"I don't think of it as luck or chance, Miss (l/n). The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said, 'The...
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I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to SSA Hotchner office, and gentle hands are around me, helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to comply myself to glance up. Holy cow—he's so hot.
"Miss Rose." He extends a long-fingered veiny hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner but you can just call me Hotchner. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?"
He's so attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a clean cut black suit, white shirt, and black tie with black slicked hair and intense, bright brown eyes that makes me tremble a little. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.
"Um. Actually—" I mutter. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel electricity run through my body. I withdraw my hand quickly, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.
"Miss Rose came down with an awful cold, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, SSA Hotchner."
"Just Hotchner's fine. And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his serious expression. He looks slightly interested but, above all, polite.
"(y/n) (l/n). I'm studying Psychology with Chanel at Loyola University, um ... Miss Rose, I mean"
"I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smirk in his expression, but I'm not sure.
"Would you like to sit?" He waves me towards two office chairs sitting right in front of his modern wood desk. On his desk I can see a bunch of papers on filers and behind his desk I can see rows and rows of books. There's no way he has read all those.
"Read most of them, others where boring" says Hotchner as he follows my gaze.
"Wow. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur, distracted both by him and the boxes. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.
"I'm guessing you haven't meet Spencer Reid yet, Miss (y/n)," he replies, his voice soft, I blush at tone and fact I have indeed met Spencer Reid. Apart from the books, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the man who sinks gracefully into his larger desk chair. I shake my head and retrieve Chanel's questions from my backpack. Next, I set up the digital recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the desk in front of me. Hotchner says nothing, waiting patiently—I hope—as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile.
"S-sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."
"Take all the time you need, Miss (l/n)," he says.
