by J. J. Bella
A sharp rapping at the office door cut her off, and she looked up, an expression of surprise and annoyance on her face, as though galled that anyone would bother her during an interview.
“Who is it?” she asked, her voice taking on a prim tone.
Then the door opened, and I felt the presence of someone else in the room.
“Oh, hello Mr. Lane,” said Mrs. Gardner, bolting to her feet, a warm, compliant expression on her face.
Lane? I thought, quickly turning in my seat.
It was that Mr. Lane.
When I was a sophomore in college, my friends and I loved to look over the all the latest design magazines and websites, especially the ones from New York. Des Moines is a great city, but not exactly an artistic Mecca. Well, one day, while poring over the latest stuff from Lane Technologies, I caught a glimpse of a suited man standing near a large, framed printing of one of the earliest ads for Lane Technologies. My eyes shot to the man in the picture like they were pulled by magnetic force.
He was tall, with a head of coal-colored hair in a slicked-back, wet style. His face was about the most gorgeous face that I’d ever seen on a man. As I pulled the picture closer to my eyes, I looked at his expression with my eyes wide and mouth gaping; I just couldn’t believe that a man could be that beautiful. His eyes were dark green, like radiant emeralds. His nose was slim, in a perfect sloping angle, and his lips were full, wide and red, twisted on one side into a knowing smirk. And on him was a designer suit that his obviously-muscular body was just poured into.
I as I stared at the picture of the man, who the caption below identified as Trent Lane, CEO of Lane Technologies, I found myself wondering who, in a more exact sense, this man was, what sort of life he lived, what type of beautiful women did he have dangling from his arm as he went out to the hottest parties in the city.
And this man, Trent Lane, just happened to be the man standing in the door of the very room that I just happened to be sitting in, that same smirking expression on his painfully beautiful face.
4
I had the girl being interviewed marked as a Midwestern transplant from the second I saw her; she had that wide-eyed expression on her face that everyone new to the city wore for the first year or so they were here, as if in a constant state of shock that the buildings of the city actually were that tall.
“Mind if I sit in?” I asked, walking towards an open seat to Mrs. Gardener’s left, not waiting for a response.
“Why, yes, of course, Mr. Lane,” said Mrs. Gardener, tensing up as she always did when she was around me.
I settled into the seat and crossed my legs. No one said a word, both women seemingly waiting for a cue from me to proceed. With a “please, continue,” sweep of my hand, the interview continued on with an awkward lurch.
“Um, well, as I was saying,” Mrs. Gardner said, composing herself, “your competition for this position is quite intense. There’s no shortage of fresh-faced graduates who’d claw each other’s eyes out for this opportunity.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I stopped myself. Mrs. Gardner was always trying to scare the new kids, for reasons I didn’t understand. Just look at the work they’ve done, see if it fits, and train them to do the job. That’s how I’d done things for five years and it’s worked pretty well so far, if I did say so myself.
“And that’s why I want this job. I know I can do it.”
I looked the girl over as she spoke. She was pretty; extremely pretty, actually. Her hair was dark brown and straight, draped over her shoulders and parted in the middle. Her face was open and attractive, with big, blue eyes, a small, pert nose, and full lips. She was dressed modestly but professionally, in clothes that flattered her slim body, but clearly weren’t made for it.
And if I hadn’t already guessed she was a Midwest transplant, her overeager statement about how she just knows she can do the job would’ve made that abundantly clear.
“May I see your portfolio?” I asked.
“Oh, sure, of course,” the girl said, her face breaking out in a healthy blush as she handed over the large, black portfolio folder, nearly dropping it.
“Thank you,” I said, taking it from her.
I popped open the top and pulled out a few pieces. Looking over them, I could see the clear influence of the past work of my design firm. It had been my decision to put such an emphasis on design and branding, and it had paid off dividends over the years- we had the awards to prove it. And one of the less-expected results of this was having Midwestern girls show up with portfolios that lovingly imitated designs for advertisements intended to move headphones and tablets.
But the work was rote, by-the-numbers. Though there was no shortage of skill and talent.
And something else that struck me was how well-organized all of her work was. It was arranged and stored with careful precision, each section in her portfolio labeled and dated; when I replaced the work in the folder I knew without having to think exactly where it went.
“This is good work; you’re very talented,” I said, handing the portfolio back to the girl.
“I’m Katie Kimble,” she said, blurting out the words.
“Indeed you are, Katie Kimble,” I replied, her guilelessness causing a small smile to pull up the corner of one side of my mouth.
“And I think we were just finishing up,” said Mrs. Gardener.
“Oh?” I asked.
I knew Mrs. Gardner was uncompromising- the sort that wasn’t afraid to toss a potential new hire to the side if they didn’t blow her away right out of the gate- but this seemed a little premature. And what’s more, something about this girl, the way she carried herself, her keen organization skills, and, well, just something I couldn’t put my finger on, made me want to not pass her by in the cavalier manner that Mrs. Gardner surely would if I were to get up and leave at this moment.
“Yes, Mr. Lane,” said Mrs. Gardner before turning to Katie.
“Ms. Kimble, it’s been a pleasure talking with you, and we’ll be in touch i-“
“Actually,” I said raising my finger, “would you mind if I borrowed Ms. Kimble for just a moment? I promise you can have her back when I’m done.”
“Um, sure,” said Mrs. Gardner, no small amount of surprise in her voice.
“Very good,” I said, rising from my chair. “Ms. Kimble, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me, my office is just down the hall.”
“Oh, of course!” said Katie, her fair skin taking on an even deeper shade of red. She scrambled to collect her things and trailed behind me as I left the office.
“Thank you, Liz,” I said without turning around as I shut the door to Mrs. Gardener’s office.
Katie followed dutifully behind me, walking with ungainly steps in heels that she didn’t quite know how to wear. When we reached my office, Amelia shot her a look that I spotted as envy right away.
“Please clear my schedule for the next thirty minutes, Amelia,” I said, opening the door to my office. “Ms. Kimble, after you.
With that, she walked inside with small, careful steps.
5
“Nervous” didn’t even begin to describe how I felt as I followed Mr. Lane down the hallway, tottering after him like a puppy following him home, my portfolio and purse scooped up into my arms. And when he opened the door to his office, revealing a space that was easily bigger than my entire apartment, complete with a sweeping, majestic view of Lower Manhattan, the feeling of being utterly overwhelmed was complete.
“Please, come in,” Mr. Lane said in a silky purr of a voice. Something about the way he spoke made me want to melt like a pad of butter under a heat lamp; he was somehow commanding and sensual all at the same time.
“Oh, great, thank you,” I stammered out, barely able to speak. I had no idea how I would manage through not only another interview, but one with the CEO of the company.
I sat down on a chair directly across from his desk, and Mr. Lane sat down at the tall-backed, brown leather chair behind it. He seemed
at home sitting in the chair, and as he looked towards me, he had an air of easy, but stern confidence.
“May I see a copy of your resume, Ms. Kimble?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, tucking the hair on my right side behind my ear and plucking another resume out from the bound manila folder I had them stored in.
Mr. Lane took the sheet of paper from my hand and looked it over with careful eyes. I watched his green eyes move as he read the paper, and I could tell that not a single word went past him without being carefully analyzed and considered. Already, I could see how he was the type of person who was able to build a company like this from the ground up.
“Nice resume; fairly impressive,” he said, setting the paper on his massive, ornate desk, a desk that was completely clear aside from a large iMac, a phone, and a potted bonsai tree.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice coming out as thin and delicate as a paper-thin sheet of china.
“But as Mrs. Gardener said, likely not impressive enough to be brought on here.”
I felt deflated once again.
“But,” I asked, gathering my courage, “then why the interview?”
“Mrs. Gardner likely saw the same talent that I saw, work that is clearly evident in your portfolio, and wanted to see if your personality would make a good fit for our organization.”
“And it won’t?”
Mr. Lane shook his head, his coal-black hair staying in place.
“No,” he said, his voice a clear, blunt tone that I imagined would be necessary to affect as a CEO. “Those we bring on tend to be a little more, well, cutthroat. Maybe after you’d been in the city for a couple of years, put through the grinder and all that. A little time in the city is enough for even the most timid Midwesterner to develop some thickness to her skin.”
I wasn’t sure if I should’ve felt insulted.
“Then why am I here?”
“Because, Ms. Kimble,” he said, “while you may be a little while off from our design department, there’s been a, well, another opening. A position that I just created, you see.”
“Oh?” I asked. Though I was still nervous, I was now also intrigued. What could he think I, specifically, was a good fit for?
“I need a personal assistant. Someone to be my shadow, more or less. Someone to keep my affairs in order.”
I felt my body loosen up. This seemed like a pretty reasonable job, nothing out of the ordinary. But his tone was so serious; I couldn’t tell if this is just how he always was, or if there was something more to it than what he had said.
“But this wouldn’t be a standard nine-to-five personal assistant job,” he said, his green eyes settled on me. “When I say I would need a shadow, that’s what I mean. You would live at my home, attend to all of my business needs, when I need them.”
“I see.”
“And there’s one more thing.”
Here we go.
“I have a daughter. Her name is Olive. You wouldn’t be a nanny, but I might require you to watch after her from time to time.”
This, I wasn’t expecting. A man like Mr. Lane seemed to be one of those people who lived on the clouds above the rest of us common folk. When imagining his life, I pictured important international business meetings, dates with well-travelled, beautiful women, and parties packed with celebrities. Not quiet nights home watching Dora the Explorer with a daughter.
“And you think I would be a good fit for this job?” I asked. “I mean, I’m grateful that you would consider me, but why me?”
“Call it a hunch,” he said, his voice as steady as always. “I didn’t get to where I am by distrusting my gut instincts. Not to mention, I can tell you have a penchant for organization.”
He pointing a finger towards my immaculately-organized portfolio, and I felt my face go red again.
“Salary would start at sixty-k, though I am amenable to bonuses and raises, should your performance be up to par. Full benefits. And, as I said, the job would be live-in, meaning I would have a room for you at my place, free of charge.”
It sounded too good to be true. Sure, there’d be a lot of work and responsibility, but nothing that I felt I couldn’t be up for. And a salary like that with no rent meant I’d have more money than I’d know what to do with.
“You can, of course, have time to think this over. But I would need an answer by the end of the day- this is a position I’d like filled sooner than later.”
I wanted to tell him that I needed some time. This was, after all, a big job, and not something I should be walking into lightly. But instead, I said this:
“I accept.”
He raised his thick, dark eyebrows.
“I’m happy to hear that, Ms. Kimble, but are you sure you don’t need any time?”
“No,” I said, my voice certain, a smile on my lips. “Call it a hunch.”
6
I was excited, I was thrilled, I was nervous. I didn’t know what to expect.
“Nine AM. Sharp.”
That’s what he told me in that stern, commanding voice that I was sure I was going to be hearing a great deal in the future. Then he shook my hand, and sent me off.
And just like that, I had a job.
And a new place to live.
With someone who was quite possibly the most handsome and wealthiest man I had known in my life.
And his daughter.
The fear hit me around when I transferred onto the seven train at Times Square. I was not only going to be responsible for this extremely important businessman’s affairs, but also his daughter? Sure, he said it would only be from time to time, but that was two jobs in one, even if it did come with a free place and a steady paycheck.
I tried to tell myself that it was a challenge, and just like my dad told me over and over, challenges build character. That may be true, but it didn’t mean that I wasn’t more nervous than I had ever been in my life.
I stepped out of the train and into the warm, early afternoon air. It was a beautiful late spring day, and in New York, you learn pretty quickly that you only get about twenty days of decent weather a year, so you have to enjoy them while you can. To that end, I got off in Long Island City, south of where I lived in Astoria, planning to walk the rest of the way. I wanted to clear my head and at least try to process all that had just happened.
But as much as I wanted to spend the walk mentally preparing for the day ahead, all I could think about was Mr. Lane. And about what kind of boss he was going to be. I kept imagining him standing in front of the window in his office that looked out onto the skyline, his frame outlined by the blue stretch of the morning sky and the span of buildings below, the twinkling of the Hudson River beyond.
I kept thinking about how I felt under his gaze, how my skin seemed to spark with electricity every time he regarded me with his enchanting green eyes. And his perfect, full mouth, and how it would twist at the end in a sardonic smirk.
I’d been in New York for a little while, but I’d been so busy with trying to find work that I didn’t even think about romance. But now, as though a debt were being paid, all I could think about was this man, this beautiful, powerful man.
I came to my senses when I realized that I was already at my apartment. Strange how time can pass when you’re totally preoccupied. After trekking up the three stories to my apartment, I immediately set to work getting everything packed up. Mr. Lane said he’d send for my things tomorrow after I arrived, and I wanted to have everything ready. Though, truth be told, I was really just eager to get out of that apartment.
A little while into packing, Kristina came home. The door to my room was open, and I could see her walk into the living room, a slight unsteadiness to her walk from the midday cocktails she’d undoubtedly already had. Ah, the life of the idle rich.
Seeing that I was packing, she stopped by the room.
“Are you…like, packing, or something?”
“Yep, I’m moving out tomorrow.”
“Back to Omaha, I guess? Cit
y’s not for everyone; good you figured that out sooner than later.”
I turned around, looking into her watery blue eyes with a look of confidence that I didn’t know I had.
“Des Moines. Actually, a new job. I’m going to be a live-in personal assistant for a CEO.”
Kristina shook her head, as though trying to get a handle on what I was saying.
“What? Which CEO? What company?” she asked, now giving me her full attention. I guess her gold-digger alarm was going off.
“Trent Lane, the CEO at-“
“Woah, whoa- are you serious? The Trent Lane?”
I had to admit that I knew what I was saying when I told Kristina who I was working for; anyone in New York who’d at any point walked past a newsstand had seen Trent on the cover of one magazine or another, including any number of “30 under 30 business leaders” and “hottest bachelor’s in the city” lists.
“Yep, that one,” I said, trying to hide my smile.
“How the hell did you pull off a job with him? You know what, I don’t want to know.”
She stood there with her fists in little red balls for a moment, trying to think of something to say. But she soon realized there were no words that could properly express how envious she was, and when she did, she let out a frustrated little squeal and stomped off to her room.
I finished packing soon after. I didn’t have that much stuff, just my clothes, some books, and a few boxes of this and that. The rest of the day I spent relaxing as much as I could. I didn’t know what to expect tomorrow, but I felt like whatever it was, I’d need to be as ready as I’d ever been in my life.
And I was right.
7
I have to admit, when Ms. Kimble left the office I had a twinge of doubt. She did seem a little green, to say the least. But she was eager and enthusiastic, and above all, I just had a good feeling about her.
So, I put that nagging, doubting voice out of my mind. In my years as an entrepreneur, I’ve found that the voice of doubt, that voice that always tries so hard to talk you out of what decision you’re trying to make, is usually nothing more than the voice of uncertainty, always trying to get you to go back to what’s comfortable, known, and safe. In this case, I sensed what my inner doubt was trying to convince me was to keep control over everything, to not cede any bit of my life or affairs to someone else. But like before, the disappointment in Olive’s voice rang fresh and clear in my mind, and that was enough to cast my inner doubting aside.