Thick, white columns reach towards the sky, disappearing into the massive building. I blink against the glare bouncing off of the clean surface and swallow down the nausea threatening to bubble up. MacMillian, Henry, and Nash stand out in radiant gold, and again, I find myself breathing deep, forcing myself not to throw up all over the pristine steps.
A forceful buzz breaks me out of my thoughts, but my relief is short-lived. My stomach flops again as the number flashes across the screen. I don’t even have to think about who it is; I know this number by heart. The bank. I hit the side, ending the call. I could block the number, but what’s the use? It would only delay the inevitable.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have stopped for that waffle. What started out as sweet, pillowy goodness now sits in my gut like lead. Glancing back down the street, a soft smile tugs at my lips. It’s Monday, though. Monday is waffle day. At least I can go there now with a smile on my face instead of agony in my heart.
To think, years of waffle days wasted because I refused to remember the good times my family shared there instead of taking on the mantle of carrying on the tradition. Today was long overdue but hopefully will give me the luck I need. My phone buzzes again, setting my stomach to churning. I don’t care that waffle day made me overdraw; I needed my family. Clutching the worn briefcase to my side, I force one foot in front of the other, the trek more like walking to an execution instead of a job interview.
Perhaps it’s the desperation. Jobs have been so hard to come by that any chance feels like one-in-a-million. Unemployment can only get me so far. I need a job. A real one. Pulling up my phone, I glance again at the ad. Nowhere does it mention working for a law firm, but after triple-checking the online map, this is the location.
Plush chairs and friendly smiles greet me as I walk in, but the pure opulence of this place makes me pause, nearly dropping my jaw. Not one thing is out of place. Every available surface gleams as if freshly polished. Wrapping my fingers up to tug at the threadbare edge of my sleeve, I stare at the smart, crisp, power suits of the various women milling around.
Good thing I decided to iron this morning. I smooth the front of my jacket down as I shift from foot to foot. There aren’t any signs indicating where I need to go, and I don’t exactly relish the idea of bringing attention to myself by asking.
“You look lost, Ms….”
And there it is.
Whirling around to face the stranger, I school my features into a calm facade, exuding a confidence that I haven’t felt since being let go a few weeks ago. Plastering a smile on my face, I take a deep breath and hold out my hand.
“Lewis. Cynthia Lewis.”
“John Nash.” His handshake is firm but not rough like those dick guys that want to prove their superiority. A grin slides up his face, not quite meeting his hazel eyes. With tousled, dirty-blond hair and an exquisite three-piece suit, he looks more like he stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine and less like he belongs in a law firm.
After a moment or two, his smile widens, showing off boyish dimples because, why not. Though he sure doesn’t seem to mind that I’m staring, mortification slams into me, engulfing my face in heat. Once again, I tug at my sleeve, refusing to touch my cheeks, thereby acknowledging the flush.
“Nash, as in,” pausing, I gesture around the building.
“You would think that, but no. I’m not a named partner. Not even close.” Again, he flashes his megawatt smile, and my stomach flips.
There’s something cold, almost wolfish, about his smile. No matter how big it is, it never reaches his eyes, and there’s just that hint that he’s hiding something. He’s hot, though. There’s no denying it. Maybe that’s why he has me so unsettled? It’s that spark of predatory awareness in his eyes that keeps me from just melting right there on the spot. I’ve seen that look before, and I know it means trouble.
He wants a reaction. It’s clear as day from the way he angles his hips every time he leans back on his heels, but I’m not here for a dick appointment. I’m here for a job. Instead of rising to his bait, I clear my throat and show him my phone. “I’m supposed to meet with a Mr. Robinson? But I have no idea where to even start looking for him.” John tucks his hands in his pockets and looks around the place, acting as if he’s never been here before.
“You know, they should put better signs in here.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” A bubble of laughter tickles my stomach as he makes a great show of searching high and low. Perhaps I misread his signals. Could he really be an asshole if he’s this goofy?
“It would probably interfere with the decor, though. Here, why don’t you follow me?” He slides closer, enough that his warm breath stirs my hair. “Depending on how your meeting goes, perhaps I can take you to dinner to celebrate?”
I pause, glancing down again at his clothes. No doubt men like him eat women like me for breakfast, and not in a sexual way...well, maybe a sexual way. Again, my cheeks begin to feel like an inferno. Fuck. I hazard another glance and come face to face with his devilish smirk. His eyes zero in on me, pinning me to the spot. My stomach clenches again, and waffles threaten to resurface.
No, Cindy, you can’t throw up on his designer shoes. Just breathe. You’ll be fine. Fuck, why is he looking at me like that? Shaking my head, I glance down at my phone. I only have five minutes to find the guy interviewing me. I don’t want me being late to cause me to lose this job.
“Enough flirting,” he interjects, taking my elbow into his hand to lead me. I don’t exactly mind the touch, but it’s certainly unexpected. Electricity races up my arm to flutter down much lower. God, has it really been that long since I’ve had a boyfriend?
We walk in silence for a few moments before stepping in front of a plain, frosted, glass door with Mr. Robinson emblazoned on it in gold. It’s now or never. Leaning close to my ear, John whispers his well-wishes, causing goosebumps to erupt over my body. He knows it too. That smug smirk as he walks off is just what I need to get him out of my brain. I’ve had my fair share of pretentious assholes, and I sure as hell don’t need to go down that road again.
I give a tentative knock before reaching down to smooth everything out again. If I get the job, my first paycheck will have to go towards buying some newer clothes. If what I’ve seen so far is the level of expectation, then I’m far from ideal. But who am I kidding? Even if I have more money than God, I’m still not going to buy designer outfits…at least not brand new. Who knows when I’ll be out of a job again, and clothes don’t pay the rent.
“Come in.”
Easing the door open, I flash Mr. Robinson the most confident smile I can, and why shouldn’t I? It’s not like I’m applying for a high-level job. Anyone can be a receptionist, and my resume is proof of that.
“Ahhh. Ms. Lewis. Right on time. Please, have a seat.”
My briefcase burns in my hand as I set it down. It used to be my father’s and looks just as old. I don’t really know how to care for older leather like that, but it’s what I have. However, staring at Mr. Robinson’s desk, I spy his, which looks brand new. Is there some sort of unspoken code that everyone here has the best of the best?
I probably don’t even need the briefcase. I sure didn’t when applying at all my other jobs, but those were smaller retail positions. This is the first job where I might actually have a chance at aiming higher, moving up in rank. Besides, having this briefcase is just one more way to surround myself with my family. So, in a way, I do need it, just not in the traditional sense. Smoothing down the back of my skirt, I sit and look up at him in expectation.
“I’m just going to cut to the chase. I’ve studied your resume, and I’m not going to be able to offer you the receptionist’s job.”
My heart sinks at his words. Gripping the arms of the chair, I force myself to breathe evenly and not hyperventilate. Why the hell bring me down here to tell me I didn’t get the job? That could have been done over the phone, or hell, an email at the very least.
“Honestly,” he continues, “Your resume is so impressive; I have to ask myself why you even wanted to be a receptionist?”
I blink, my brain trying to process his words. Nothing about my resume was extraordinary. I’ve held temp and waitressing jobs, perfect pursuits for someone that dropped out of college – someone who thought they couldn’t aim higher.
“After seeing this, there was no way I could, in good conscience, give you such a demotion. I called you down here to see if you’d be willing to take on a different job. What would you say about becoming a personal assistant? I feel that role is much more in line with your talents.”
Blood drains from my face at his words. No. No, it can’t be. I rewrote the resume before I sent it in. Closing my eyes, I retrace my mental steps. Yes, I downloaded a sample resume, but I thought I changed everything, not just my name and job information. Unless…is it possible that he does have the right resume and still thinks I’m a good fit? Weirder things have happened.
“I’m actually curious why you didn’t apply for that opening in the first place.” He stares at me, a soft, fatherly smile gracing his face. There’s no judgment, no look of ‘gotcha.’ Perhaps this really is the break I’ve been looking for?
“I must not have seen it. I’m so sorry.”
Shrugging, he runs his fingers down my resume, looking it over again. “Nothing to be sorry about. I’m just glad I caught it before all the paperwork went through. I think you’ll feel much more at home assisting our Associate, Daniel. He’s working his way up to partner and needs a sharp mind by his side to help him out. Do you think you’re that assistant?”
What else can I say? It would be stupid to look this gift horse in the mouth. “Yes, Sir. I won’t let you down.”
“Wonderful. Now, I just have a few more questions before sending you to HR to finish the paperwork. Are you good at working under pressure?”
I’ve had to manage my life flipping upside down and still somehow put together a halfway decent, if not cheap, outfit. I’d have to say that’s an affirmative. “Yes.”
“Do you take criticism well?”
Internally, I wince. Anything other than a resounding no would be a lie. I freaking cried when my elementary school teacher gave me a B because I just wasn’t quite where I needed to be. One point. One measly point. “Yes.” My gut clenches as the lie slips from my lips.
Mr. Robinson gives me an encouraging smile, but it doesn’t quell the anguish in my heart. All of this is a lie. It’s wrong. It’s so very wrong, but I’m desperate. Hopefully, in time, I’ll be able to learn the ropes, figure out how exactly to do this job, and it will all be a moot point.
“Are you okay working late nights if that’s what’s needed?”
Thank God, an easy one. “That will never be a problem. I’m here to work.”
“It says here, you’ve worked in a few other places. We called them, and they said you did amazing work, but they never went into any detail about your specific skills. It’s mostly the fact that they had high praise that has you in this chair right now. So, what I want to know is, what is it that makes you right for this position?”
Fuck. What am I going to say? Already my lies start to unravel in my head. I’m usually honest by default, so manufacturing a story on the fly is for sure not my forte. “May I see the resume? I just want to make sure I address each place by name. As I’m sure you can see, I’ve worked at a lot of places.”
“I did notice that,” he agrees, handing over the thick, cream paper. “That was going to be my next question.”
Wracking my brain, I search for something other than I got bored. More than likely, that will have Mr. Robinson rethinking his options in a hurry. “I want only the best. I want to test my limits. To see how high I can go. For the majority of these places, I could only go so far. There wasn’t much room for growth.” My stomach churns, but I continue. It’s partly true, at least. “Once I reached the highest employment level I could, I used that as a stepping stone for a better job.”
Mr. Robinson steeples his fingers and rests his lips against the tips. My heart thumps so hard in my chest, I’m worried it’s going to explode out of me and land on the desk, just like a sci-fi movie cliche. That would be a great way to end the interview and not get the job.
“Is that what you consider this position? A stepping stone? I can see that as a receptionist, but as a personal assistant, we would prefer you stay on board for a lot longer than these jobs. It takes a special relationship to make it work, and that can only be cultivated through time.”
“I understand. And I assure you that I’ll put my everything into this job and see it through. I’ve never imagined being at the point that someone would want me as an assistant, so I’ll be here as long as they’ll have me.”
He chuckles and runs his hand down his tie, smoothing it under his jacket. “Knowing Daniel, you’ll call it quits before he does.”
A nervous laugh titters from my lips. Mr. Robinson carries on like I’m in on the joke, but I don’t know this Daniel guy. All I know is working for him can’t be any harder than this damned interview. Glancing down at the resume, my heart stops, and my blood runs cold. Until getting it into my hands, I hoped and prayed that I was wrong. There was a smidgen of hope that maybe, just maybe, they’re hiring me based on my merits and not a misunderstanding, but that’s not the case.
