I’m glad she brought it up because I was hoping to talk to her about the job hunt. “Where have you applied so far?”
Frowning, she says, “Everywhere.”
“Any interviews?”
“Three. Two on Zoom and one face-to-face. I thought for sure I had the face-to-face one, but nope. It was with a start-up.”
“Why do you think you didn’t get that one?”
“They probably called McAllister’s.” She shrugs. “All they have to tell them is that I was fired, and it’s over.”
“Do you feel you were fired in retribution for calling human resources?”
“Yes, it feels like that, but what can I do about it now?”
“Bonnie tells me you didn’t file a formal complaint against Spencer.”
“No.” Shaking her head, she adds, “I asked. Gail told me I didn’t need to.” She looks angry as she adds, “I’m not stupid.”
I’m going to have to think before I speak. I don’t want her to feel like I’m criticizing what she’s done so far. “I know you’re not.” I take a sip of coffee. “And they sat Spencer down to talk to him?”
“That’s what everyone said. It was all over the department the day after it happened.”
“After which time, he started writing you up?”
“Yes.”
“That’s retaliation.”
I’ve got to give this some thought. I’m almost positive she doesn’t want my help, but I feel like I can give her some feedback or even advice. I’ve hired my share of people. “Can I see your resume?”
“Why?”
“Let me see if there’s anything we can do to make it more appealing to prospective employers.”
“Like leaving off McAllister as a former employer?” she grumps.
“That’s not advisable.”
“I know.” Setting her mug down, she makes her way to the spare bedroom, and returning with her laptop, she places it on the counter. From behind her, I watch as she opens up her document. Leaning in and down, I read over her shoulder. “Shit. You graduated summa cum laude from U of I?” (That’s the University of Illinois for those of you not from the fine state of Illinois.)
“Yes. Go Illini,” she deadpans.
“You were a double major in Accountancy and Strategic Business Development and Entrepreneurship?” I’m a little shocked. “You minored in French?”
“I had a dream of working in Paris someday.”
Looking down at her, I’ve got to know… “Do you speak French?”
Without missing a beat, she says in the sexiest fucking voice I’ve ever heard, “Je parle un peu français. Est-ce que vous?”
Without thinking, I blurt, “That right there, babe, made me hard.” I lean in just enough for her to realize I’m not lying.
“Oh.” She blushes. “Well, then…Si j'avais su que ça te plaisait, j'aurais parlé français plus tôt.”
I’ve slipped my hands around her waist and lowered my head so I can kiss the side of her neck all while whispering, “What did you just say?” I kiss her neck right below her ear, then nibble.
“Oh. That feels nice.” Her breath catches. “Um, I said if I knew you liked it, I would have spoken French sooner.”
