by JA Huss
Who am I kidding? I think to myself as I take a sip of wine to hide my smile. I want it to be him. I bet Nolan Delaney fucks like a porn star. I bet he could make me writhe and moan just like the men do to the girls in those videos.
Nora helps me pack as we finish our wine, but as soon as I have my suitcases lined up at the front door, I tell her goodnight.
I have a date with my vibrator and I want to picture Mr. Romantic’s face as I make myself come.
Chapter Two - Ivy
The next morning I’m a bundle of nerves. Nora gets up to see me off, looking blurry-eyed and a little hungover in her pink nightie. I wish I had something like that to wear for Nolan when I have sex with him this week.
Mental note. Buy lingerie as soon as I get to California. I don’t know how, but I need it. My first time is going to be perfect. Candles, flowers, and sexy underwear.
Additional mental note. Don’t call him Nolan in person.
A door slams outside and I peek out the window at an older man walking up towards our townhouse. He came in a shiny black car and he’s wearing a crisp dark suit.
“Well, I guess that’s my ride.”
“Hey, babe,” Nora says, giving me a hug and handing me a travel mug of my favorite coffee. “Have a good time, OK? And text me pictures.”
I nod as the doorbell rings. “I will, I promise.”
“And don’t do anything too crazy,” Nora says.
“Do I ever?” I say, opening the door.
Nora laughs. “No, never. I’m not worried one bit.”
“Miss Rockwell?” the driver asks.
“That’s me.” I smile.
“Let me get your luggage.”
He does, and I follow him down the walkway, looking back to wave at Nora, my stomach all aflutter. I’m going to enjoy this week. I might not come back home with a job, but I will come home more experienced.
The driver sets my case down on the sidewalk and opens the back door of the car for me. I slip into the soft leather seat and get settled with my purse as he loads my yellow carry-on into the trunk. I don’t need much for a weekend. I packed a bathing suit because it’s summer and I’m going to California. I’m wearing my nice cream-colored linen suit. I picked it out last spring and this is the first chance I’ve had to even put it on. And a few other things. That’s about it.
When he gets in, he glances back at me in the rear view mirror and says, “You’re flying out of a private airfield.”
“OK,” I say, a little too quickly. I’m nervous.
“I just didn’t want you to wonder where we were going.” And then the driver shoots me a warm smile. “Top-secret stuff like this can make a young girl like you anxious.”
Hmm. What does that mean? Do I look so sheltered and scared that this complete stranger picked up on my innocence?
I need to do something about this. I realize I have no hope of getting this job, but I will need a job. If a driver who’s known me all of two minutes can pick me out as one of the weak ones, how will I ever impress big, important people enough to give me a chance on the business world?
Ivy Rockwell, you need to grow up. And not just in the sex department.
I make a vow to myself. This week is an opportunity to step out of my comfort zone and I’m going to accept every invitation that comes my way. I need to see more of the world. I need to do new things. I need to put myself out there and take risks.
Welcome to Opposite Ivy Weekend. Where every time I get the urge to say no to unfamiliar things, I will say yes. And every time I get the urge to say yes to familiar things, I will say no.
I think I saw this on an old episode of Seinfeld once, so it has to work. And the next time I have an interview I’m going to walk in there with an air of worldliness.
I bite my lip as we drive.
Can I really remake myself in one weekend?
I think I can. No one there knows me. They know nothing about me aside from what was on my résumé. And on paper, I look pretty good. Honor student at an exclusive private school growing up. Ivy League education at Brown. I graduated magna cum laude, which is very hard to do at Brown. They have a strict policy about giving out awards of distinction.
I have loads of hours under my belt for various Fortune 500 companies during my summer internships and I was a mentor sister to ten underprivileged girls in the entrepreneurial program in the New England area.
In fact, maybe I do deserve this job? I don’t have a lot of outside experience, but I am smart, hard-working, and…
Wait, Ivy.
You can’t sleep with the boss and get the job.
No, that would be the definition of awkward.
I let out a long breath as I take in the drive. So which one do I want more? The job? Or the sex? The odds of making either one come true are low. Very low, I admit. But if I don’t try…
I smile as I think about last night. I pictured Nolan Delaney’s face the entire time I was masturbating. Yeah, him. I think I want him more than the job. But if there’s no way I’m going to lose my virginity to the infamous Mr. Romantic, then I’ll take the job.
I’ll know right away if he’s even interested, right? Our eyes will meet across the room. He will look me up and down like he’s hungry, mentally undressing me in front of everyone. He’ll find ways to get me alone, make excuses for his fingertips to brush against my bare arm.
That’s how it works. I’ve read it in books.
So if I don’t get any of those signals today, then I’ll just go for the job. Problem solved.
The driver drops me off right on the tarmac of a small private airstrip where a jet is waiting. “Wow,” I say, getting out with the help of the driver. “It’s kinda big.”
“It’s a long trip, miss. Needs to be big to have enough fuel for a non-stop.”
That makes sense. But. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a plane this size. It looks massive. “Does he fly everyone around like this?” I ask the driver as he gets my carry-on out from the trunk.
“Only the ones he wants to impress, miss. I have you returning Sunday. But they’ll call me and let me know the exact time. Have a good time and good luck.” And then he tips his fancy driver hat at me and someone is there to take my case.
I smile at the driver and redirect my attention to the new guy. He says, “I’m Jerry, Miss Rockwell. I’m in charge of getting you safely to Borrego Springs per Mr. Delaney’s orders. It’s a long flight, I’m sorry to say.” We start walking towards the jet and I suddenly have a case of the butterflies. “But there’s plenty of entertainment on board. TV, gaming, if you like that. A full kitchen if you’re hungry and an office if you feel the need to work. If you get tired, we have two bedrooms to choose from.”
“Holy shit,” I say before I can stop myself.
“I know.” Jerry laughs. “Believe me, I’ve been working for these guys for eight years and I’m still not used to it.”
“These guys?” I ask. “You mean, like, all the Misters?”
“Yeah. Don’t let them scare you. They’re good men, not exactly what the reporters made them out to be.”
“So they’re still good friends. That’s nice.”
“Well,” Jerry says, waving me forward to ascend the stairs up to the jet door first, “not exactly. They hardly ever talk these days. They all went their separate ways a while back. But they purchased this jet together as a show of solidarity eight years ago when the charges were dropped.”
When I get to the top of the stairs I step inside and have to take a breath. It’s like a house in here. A narrow one, for sure. But it’s just as wide as the townhouse I share with Nora. And better equipped.
We enter what looks to be a living room, complete with flatscreen and a long sectional couch. There’s a bar, with a bartender, who smiles and says, “Hello,” as I gawk at him.
“Hello,” I say back, a little timid, even for me. Stop it, Ivy. Be assertive. I walk forward to the bartender and stick out my hand over the shiny burl woo
d bar. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ivy Rockwell. What should I call you?”
“Jonathan,” he says with a smile. “Now, what can I get you to relax?”
A drink. He’s asking me what I want to drink. I don’t really drink, but I’m Opposite Ivy now. So I say, “What do you think a girl like me drinks?”
He tilts his head at me, grinning. “You don’t look like a drinker, Miss Rockwell. Would you like a sparkling water?”
I let out a small laugh, like I’ve seen powerful women do in movies and TV. “Well, I’m flattered you think so, Jonathan. But I like…” Shit. The only drink names I know are the stupid ones the sorority girls used to serve me in the house. So I choose my father’s drink. “Cognac.” I say it with as much confidence as I can muster.
“Really?” Jonathan says with raised eyebrows. “I’d have never guessed that one. My grandfather drinks cognac. In fact, I think Nolan’s father drinks cognac too.”
“Well,” I say, forcing myself not to wipe my sweaty hands on my business skirt, “I like to keep people on their toes. And it’s a man’s world, right? Might as well try to fit in.”
“Hmm,” Jonathan says, turning towards his bar and looking up at the top shelf. “I have this.” He reaches up and pulls down a very pretty bottle and grabs a glass at the same time. “I typically serve this in a balloon snifter, but that’s far too manly for such a pretty young woman. So the tulip snifter it is.” He pours a small amount as I fidget and look over my shoulder. Jerry is standing behind me, my case already stowed, smiling.
Jesus. They already have me pegged as an impostor. But I know a little bit about this drink. My father was really into it and I’ve watched him taste cognac my whole life. So I take the glass, and swirl, doing my best to not look nervous, and then take a small sip.
Holy hell. It’s strong. I can’t stop the grimace and Jonathan chuckles. I swallow it down and breathe out forcefully, my eyes tearing up.
“Too strong?” Jonathan asks.
Very strong. But I smile and say, “Is this XO or Hors D’Age?”
“Ah,” Jonathan says. “So you do know something about it. But don’t waste your time trying to impress us, Miss Rockwell. We’re not part of the interview.”
“Shit,” I say. “Am I that obvious?”
“Very,” Jerry says, coming up next to me at the bar. “But it was a bold move, Miss Rockwell. And no doubt it will have the effect you’re looking for. A woman who knows cognac is impressive.”
I laugh and then say, “I don’t really drink. But I’m being Opposite Ivy this week for this interview. I want to impress Mr. Delaney and I don’t want to come off as some newly-graduated millennial who has no real-world experience. So I need all the help I can get.”
“Well,” Jerry says, “Jonathan can tell you all there is to know about cognac if you’d like. And if you want to know how to impress Mr. Delaney, I’m happy to help as well.”
“Please,” I say. “To both offers.” I ease up onto one of the barstools as Jerry takes the one next to me. “I’m listening.”
I spend the next six hours drinking, laughing, and getting many, many tips on what Mr. Delaney is looking for in an employee.
Smart. Ruthless. Take-no-prisoners kind of people. That’s what they tell me.
“He wants go-getters, Miss Rockwell,” Jerry says just before we land. “People who know what they want and go take it. The way he has. He likes a challenge and he’s looking for people who are as bold as he is.”
I am good and buzzed from all the drinking, but it was worth it.
If Mr. Romantic wants balls to the wall, I’m all in.
Chapter Three - Nolan
The Smitten Kitten.
I can’t. I just can’t in good conscience do this. I press Mr. Corporate’s contact on my screen and call him up.
“Mr. Weston Conrad’s office, Janet speaking. How can I help you?”
“Janet, it’s Nolan. I need him.” And why the hell is Janet answering his private line?
“He’s out of the office today. Shall I take a message, Mr. Delaney?”
“When will he be back? I really need to talk to him.”
“He didn’t say. But I presume tomorrow since he has a full schedule.”
“All right. I’ll try him at home. Thanks.”
I end the call and press Corporate’s home number but it just rings through to voicemail. “I agreed to your little plan, but the Smitten Kitten? You’re joking, right? He will eat that shit up, West. And not in a good way.” I stare out the window, watching a limo pull into the long drive that leads up to Hundred Palms Resort. Who is this? “Call me back, asshole. We need to make new arrangements.”
I end the call and stand up to get a better look at the car. It winds its way down the long drive, half hidden by the wall of palm trees that line it, and then pulls smoothly into the valet area, disappearing from view.
I look down at my roster for today. We’ve got two guys here interviewing. Oh, yeah. I see the folder that Claudette mentioned peeking out from under a stack of papers. I forgot all about this one.
I sit back down and open the folder. Ivy Rockwell. She’s a Brown alumna, which is probably why West sent her over. He has this stupid loyalty to our almost-alma mater that it most certainly does not deserve.
I never graduated from Brown. None of us did. They treated us like criminals. Accused us all of rape, kicked us out, bad-mouthed us to the press. And if that wasn’t enough, I have it on good authority that the president of Brown at the time called all his buddies and ruined all our plans of applying to other schools.
By the time the charges were dropped, it was too late. All five of us had moved on to making money and going back to college was the last thing on our minds. I am the first person in my family in over one hundred years to not go to college.
Well, fuck them. I didn’t need a fancy education to pull off a win. I won. Am winning. And I’m certainly not interested in this Ivy girl, that’s for sure. West sent her, so I’ll see her, but that’s all I’ll do. She’s on the next flight back to… I check her file real fast… Rhode Island. Jesus. She still lives near Brown. Obviously not the kind of person I’m looking for right now. Probably some timid do-gooder who is afraid to fly the nest.
West might be the best headhunter in the country right now, but I’m afraid he missed his mark on this girl.
I guess the Smitten Kitten fiasco West has gotten me into will have to wait until tonight. Now I’ve got three people here interviewing and I need to make a decision about going forward. I grab the new girl’s folder and head out of my office to the stairs. Voices carry in the large cathedral foyer where the guests check in. I can make out Claudette and the new girl chatting.
She has a nice voice. Too bad I don’t hire managers based on sweet pitch. I descend the stairwell that takes me from business offices to resort and emerge just to the left of the front desk.
We have two people running the desk today. Only about a dozen guests right now, since our soft opening on Monday, but this is our dry run. We’re ironing out wrinkles and preparing the marketing campaign for the grand opening next month.
Miss Rockwell is… well, easy on the eyes.
Don’t fall for it, Romantic. Don’t do it.
I don’t need the internal monologue to warn me of the dangers of an office romance. I had my fill with the last manager.
She quit. And she’s probably going to sue me for sexual harassment.
Fucking women. Can’t trust them.
Nope, I need a man to do this job. Preferably one of the two middle-aged guys currently laboring away in separate offices upstairs, working on an innovative way to improve guest experience and make this place work.
But… Miss Rockwell is pretty. And by pretty, I mean, hell, yeah. I wouldn’t mind some of that action.
Just not at work, Romantic.
Got it.
Miss Rockwell is wearing a cream-colored linen suit that says professional. But it’s cut just above the knee,
so it also says sexy. Her silky blouse is light pink, which tells me she’s girly. I like girly. And she’s got her blonde hair up in a tight bun, so I can’t tell how long it is.
Yeah, Miss Rockwell says buttoned-up businesswoman by day and unbutton-me party girl by night. I know her kind.
I walk over, extending my hand. “Miss Ivy Rockwell, I’m Nolan Delaney. Welcome to Hundred Palms Resort. I trust you had a nice flight?”
“Oh, yes!” She laughs. Has she been drinking? I think I smell alcohol. Well, I’ve had a drink or two on a flight. But it’s barely noon.
Hold up. She’s on East Coast time. I guess that makes it afternoon for her. Must’ve been a lunch cocktail.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Delaney.” I hate hearing that word mister. Every time someone calls me Mr. Delaney all I hear is Mr. Romantic. She smiles confidently and shakes my hand with a soft grip.
Normally I hate the soft grip, but only with men. The only thing worse than a soft grip on a man is a firm grip on a woman. Every time I get a firm handshake from a woman I picture those overly muscular female body builders.
Miss Rockwell’s soft grip is so feminine, I almost bring her hand to my lips and kiss it.
Instead I laugh at my ridiculousness.
Her smile falters and she lets go of my hand. “Am I late?”
So… not that confident after all.
“Not really,” I say, checking my watch. “I knew you were coming today.”
“Are the others already here?” she asks, looking around.
“Already working, in fact. Denise,” I call to one of the front desk girls. “Put Miss Rockwell in room twenty-one. And then—”
“Mr. Delaney?” Denise interrupts. “We booked that room. The Gurrods wanted separate rooms.”
“Jesus Christ. Can’t those two get along for one goddamned weekend?” I roll my eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Gurrod are old family friends. I only asked them here for the soft opening because my father said Mr. Gurrod wanted to see the place before he invested money into it.