He can’t be more than ten years older than I am, which is nearly unheard of for someone maintaining a CEO position.
Right next to the first few photos of him is a headline:Theodore Hurst named next CEO of powerhouse commercial realtor, Nexus Realty Group.
The realization that I’m going to be working for this man in a matter of days suddenly hits me, and a slight sense of unease settles in my chest. I wonder what he’s like as a boss. Obviously, he must be a very driven person to have become so successful at such a young age.
I click on the webpage for his old company and pull up his details, itching to know more about him.
Another, more professional headshot appears on the screen, and I find myself staring at it for far too long. His face is almost too perfect, void of any type of blemish or flaw, and I wonder if they retouched the photo to make him appear more handsome than he actually is.
I drop my phone on the table and lean back in the booth, taking a second to fully process this. My best friend, Leila, is going to have a field day when she finds out that I’ll be working for such an attractive man.
She’s the epitome of a romanticist, always looking for the next epic love story. I have no doubt she’d jump on the prospect of this one. Not that I can really point fingers on the matter, either. I, too, desperately yearn for someone to love and call my own.
I read over Theodore Hurst’s mini biography. I learn that he’s thirty-six, and graduated from an Ivy League with degrees in business and leadership. He has worked for his previous company in Britain for the last four years.
The webpage goes on to describe his accolades and how he is well respected amongst his peers. The more I read, the more Iwonder if this guy is even human or if he’s an industry-made, professional business mogul.
I click around his website a little more, trying to get as much information on him as I possibly can. Unfortunately, aside from a few of his awards and general information, I don’t find much else about him.
When I go to the contact page, I notice his assistant’s email address. I copy it down in my phone’s notepad and make a reminder to shoot them an email when I’m back home at my computer. Maybe they will be able to give me a little more information about what Mr. Hurst is like. I strive to be the best that I can be. Maybe if I make a great first impression, he won’t treat me just like any other assistant, and he will recognize that I add value to the position too.
Once I’m done with my coffee, I decide that’s enough sleuthing for today. I toss the empty cup in the trash and make sure I have all of my items before walking out.
As I leave the coffee shop to head towards home, I do a quick run-through of everything I’ll need to do when I get there and over the next few days. Come Monday, we’ll be welcoming our new boss. I’m a little on edge about that fact, simply because I feel like I’m walking into the unknown. Though it may be irrational, there’s always the fear that with a change of leadership comes the change of staff. And I can’t imagine what I’d do if I lost this job. I don’t know who Whitney Palmer is outside of this position. I’m on my own now, and that’s a scary thought.
I’ll do everything I can to make sure that this new office is perfect for him. In this scenario, I fear that first impressions will mean everything, and I’ll do whatever it takes to come out on top.
Whitney
I casually lookmyself up and down for the umpteenth time in the body-length mirror hanging on my closet doors. Tilting my head to the side, I do a little spin, ensuring everything about my appearance is perfect.
Today is the day that my coworkers and I meet our new boss: Theodore Hurst. To be perfectly honest, I’m a little scared. I am afraid because I will be spending practically every minute with him. I’m going to be his assistant. And according to my job description, I will practically live and breathe anything he requires from me. If he doesn’t like me, there’s the potential that he can make my job miserable. Or, he could dislike me so much that he’d fire me, and where would that leave me?
Terrible thoughts of endless to-do lists and impossible tasks float through my mind as I imagine the worst-case scenario. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to hate coming to work every day, and I have no intention of finding out.
It takes me longer than I’d like to admit to find the best outfit to wear to work. My clothing choice was never aproblem when I worked with Mr. Peterson. He could have cared less if I showed up to work wearing sweats. But this guy? I have no idea what his expectations are. All I know is that I want to make a good first impression on him.
As I scrutinize my reflection in the mirror, I finally decide that this will have to do.
I decided on my favorite cream blouse to wear today. Then, I picked out a pair of maroon dress pants, and my tan, waist-length peacoat. I chose to wear a pair of my favorite heels. I’m not exactly short, per se, but even a little bit of a heel gives me more confidence than anything. Once I’m dressed and ready to go, I step out of my bedroom and into my kitchen to eat a protein bar before leaving. As I’m shoving my face full of the chocolate-peanut butter oat bar, I do a once-over around my space.
My house is about two miles from Chicago’s Navy Pier, in a condominium complex with reserved parking. It isn’t a huge condo—two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a study—but it suits me. The empty room is for whenever Leila decides to spend the night, which isn’t very often, but it is there, just in case. Glancing at the clock on my oven, I collect my phone, planner, purse, and keys and then hit the road for work.
I don’t have time to stop for coffee, deciding that I can just get it at work. On a typical day with Mr. Peterson, I would stop at Uncommon Grounds or some other coffee shop for the both of us.
Once in the car, I pull up my favorite classical music playlist, letting the lilting notes calm my nerves. I got up early this morning, hoping to miss the heavy traffic, because nothing ruins my day more than having to sit in a traffic jam in the middle of downtown Chicago.
The shrill ringtone of my cell phone brings me out of my dazed state of mind. I would have jumped a mile into the air ifit were not for my seatbelt, which does its job and holds me firmly in my place.
Considering that I am currently being held at a red light, I rummage around in my oversized purse, looking for my phone. I grumble to myself, wishing I had the kind of money to get a car with Bluetooth features. Finally, when my fingers graze over the vibrating device, I yank it out of the bag and place it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hey, there,” the singsong voice that could pull me out of any dark space rings into my ear. My best friend is the epitome of sunshine and energy.
“Hello, Leila,” I respond. “Nice to talk to you this early in the morning,” I speculate while looking at my dashboard clock. It reads a quarter past six. Now that it’s officially fall, the days are beginning earlier, so the sun is just barely rising through the sky.
“Yeah, well. The damn principal chose not to let us know that our school was out of power until just a few minutes ago. I guess something knocked it out over the weekend and they haven’t been able to get it back up,” she muttered, loud enough so I could hear. “Would’ve been nice to know earlier. I could’ve slept in!”
