by K. D. Black
I snort and sit purposefully in my comfortable, expensive office chair. Why am I even worrying about this? I’m the 33 year old, dark-haired, muscular, handsome CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Of course any candidates my office sends through will be good. The trick will be finding the best one, because I don’t settle for anything but the best.
Carelessly flipping my wrist over to look at the face of my Rolex, a quick mental calculation tells me how much time I have until the meeting. I wouldn’t hesitate to lie about having a meeting scheduled to get rid of an interviewer, but I actually do have one today—just not with the entire board. I’m only meeting Elijah, and it’s an informal affair. When he suggested we meet for lunch instead of at HQ, I agreed readily to the idea.
Turns out I only have about 45 minutes. Gathering my keys and wallet from the locked drawer in my desk, I take one more glance at the sky, then abandon it for the enclosure of the elevator down the hall from my office. The doors open to reveal the lofty entryway, glass formations, and marble floors, but I’m too busy staring at my phone to check for—
Yes, there are still some AutoVS self-driving cars in the parking spots just outside the front of the building. These cars are meant only for senior employees, but sometimes none are available, especially around lunchtime.
It doesn’t usually matter; ordinarily, I have my own, private self-driving car permanently available in this lot. Today, I left it in the parking deck of my apartment building because I wanted to ride in one of our newer models.
Soon, I would take one of those models for myself and the car I currently use will go back to being a taxi or a general company car. For now, I’ll just take one of these that are already here instead of calling my car to come get me through city traffic.
I opt to type in the name of the Italian restaurant instead of speaking my destination aloud, seeing as I’m not totally sure how to actually pronounce the place’s name.
“Thank you,” the car’s smooth voice says. “You will arrive in 26 minutes.”
I more or less expected that arrival time, but the corner of my mouth still dips into a frown. Our reservation is for 1:15, and since the time is 12:56 now, that leaves me 19 minutes.
Oh well. With how I tip, they wouldn’t dare hand off my reservation.
As always, my car’s estimation is accurate and I arrive in precisely 26 minutes. I speedily finish drafting one last email as the car pulls up to the curb and hit send as I’m exiting.
Shit. I forgot to delete a bit of this sentence after I changed part of it, so now a couple disconnected words are just sitting there in the middle of it.
The point I wanted to make is still clear enough, so I put the mistake out of my mind and head into the Italian restaurant. As I expected, my reservation is still available despite the fact that Elijah hasn’t arrived yet, and the waiter that always serves me escorts me to the table. “Can I get you something to—”
“Water,” I say, already preoccupied with the menu.
“Of course, sir.” The man disappears.
“Afternoon,” Elijah greets me, sitting down across the table.
“Not bad, not good?”
“Standard for me. How’d the interview go?”
When I wear my expensive suits, I refuse to roll my eyes—but, sometimes I want to. “What do you think? Boring questions, too polite, smooth as honey. You know the type.”
Elijah’s lips press together as he reaches for the menu. “Doesn’t matter what she asks, it just matters that she gets answers that give her a good impression of the company. Public opinion matters, despite what you seem to think.”
“I know public opinion matters. I’ve been with the company a while.” My voice drips with sarcasm as tangible as the droplets slipping down the glass the waiter sets before me.
“Water, please,” Elijah tells the waiter when asked about a drink.
“Are you ready to order?” the man asks, pen and notepad in hand.
We order, then Elijah returns to the conversation. “I know. I’m just saying that some of the directors aren’t so sure you know or care. Thank you,” he tacks onto the end of his words when the waiter sets his water on the table.
I wave my hand impatiently. “What, Darren and Neil? They’re never happy with anything I do. Anyway, I’m hiring an administrative assistant tomorrow. Should help me keep things a bit more organized and get some little things done that those two are always onto me about.”
Elijah leans forward, setting his water down untouched. “You need to take this seriously. I support you and I’ll continue doing so, but you can’t just dismiss the board’s opinions. Two can become three or four fast.”
I sip my water, taking the time to squeeze the lemon into the drink. He does have a point. In business, things can change fast and developments can come out of nowhere. Still, Darren and Neil’s concerns are so unfounded that the rest of the board won’t even have ears for their doubts within a couple weeks or so.
“I am,” I promise Elijah, setting my drink down and meeting his eyes. “I’ve got this handled; just give me some time.”
Elijah’s brown eyes study mine, then he leans back, shaking his head. “If you say so. Anyway, that’s not why we’re here,” he points out. “To business?”
“To business,” I confirm.
An hour and two plates of very expensive and unique pasta dishes later, Elijah and I have settled the matter brought to his attention by a prominent shareholder. It was too small an issue to justify a board of directors meeting, so a quick, one-on-one lunch turned out to be the perfect way to resolve it.
I drop a tip on the table, and Elijah and I stand and shake hands. “Pleasure working with you, as always,” I say pleasantly. The change of scenery and ease with which we solved this problem has bolstered my spirits.
“And you,” he responds. “I hope we continue working together.”
And with that, Elijah wends his way through the maze of fancy tables and vanishes through the door.
Not ominous at all. Elijah knows how much I’ve put into this company to get it this far, and his concern does mean something to me, regardless of what he might think.
I wonder if I should take this a bit more seriously. Really, I already am—I just don’t like explaining every little decision I make and every single plan I have, especially when they’re my business and not the company’s.
Hiring an administrative assistant is just the start. Never before have I needed to ask myself, “Where do I go from here?” and I still don’t.
I just need to make sure I hire the best possible assistant tomorrow—one who will let me put my plans to regain the favor of the board into motion.
Chapter Three: Brooke
When I woke up today, I had a realization. Make that two.
First, I can’t just skip work and go to an interview at another company instead. That’s not a professional thing to do.
Second, when I tried to call my manager with the intention of taking a sick day or something, this is what he said: “Don’t worry, your father called us to explain things. Your two weeks off have been approved.”
I don’t know what the hell my dad told them, but I’ll take it, I guess. Saves me either having to quit or make up some bullshit explanation they probably won’t believe.
Dad hung around just long enough this morning to tell me my interview is scheduled for 1:30, then disappeared somewhere. I’m not too concerned; I know where the AutoVS HQ building is. Since my father spends an excessive amount of time here and has since I was in high school, I’ve visited the place once or twice—or several times.
To think I’ll be returning to the place now as a spy. Like in some James Bond movie or something.
The idea is almost romantic in a way, and I amuse myself with pouring a bowl of cereal and imagining how I’ll pull this off.
Because, I have to pull this off. I absolutely have to. Nothing else will get NYAR back on its feet.
Suddenly, I realize I’m fidgeting. W
hile I’m familiar with the duties required of an administrative assistant, I’ve never held any sort of position like that. Usually, an applicant for a job like that only needs a GED and some experience, possibly not even the latter. With my degree in Business Administration, settling for a job as an assistant is just… embarrassing. A total waste of my tuition.
Oh well. If I do lose the job I currently have, as long as I succeed at this, Dad will be able to give me just about any job available at AutoVS.
And look at that. It’s time to get ready to leave.
I toss my cereal bowl in the sink and return to my room to pick out the clothes I’ll wear today. The wide windows stream sunlight into the closet when I open the doors, illuminating the choices I have.
Despite all the time I spend at the shelter, I’m very familiar with business professional wear. You just can’t get anywhere with my major without owning at least three different professional outfits, and since I also need them for work now, I have several outfits to mix and match from.
Absentmindedly rubbing the smooth fabric of one of my blouses between my fingers, I wonder what Hayden looks like. Should I go with my most professional outfit? Or should I go with one that still meets professional standards, but accentuates my body in a way that’s borderline sexy? What a dilemma.
I go with borderline sexy, partially because that blouse and jacket are my favorites. Hanging the clothes up in the bathroom, I step into the shower, hum my way through clean hair and fresh skin, then look over my selection of makeup.
Half an hour later, I’ve done my makeup, put on my clothes, and I look presentable. No, I decide as I do a quick pose, half turning away from the mirror and staring at myself from behind a wavy curtain of chestnut hair, I look sexy.
Satisfied, I gather my purse with the application in it from my bedside table, check for my keys and wallet, and grab my phone on the way out. My three-inch stilettos tap into the elevator, then the sound echoes in the spacious entryway to the apartment building.
I step outside and use the Vees app to flag down an AutoVS self-driving car as I’ve done a million times. Somehow, I look at the vehicle differently this time as I sit in the...passenger seat? Still not sure what to call it.
“AutoVS Headquarters,” I say when prompted.
“Thank you. You will arrive in 32 minutes.”
I settle back, fish my earbuds out of my purse, and let the car do its thing. Eight-and-a-half songs later, the car pulls to the curb in from of the looming AutoVS building and I hop out.
“Thank you for traveling with AutoVS. You can—”
“—Use the Vees app to schedule a drive or call a car to your location, I know, thanks,” I mutter as I shut the door. I don’t actually need to shut the door; the car does that for you. Habits, though. Habits.
Also, if I didn’t shut the door, I might have just jumped back into the car. Even years after college, interviews still make me nervous. And, I don’t just want this job. I have to get it.
And why won’t this damn door open? It’s a simple revolving door, why the hell—
Oh. I’m pushing the wrong way.
Face burning, I retreat and enter the building correctly. A quick glance to get my bearings turns into a wide-eyed stare. Memories pour into my mind, and somehow the vaulted ceilings, twisting water features, and glittering floors don’t do the realism of my current surroundings justice. Has it really been so long since Dad brought me here?
I want to inspect one of the fountains more closely, but I don’t have time. A welcome desk wraps around a corner up two sets of stairs, so I head there to ask where to go.
“Administrative assistant?” an attentive, well-groomed man asks. When I nod, he points me to the elevator, which opens when he hits a button. “It’ll take you to the right floor. There’s another desk up there. Ask for the application form and the sign-in sheet, unless you’ve finished the application form already.”
“Thank you.” I step into the elevator and it begins to rise, quickly rising the floor count. Nervousness guides my hand to my purse, and my fingers touch the neatly folded application.
All too soon the elevator comes smoothly to a halt. I step out and glance around. There’s a desk to my left and a row of chairs to my right, many of which are occupied already. “Hi, I’m here to interview as an administrative assistant,” I say as I approach the desk.
“The sign in sheet is there.” The woman behind the desk nods to a clipboard on the smooth, lacquered wood. “If you need an application form, there’s a pile of them next to it.”
“I’ve completed mine, thank you.” She extends a hand and I pass it to her. Her spectacled eyes roam over the form. What if I forgot to fill in a blank? But she just nods and places it in a wall-mounted file holder. “You can take a seat. Mr. Nicholson will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you,” I say again. Mr Nicholson absolutely is not going to be with me shortly. If all these people showed up for interviews, mine has no chance of starting at 1:30.
Not like my time is worth more than some billionaire’s anyway.
30 minutes and two applicants later, I decide I don’t care if the woman at the desk will consider listening to music unprofessional. Leaving one earbud out so I can hear when (if, really) she calls my name, I do my best to look attentive, not impatient, and not tap my foot to the upbeat tune.
The room slowly empties. I’ve fallen into a sort of boredom-induced funk, and I only manage to shake my mind from its daze when I realize I’m the only person left and the time on my phone reads 2:57.
Dad’s going to get an earful later.
Finally, the lady behind the desk checks her screen and calls, “Brooke McColl?”
I stand up quickly, both relieved and annoyed. “Here,” I reply.
“Mr Nicholson will see you now. Straight down the hallway, last door at the very end.”
The instant I turn my back to the woman to follow her instructions, any pleasantness slips from my demeanor and a scowl darkens my face. This is absolutely ridiculous. What a complete and utter waste of my time—and now, I’m pissed off, which means I might as well go in there and just stick my tongue out and do a few cartwheels because I already know I won’t be able to make a good impression.
About 30 seconds of standing outside the door flies past before I’m able to rearrange my face from serial killer material into something fit for an interview with a CEO. Taking a deep breath, I push the carved double doors open and step inside.
Beautiful, extensive views, expensive furnishings, smooth, ornate floors—this office is exactly what I expected.
The man in it isn’t.
“Please, have a seat.” The dark-haired, gray-eyed, young, and incredibly handsome man sitting at the desk gestures to a chair.
I’m ready for an interview. I’m not mentally prepared to stare into the focused gray eyes of the hottest man I’ve ever seen. “Thank you,” I managed, my righteous anger at having to wait so long fading away like mist on a hot summer morning.
“Hm.” His perfectly groomed eyebrows furrow as he glances from a list of names to my application. “You’re not Alice Eichler.”
“No,” I agree after a moment, because he seems to expect a response. “I’m Brooke. Brooke McColl.
“Hm.”
Hm. Just… hm. After an hour and a half of waiting, all this man has to say is “hm”. Suddenly, the perfect fit of his suit and the way the gray of his tie brings out his eyes isn’t so distracting. “She probably couldn’t wait,” I offer, perfectly aware the comment borders on disrespectful.
Sure enough, the straight lines of his brows slant even more, changing the orbs of his eyes to forbidding half moons. “I apologize,” he says after a moment, standing and offering me his hand. “I’m Hayden Nicholson.”
I stand as well and shake his hand. The strength of his grip surprises me as his hand envelops mine, and I wish secretly that his suit was just a little tighter in the arms so I could see the muscles I’m sure the clot
hes are hiding. “Brooke M-McColl.” My teeth find the soft skin on the inside of my lip. He basically forced me to introduce myself twice.
“So.” Hayden scans my application. “Degree in Business Administration, 26 years old…. Why do you want this job?”
Wow. Am I crazy on annoyance or something, or does he sound just like Dad? That is to say, vaguely confused and disappointed in my job/life choices? “After college, I could only find a part-time job. It pays well, but there’s no possibility of it becoming a full-time job, which is what I need.”
“Administrative assistant doesn’t really seem like your type of job,” Hayden says bluntly. “Why not apply for full-time jobs more suited to you?”
Well, he isn’t stupid, even if he does act like an ass. “My father is on the board of directors, so he recommended the job.” I toyed briefly with the idea of not mentioning my father, but Hayden probably recognizes my name already.
“Darren’s daughter, right.” Soon I won’t have teeth left if I keep grinding them together every time I detect a note of dismissal in Hayden’s voice. “I was wondering how someone with no prior experience as an administrative assistant got an application when that was a specific requirement I mentioned.”
Oh. My. God. How can this man possibly be CEO of a Fortune 500 company? “I don’t have personal experience, but I’m familiar with the job and I’m very familiar with other aspects of business.” There. I didn’t say anything I’ll regret.
“I think you’ll find a company of AutoVS’ size is a little different from the companies you're accustomed to working for.” He slides right into his next question without realizing that my throat has actually closed up with anger. “If you got the job, when is the earliest date you could start?”
“Tomorrow.” The word comes out short and irritated. Come on, Brooke. Breathe.
“Hm.”
Even his vocabulary is nonexistent.
“Well, let me explain a bit about what your duties would be and how my company works. A normal workday would consist of—”