I wipe my hands down my face before spinning my chair around. I stand up and walk over to the liquor cabinet. It’s only nine thirty, and I already need a drink. That’s what happens when you sit through two hours of grueling interviews where every girl is either too nervous, too bitchy, too unprepared or, honestly, too fucking clueless to meet the requirements of the position.
For a moment, just one tiny tick of a moment, I wonder if Diego is right. Maybe I am looking for a unicorn. But you know what? If a unicorn is what I need, a unicorn is what I’m going to fucking get.
“Sorry I’m late,” the voice catches me off guard enough that I almost spill my drink down the front of my button-down. I grit my jaw and whip around.
“Hasn’t anyone told you not to enter a room until you’re…” I stop. Because the girl standing in front of me seems to have messed with the otherwise smooth-running control panel that is my working brain.
Five foot five. Three if she’s not wearing heels.
Heart-shaped face.
Perfect lips.
Perfect widows peak.
Blond hair that even from five feet away smells like flowers.
Flushed cheeks.
Curves like honey with a waist small enough I could just about wrap my hands around her.
“Invited in.” I finish my sentence, but the word kind of just falls on the floor like a dropped ball.
“I’m sorry,” she says for the second time. Her feminine, feathery voice goes straight to my head. “Would you like me to go back out again?”
“No,” I shake my head. “Sit.”
She does, and I swallow hard.
Gorgeous and obedient. I don’t have a five-check box list like Diego, but if I did, she’s two for zip.
“Annelise?” I ask, looking at the first line of her resume that is open on my computer.
“Yes. But I go by–”
“I don’t care for nicknames,” I cut her off. I shut my laptop. “When can you start?”
“I…” she looks around, her cheeks flushing, and she smiles a little. My chest tightens. “Aren’t you going to interview me?”
I hold my hands out, palms open. “What do you think I’m doing?” I ask.
She studies me. This is when most girls would start to stutter. To fumble. To fuck up. But instead, she bites her lip and brushes a blond lock behind a perfect ear. “Okay. I just assumed you’d want to know something about me.”
Hmm, no backing down. No second guessing. I don’t hate that. Any girl who wants to last as my assistant has to have a spine. Until that spine is horizontal on my bed of course. In that case, talking back will have consequences.
“How about you tell me what you think I need to know about you?” I say, flipping the tables. Again, this is where the dumb ones would be filtered out. I’d learn about hobbies and personal problems while getting an unnecessary earful about multitasking, fast learner, and customer service qualities.
As if my assistants are ever permitted to deal with customer affairs.
“How do you like your coffee?” she asks, and for a moment, I am the one who is speechless.
“Americano. Two raw sugar packets.”
“What time?” she asks.
“I walk through that door at 6:52 every morning. No exceptions, no holidays,” I answer.
“So, six fifty on a coaster, on your desk,” she says. “Do you prefer your schedule in hard copy or email?” she asks.
