pack of mini donuts I've ever loved, he growls so low I feel it through the soles of my boots.
My mouth opens, nothing comes out, I'm blank.
Confused, too hot, too horny, drowning in far too much testosterone. I still don't know what this stupid job is, no one is speaking to me, I feel like a zoo exhibit and I'm getting really, really pissed off.
I open my mouth to give them all a mouthful and tell them not so kindly where they can stick their job, when finally, someone speaks. But not anyone in the room. This comes from the hall.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SCENT AND WHY IS IT MAKING MY DICK HARD?"