The Bar Scene

by Ginny Frost

  Giddy, she grabbed the new briefcase and headed toward Drake Industries.

  ****

  At eight a.m., the shrill tone of Drew’s phone startled him from a deep sleep. Sitting up, he glanced at the clock and cursed. He’d slept through his alarm. Interviews started at nine thirty. No way he’d be late. Not merely out of concern for George’s mental state, but because his father was watching also. Crunch time always brought out the best in Spencer, and Drew too. Success was his only option.

  He grabbed the phone as he dashed into the kitchen to start some coffee. “Yeah, Drew speaking.” He hadn’t glanced at the caller ID, so his father’s voice surprised him.

  “Drew,” Dad said, his tone cool and tight. Drew stopped in his tracks, his shoulders sagging. How did his father know he’d overslept? Probably guessed he spent the night with Terese and… “Did I wake you, son?”

  “No, Dad. I’m running late. I’ll be there, on time and ready.” Mentioning that George refused to give him the dossiers for today’s interviewees was a moot point. Drew had spent half the night reviewing the junior candidates. He fiddled with the coffee maker, willing it to go faster.

  “Son, I need you to get in here on the double.” His father’s words sounded strained and formal. It wasn’t like him. Even with his business-driven mind, Dad epitomized the kind, caring boss. He never threw cold impersonal orders at someone without a reason.

  Drew halted as he headed to the bathroom. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  Spencer sighed—not good. “George had a heart attack last night. He’s at Iverton General, under observation. I pushed the man too hard.” He grumbled something else into the phone. Drew knew better than to ask for clarification.

  Slumping against the wall, he asked, “How bad is he?”

  “He’s going to be fine, with some time off, a new diet, and exercise program. His wife gave me the full report with a few choice words about how her husband has been treated these past few weeks. She wasn’t wrong.” The disappointment in his father’s voice caused Drew to cringe.

  An image of George’s red face and wide eyes appeared in Drew’s head. He should’ve known something was wrong, done more than hand him a water. He should’ve told his father the situation hit critical. Instead, he obsessed about his date with Terese. A sour taste rose in his throat. Jesus, poor George.

  Drew stood for a moment, mouth open, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’d been such a pompous jerk to George throughout the whole thing. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. What had he done?

  “You sure he’s going to be okay, Dad?” A tremor rose in his words, escaping before he could bite it back.

  “Yes, his wife said he’s stable and resting. Will be home from the hospital in short order.” Dad sounded overtired, and he never sounded like that, ever. Drew sat on his bed, guilt piling up at his door. He sucked in a breath and counted to ten.

  He could do this. Interviews weren’t that hard. George had taught him something over the past few days. He’d do it for Dad, for the company, for George.

  “I’ll be in soon, Dad. I’ll call George’s wife and get those files. We can handle it.” He hid the terror in his voice. His father didn’t need any more on his plate, so Drew crushed down his fears and complaints.

  Until reality hit. No George for the interviews. Fuck. His stomach tightened.

  Dad cleared his throat, and Drew could tell he stood up straighter. “Good. I can loan you Maura for the day. She can help organize the interviewees and make coffee.” Standing, Drew sighed in relief, wiping his sweaty palms on his boxers. His father’s pregnant pause signaled he trusted Drew to do the job.

  Pacing the room, he said, “I’ll come find you if I have any trouble, Dad. The important interviews are today and Monday. George’ll have notes on who he likes and who he thinks is best.” As he reassured his dad, Drew’s stomach refused to untwist from the tight knot.

  They exchanged a few more words, instructions and well-wishes before ending the call. Drew slowly slid down the wall. He could do it, just one more fourteen-hour day and probably most of the weekend.

  Terese.

  He wouldn’t see her for three or four days at least. An ache bloomed across his chest, which surprised him. Expecting his downstairs brain to complain, he was pleased his heart was the one straining for her.

  ~*~

  At the office, Drew did his best not to panic at the pile of resumes, files, and personnel folders—a royal mess. Maura managed to find most of George’s backup files, excluding the list of times, but the names were crossed out and rewritten so many times neither of them could discern who was who. Sorting through the “upcoming” files, he couldn’t make head nor tail of George’s system. Drew tried calling him, but his wife refused to let the man on the phone. He didn’t blame the poor woman. She was only protecting him.

  Drew was on his own.

  Letting out a long breath, he examined the chaos in front of him. If he pulled this off today, his dad owed him a huge bonus.

  At nine fifteen, clueless as to who might arrive for an interview, he called Maura in for a huddle in the conference room. “All right, here’s the plan. You’ll meet and greet everyone. Take their names. See if they brought resumes.”

  “They probably won’t have any of that stuff with them. They already submitted them to get the interview.” She rolled her eyes, making him feel stupid and amateurish. Which, of course, he was. He’d never conducted an interview on his own. But team players, remember? He resisted the urge to thump her over the head with a file folder.

  “They probably won’t, but get anything that will help me narrow the mess of information.” He waved at the mass of paperwork. “Anyway, get a name, give them a seat. Then come in here and tell me who it is. I’ll need time to find their file. If they fuss, make some excuse.”

  She raised an eyebrow, and Drew thought he should clarify. How did she ever make it to executive assistant? Pain in the ass should’ve been stamped on her forehead. “Don’t tell them about George. I’ll call you when I’m ready. Understood?”

  She tapped her lip, considering. Angling her hip to the side, she slowly licked her lips. She leaned over the conference table, displaying her ample cleavage. “In other words, you want me to cover for you.” A statement, not a question. “What’s in it for me?” Batting her eyelashes, she stroked a finger down his chest. Drew’s temper tap danced.

  Backing away from the table, he kept his tone cool and calm. “I’m not in the mood to play games, Maura. Do what I ask, and I’ll put a good word in with Dad.”

  She laughed, slinking closer to him. Her breast pressed against his arm, as her hand slid down over his ass. “What kind of promotion are we talking? Head Executive Assistant? Or maybe he’ll assign me to a cushy job with an up-and-coming hottie?”

  Plucking her hand off his butt and shifting his body away, Drew gritted his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “No. Cooperate and I’ll make sure you stay Head Executive Assistant.” He hated throwing his weight around, but given the situation… He wasn’t going to play footsie with his dad’s assistant to force her to do her job. He locked his gaze on her, his mouth in a tight line, and hoped she read “business only.”

  Lifting her chin, she almost sounded resigned. “Whatever you say, boss. Give you a name and a minute. I can handle that.” She plunked down on the table in front of him, her blouse top blooming open in invitation. They were lovely… He did a slow blink, thinking of Terese, and quelled his jangled hormones. What a piece of work Maura was. He wondered if his dad even noticed her behavior. Probably not, or he would’ve fired her long ago.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “And try to behave professionally.”

  His directive received a huff, and she pursed her lips. “Look, kiddo, I know how to do my job. You’re new at this whole thing, but you need to learn how to treat your employees.” Her stiff body and stony expression challenged him.

  Enough.

  His assistant, Donna, nev
er played games, especially on a day with so much at stake.

  He leaned in. “Maura, you’re an extremely capable assistant, but do you need to go through the sexual harassment training again? We can schedule it today. I can pull Donna to help me, and you can get educated.” He gnashed the last few words out between his teeth.

  She blinked at him, attitude gone. “Whatever you say, sir.” She spun on her heel and left the room. He hoped he wasn’t burning a bridge, but no man should be groped like that. Not when he had a thousand interviews to conduct and no one competent to assist him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Terese strolled into the lobby of Drake Industries as if she owned the place. The Chanel suit inspired serious confidence. Combined with the expensive shoes, her hair in a perfect chignon, and a strand of pearls, and she’d dominate the competition. She arrived a little early in case someone failed to show for their interview.

  The large lobby sported leather couches, a modest reception desk, and mystery doors on the left and right. Everything was closed and quiet, except for some low and tasteful Muzak. She scanned the empty space, considering her plan. Perhaps she’d overdone her outfit.

  She sauntered up to the receptionist’s desk and stated her name. The young girl nodded, eyeing Terese’s spectacular outfit. The receptionist, Nancy, according to the nameplate, smiled behind her hand. Terese hoped the smile signaled approval and not derision.

  “Follow me please, Miss Brock.”

  Terese trailed behind Nancy behind Door Number Two. It opened into a typical office space with a few cubicles in the center with offices around the outside of the rectangle. The only difference seemed to be the decor. Drake seemed classier than the average cubicle farm. Terese smiled, liking the atmosphere.

  Nancy led her off to the left to a double-door flanked by several large windows. Light spilled between the slats of the blinds, but seeing inside was impossible. She hoped for a panel interview. A small group helped, more people to bounce ideas off, more heads to turn. In an interview with only one person, she tended to come on too strong.

  Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself at the door. She thanked the receptionist and entered the room. Fate was messing with her. In an anti-chamber to a boardroom, a woman, dressed in an expensive suit and oozing sex appeal, sat behind a credenza, flooded with file folders. Along the wall, leather seats contained all the other candidates. Well, probably not all. Three people sat calmly filling out paperwork on clipboards. Terese frowned. So much for being early and dazzling them.

  She focused on the sex bomb sitting behind the desk. Was Miss Thing here the interviewer?

  “Terese Brock.”

  The busty assistant checked her list, pulled out a folder, and set it on top of the blotter. She flipped through the pages, nodding, and saying, “Uh-huh,” as she went.

  “Excellent. Everything seems to be in order here. We’re running a bit behind schedule though. Fill out these forms, please.” She handed over a clipboard. More paperwork? Where are we? S-Mart? Terese snapped her hanging mouth shut on an ugly comment.

  Instead, she smiled. “Of course.”

  “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” the woman asked. Terese inclined her head but said nothing. “Oh, I know. You’re a waitress at Oakwood Tavern. Love that bar. The boys here go over for Friday Happy Hour all the time.” She flashed her pearly whites. Her smooth façade and perfect demeanor slipping into the annoying zone.

  A wave of irritation rushed through Terese until she saw the glob of lipstick on the woman’s teeth. Stifling a giggle, she leaned forward slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”

  “Oh, it’s Maura.” She put her hand out for a shake, and Terese grabbed the dead fish offered. Geez, a firm handshake marked the cornerstone of a good interview. Please don’t let her be in charge of hiring.

  “Hi, Maura. I’m glad you and your coworkers enjoy Oakwood Tavern. I’ve been the manager there for almost four years now.” She winked, hoping the comment didn’t lose her the job. But damned if she’d be labeled a waitress in a Chanel suit.

  Taking the clipboard and the offered pen, Terese found a seat between two of the other applicants. She eyed them coolly as she filled out another form.

  One woman with a severe bun wore a tight black suit obviously too small. She smiled briefly as their gaze met. Her forehead didn’t move. Botox victim, for sure. She might be a candidate for the Event Coordinator position or maybe the concierge, same as Terese. The woman raised her hand to her mouth. Her jagged nails told Terese volumes.

  The other two candidates, men, sported suits. Terese noted one wore an off-the-rack number, but the second man had on a nice Brooks Brothers. Professional and well groomed, he must be after a top position. He was definitely tougher competition. She watched him for a minute, scanning for flaws. None appeared. Damn. At least multiple positions were open.

  Terese filled out her paperwork and waited. And waited. Eleven and still no interview. The others passed through the door Maura guarded, one at a time over the next hour and a half. Terese tried to be patient, fiddling with her phone, checking her briefcase. After uncrossing and crossing her legs for the hundredth time, her foot started to shake. God, waiting was the worst, almost as bad as Drew’s “easy trail.”

  The delay allowed her plenty of time to think. She calculated her potential income versus her current salary. A signing bonus would be helpful. The dress, shoes, and new briefcase represented a portion of her rent, cell phone, and grocery allotment. Without a bonus, something had to go. Not the cell phone. Life required one these days. She’d have to sneak food from the bar, or wait more tables for tips, unless Angelina didn’t want to share.

  An icy chill crawled up her arms. She needed to get the job. Even if it wasn’t the event planner or concierge, bartending was an option or even, ick, waitressing. Chewing her lip, she regretted putting her eggs in one basket. As her panic rose, she listed off items ready to sell on eBay or Craig’s List to scrabble a few bucks for the rent.

  A light sweat formed on her neck as a serious case of nerves set in. The money issues loomed larger the longer she waited. Shaking her head, she focused on the positive. She was by far the best qualified of the candidates here. She’d get the job and celebrate with Drew. The IRS guys could suck it.

  The thought of her guy brought a smile to her face as she fished out her phone to text him.

  Must tell you about today. Come by the bar…

  “Miss Brock, are you ready?” Maura asked in an expectant voice, as if they hadn’t been staring at each other for the past thirty minutes.

  Clicking the screen off, Terese shoved the phone in her purse and gathered up her case and clipboard. “Ready,” she said in a confident, professional tone. Grateful her voice didn’t reflect her pounding heart or sweaty palms, she followed Maura through the inner door.

  The boardroom sang of elegance. A long cherry table dominated the center of the room with sleek leather chairs flanking both sides. The view through the wall of windows displayed downtown Iverton and Cliffside far to the west. Gorgeous.

  Maura strutted down the length of the table to a lone man, surrounded by paperwork. Terese couldn’t see him around the assistant and grumbled in frustration. She plastered on a plastic smile. A positive attitude would only help.

  Maura handed over a folder to the man. “Mr. Drake, this is Terese Brock.” Maura stepped back, disappearing out the door. Terese hardly noticed because her body went into shock, her mouth gaping open like a fish. “Mr. Drake” was not Drake senior.

  Drew.

  All the breath rushed out of Terese’s body as she wobbled in her heels. He stood, his mouth pressed into a grimace. Drew, in a great suit, his wild hair tamed, and thin wire glasses perched on his nose. Her Drew was Andrew Drake, the CEO’s son, an up-and-coming man in the company. She’d seen pictures of him when she researched the company. Her Drew looked nothing like Andrew’s picture. Or did it?

  She studied him, especially the br
own eyes, and saw the truth. She’d slept with the man about to interview her, made the same mistake so many other women had in business. She’d turned a cheap trick for a job. Her stomach lurched, and her insides melted into jelly. Instinctively, she stepped back.

  Dipping his chin, Drew’s face turned brilliant shades of pink. But he said nothing. They stood three feet apart but were separated by miles. They stared at each other, neither breaking the stalemate.

  What must he think of her? The Chanel suit instantly morphed into polyester, cheap and scratchy, as if she were playing dress up. But her unease wasn’t the only feeling bubbling inside her. A sense of betrayal and discontent whirled around her. Slowly, an ache rose in her chest.

  Her brain screamed for her to run, but she couldn’t move. Frozen in place, her mind looped “why, why, why?” Finally, she snapped her eyes shut, praying it was only a pre-interview nightmare.

  The clipboard hit the floor, breaking the spell.

  “Let me get that,” he said.

  Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice. As he hurried forward to assist, her churning emotions swirled into a tornado. She backpedaled, wanting distance between them. The cold sweat on her neck turning to icicles.

  An ugly voice boomed in her mind. You screwed the boss’s son. Terese shook her head, stepping back another foot. The whole world folded in on her. “You blew it. Ha, you blew him.” A tight band of panic roped around her stomach. She whirled, searching for the door.

  She paused, peeking over her shoulder for a millisecond as he called, “Terese, wait!” He hadn’t moved an inch, still clutching that stupid clipboard. She met his gaze, and the final puzzle piece clicked into place.

  He’d lied. Set her up to fail from the start.

  Her hand clapped over her mouth as a sob burst from her lips. Tears pooled as she stared at him in that frickin’ suit. Her Drew, but really, a man she knew nothing about.