Harley
I am drowsy.
Technically, I got enough sleep—if we subtract the hours spent tossing and turning, haunted by the image of Clad and Erin strolling through the garden like the perfect couple. Then, yeah, I got plenty of rest. About five hours? Maybe four? Whatever it was, it was barely enough to function, and now here I am, sitting through an unwanted interview that no one warned me would include a deep dive into my sexuality, past relationships, and whether or not I've ever had sex.
And to top it all off, my ever-so-professional interviewer casually explained that these deeply inappropriate questions were personally requested by the higher-ups—which, in brackets, translates to my future mother-in-law.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I sigh.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Moore. Are these questions a little too much for you? Would you like to take a break?" The woman across from me asks, her saccharine smile so bright I half expect her to pull out a tray of cookies.
