If my hands were damp before this, they are practically dripping with sweat now. I get that she was the PA before this . . . but what happened? Should I even be here, applying for this job?
Suddenly, I’m scared.
I’ve come all the way for this after getting the heads up from my old college roommate, Lyla, who works as an exec down in Accounting . . . all the way down, down in the 42nd floor from this 75th floor ivory tower. I’m not even familiar with Chicago, having only been here once with my parents during my tenth grade summer. I don’t have a job, I don’t have a room, and I’m crashing in a cheap apartment somewhere in River North, the kind you rent by the week. So I’m basically bumming right now.
Should I be going in? The redhead has left that one door to the forbidding CEO’s office open like an invitation.
Step into my parlor, says the spider to the fly.
I clutch my portfolio as I get up. I take a few tentative steps to the open door. There’s no one to usher me in, and I can choose to sit here in the waiting area like a dummy or seize my own job opportunity in my hands.
Why are my hands so clammy and why is my pulse threatening to spill out of my throat?
“Hello?” I call out in a nervous voice. There could be no one in there after all, and if I walk in, they might accuse me of trying to filch corporate secrets.
A man’s voice replies, “If you’re the new PA, come right in. If you’re not, take a rain check and call me in the morning.”
Uh. Right. I’m not sure which option I’m supposed to choose.
I take a few more guarded steps to the doorway. I peer in.
The CEO’s office is almost like an entire floor to itself. It strikes me that it is oval – the significance of which is not lost on me. Yes, I know the skyscraper we are in is one of those architectural marvels with curved walls, but still – to have an actual oval office. I wonder if it’s the architect’s idea or the boss’s.
A large mahogany desk sits on one side and the walls are filled with rows and rows of dark bookshelves. There’s a painting that looks like a Rembrandt, but I’m not sure if it’s a real Rembrandt or if it’s a reprint. A sofa and two armchairs set in a blue-and-white striped design occupy another section.
Did I mention the view? Ah well, it’s staggering. Downtown Chicago sprawls below with its tiny toy cars and bustling pedestrians. And beyond, Lake Michigan stretches as far as the horizon – far, far into Canada.
The man with the deep, masculine voice is not sitting behind the desk. He’s coming out of what looks like an attached bathroom, and he is buttoning up his white shirt. I catch a glimpse of his chest – his pectorals are well-defined and broad and richly muscled, and his skin is creamy smooth, like a gym trainer’s.
But I’m not prepared for the man who steps out.
I take a step back, stunned.
He is singularly the most attractive man I have ever laid eyes on. OK. That is an understatement. He is utterly, mesmerizingly, mind-blowingly, take-your-breath-away gorgeous. His eyes are richly hazel with green and gold flecks in them. These catch the sunlight filtering through the glass windows as if they were mirror themselves. His dark hair – the color of rich teak – is slightly disheveled, as if he’s just tumbled out of bed.
And his face. Oh, his face. He could have been an actor or a New York model, and he would be a superstar of superstars. It’s as if the angels really put out the mold and taken a painstaking time to sculpture the most exquisite features possible on a man. I’ll put his age at around mid-thirties, because he already has some gravitas on his face – a world weariness and a slightly manic edge to his eyes.
He looks unpredictable and volatile. A man who has earned his reputation as the hostile corporate takeover king of the last five years.
Oh yes, I’ve done my homework.
His father is the Chairman of the company, and his younger brothers are the COO and President respectively. All this would lend him an aura of invincibility, of old money and family power, but the family is shrouded in secrecy, as if they are organized crime dons rather than respectable businessmen. They are hardly seen at social functions and are rarely photographed. Not much else is known about them other than that they lead equally shrouded lives.
He doesn’t wear a jacket and his pants sport a damp patch tellingly on his groin. His hazel eyes blaze at me.
“Well, what are you staring at?” he says, the side of his mouth crinkled in amusement. “Haven’t you ever seen the aftermath of guy getting coffee splashed on him before?”
Is that what happened? It’s funny the way he said it. Get coffee splashed on him. Does he mean it wasn’t accidental? You may forgive me if I’m a little dubious, because the whole scene with the redhead was a little suggestive.