#I am now working on the hem and it may be a game of yarn chicken

[cultivating-wildflowers]

sleeves!

[wildefiction]

Of Course...Mr. Collins

TWO

The following morning, you awoke early. Dragging yourself from the warm pile of blankets on your bed, you shuffled into the bathroom - steam filling the small space when you twisted the hot water on as far as it would go. You knew blowing out your waist-length [Y/H/C] hair would take awhile and you'd foolishly agreed to meet your potential new boss at the ungodly hour of 8am. Selecting a black ruched pencil skirt and tailored blazer from your wardrobe, you paired it with a soft [Y/E/C] shirt, the fabric was close-fitting and matched the exact color of your eyes.

Glancing at the illuminated blue numbers on your alarm clock, you cursed silently under your breath. You'd need to hurry if you were going to make your meeting on time. After quickly applying a layer of black eyeliner, your make-up was finished. Grabbing your wallet, phone and keys, you quickly said goodbye to your two cats before running out the door.

An hour later you were approaching Bellingham. From what you'd been able to discern, it was a fairly sleepy community. There was a main road lined with cobblestone pathways and small shops selling everything from tourist souvenirs to hand crafted yarn. It was clear that small businesses were appreciated here and the thought made you smile. You'd grown up in a similar sort of town.

Driving another fifteen minutes led you into a rather ordinary residential area. Not exactly what you'd imagined from someone in need of a personal assistant. Parking in front of a well manicured lawn, you stared down at the scrap of paper in your hand, the looping handwritten address smearing a bit around the edges. Looking up at the house that belonged to the address written on the paper, you began to wonder if this was some elaborate prank set up by your friends.

With a deep breath, you opened your door, and stepped from the car, the soft click of the locks sliding into place as you approached the stone steps leading up to the front of the house. A cheery cedar wreath hung on the heavy oak door. As your knuckles rapped on the wood, peals of laughter erupted from within. Convinced that this was indeed some giant game, you resolved to give whoever opened that door a piece of your mind. “Hilarious guys...real funny.” Grumbling under your breath, you raise your fist to knock a second time, but hesitate as the sound of the deadbolt shifts.

Pulling the door open, a dark-haired, middle aged man stared down at his right leg, where a small girl had wrapped her arms and legs, giggling as he half-heartedly attempted to shake her off. The easy grin that settled into the man’s face was familiar and your breath hitched in your throat as he raised intense blue eyes to meet your [Y/E/C] ones.

You were standing in front of Misha Fucking Collins.

Inwardly, you might’ve screamed, but were proud of your ability to mask it with a quiet cough; squaring your shoulders and extending a hand to shake his outstretched one. “I’m sorry, I think I must have the wrong house?” 

“Is this 1822 Birch?” 

Stepping back, you look at the front of the structure, searching for numbers, eyes wild. 

“Well, that depends, judging by your attire, I’m guessing you’re either a very thoughtful gift from my wife...or you’re here for the interview?” 

Swallowing thickly, you nod. 

“Erm...the second one.” 

“You must be Ms. [Y/L/N], please, come in.” 

Following Misha over the threshold, you note heavy wooden furniture clustered around a stone fireplace, a lively flame danced over cedar logs, filling the room with a warm welcome.

Misha’s broad shoulders strained under the weight of the lumber, his breathing labored as he fed the hand-made curving beams through the planer, ensuring the bed frame would be evenly thick throughout.

Sweat beaded across his temples, and, reaching down he tugged on the hem of his steel-grey tee shirt, deftly wiping the perspiration from his face before it had the chance to run into his eyes, a soft grunt sounding as the shirt dropped back to cover his briefly exposed skin.

Chastising yourself, your eyes re-focused - effectively snapping out of the daydream. You flushed, thankful Misha hadn’t noticed. So he’d made all of the furniture in the house he’d also built with his own hands, big deal, loads of people have probably done the same...right? If you had any hope of being his personal assistant, drifting off into your own perceived version of events that may - or may not - have actually happened, was going to have to be done on your own time.

“Ms. [Y/L/N], have you ever worked as a personal assistant?” 

Lowering himself to the couch, Misha gestured for you to sit as well. Perching on the edge of the adjacent chair, you thought about the question. Misha stared into your [Y/E/C] eyes, the entirety of his attention trained on you. At some point, presumably when you were lost in your -ahem- thoughts...Misha had managed to disentangle his leg from the small child, who now sat at his feet, playing quietly.

Steeling yourself, you answered the question. “Well...no, but--” 

“I see, and what experience do you have with coordinating a schedule that isn’t your own?” 

“Uhm, well actually I--”

The woman sitting in front of him was nervous, her fingers clumsily tugged at the corners of her blazer, the soft cotton shirt stretching over the curve of her breasts betrayed her frenzied heartbeat. Sighing, he rose, stepping forward to place a hand on her shoulder.

“Ms. [Y/L/N]...”

“[Y/F/N].”

“[Y/F/N], I assume your nerves aren’t due to the distressing concept of a measly job interview, am I mistaken?” 

Not trusting yourself to speak, you shake your head, breath bated. 

“So, out with it then. Where’s the candid, entertaining person I spoke with on the phone yesterday?”  

“Well, yesterday, I wasn’t aware I was speaking to Misha Collins.” 

The look of exasperation spreading over your features caused Misha to laugh, a deep rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest.

Sighing, his grip on your shoulder tightened briefly, his thumb rubbing soft circles of comfort across the surface. 

“[Y/F/N], I’m just a normal guy, I buy groceries for my family, I burn dinner, hell, I even wash my own laundry.” 

The smile tugging at the corners of his mouth made your stomach clench, your eyes flicking to his hand, still resting on your shoulder. 

“Hah, seems like you don’t need me after all.” you quipped. 

Eyes locking onto his, shoulders squaring as you sat up straight, a newfound confidence replaced the nerves. After the snarky remark, easing into a regular conversation became second nature.

CHAPTER 3

TAGS: @jamielea81 @wings-of-a-raven