Page 26 of The Rebel Billionaire

She nods and leaves, closing the door behind her.

“Brooke, why don’t you tell Sandro a little about yourself?”

My muscles tense, and I rub my jaw.

She picks up her glass of water and takes a long swallow, her slender throat bobbing.

“I don’t think he’s interested in hearing about me.”

She looks up, and it’s then that I realise how young she is. She must be in her early twenties.

“How old are you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Our eyes lock, and I’m surprised to find no intimidation there.

“I’m twenty-four,” she says.

Young.

“Are you enjoying your trip?”

She pauses, then nods. “I am. I want to work to get some money behind me, so I can enjoy the rest of my travels.”

“And your timeframe?”

“I don’t have one. If I get a job and I’m enjoying it, I’ll stay as long as my visa allows. I can use vacation days to visit places.”

Her tone is serious, as if she’s choosing her words with care. She could have tried to feed me a story about desperately wanting to work for St Clair, but interestingly, that’s not the story she’s going with. I wonder what my mother has told her about me?

“And previous work?” I ask.

My mother scowls, her lips pinching.

This is fun.

Brooke looks between us, remaining quiet until I lay a hand on the desk and wait.

She raises her chin slightly. “I’ve held down a number of part-time positions,” she says, her voice even. “I’ve worked in a hotel on reception. I was responsible for their booking system and dealing with customer complaints.”

“Were there a lot?”

She looks at me.

“Complaints?” I ask.

“Not too many. More things like weak water pressure, hard pillows or scratchy towels.”

“Nothing worse than scratchy towels,” I say under my breath, watching as her lips twitch, but I’m impressed when she maintains a stoic look. “What did you do?”

“Fixed their problems wherever possible. No one likes a scratchy towel.”

She picks up her glass of water, her eyes meeting mine over the rim, almost daring me.

I give myself a mental shake. Let HR find her something in the basement. I don’t need some inexperienced woman testing her skills in my office. I need someone like Callie who can read my every emotion and prioritise my workload without needing to be micromanaged.

“Any other experience?”

The question slips out before I can reconsider.