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Someone, I said. Not ‘you’.
“Where are you from, Ms. Tyrell? Your accent places you South. No, let me guess. Alabama?”
I’m astonished. “Yes.”
“Small town?” He leans back, as if he’s enjoying this interview. His chair creaks with a mild protest.
“It’s called Little York,” I admit bashfully. “Population 5000. It’s really small. You wouldn’t have heard of it.” Most people haven’t.
“And yet you went to college in a town where . . . I’m guessing here, so correct me if I’m wrong . . . most teenagers are content to marry their high school sweethearts at nineteen?”
“Yes.”
“I admire that,” he says. “Bucking the trend. That’s what my grandfather used to say. He came to America with nothing but the clothes on his back from a town in which everyone did what their fathers and grandfathers did before them – coalmining.”
I nod. I’m still wary of him, but I find myself relaxing a bit.
“And you came all the way here . . . to Chicago.”
“It’s my first job interview.”
Briefly, I tell him about Lyla in Accounting and the way she gave me the heads up on this job, even before it was advertised widely.
“Do you know what this job entails, Ms. Tyrell?”
Is it me, or has his voice taken a significant edge? I remember the redhead storming out of here like a woman scorned at the altar.
No, I’m not quite sure what this job entails. I thought I had it all figured out, but now I’m not so sure.
Bravely, I say, “I’m your first point of contact with everyone outside. I will maintain and file your data, arrange your travel and accommodation, take minutes, screen your telephone calls, produce documents for you and do your background research. I’ll organize your meetings and liaise with internal and external customers on your behalf. And I’ll get you coffee.”
I pause.
Is that all? I don’t know why my heart is beating so fast.
He doesn’t say anything for a long, long while.
Then: “Yes, Ms. Tyrell, you’ve pretty much got that covered. That is the job scope.”
I take a deep breath. “Did I miss out anything, sir?”
I don’t know what I want him to say. Something to hint at what the redhead has possibly been doing for him, perhaps. Is that part of the job scope, Mr. Morton? Sleeping with the boss? Because I don’t come with that sort of perk, Mr. Morton, no matter how desirable and available my boss is. I have a rule. (OK, I just made it up.) Never mix business with pleasure. Besides, I don’t do pleasure – not the kind of pleasure I think redhead was involved in, at least.
Christopher Morton says, “No, you haven’t missed out anything at all. Except for one thing.”
My heart skips a beat. “Yes?”
“I don’t drink coffee, Ms. Tyrell.” He gestures to a refrigerator in a part of the oval office. “Just diet coke, and I get my own.”
I blush despite myself. “Yes, sir.”
“And none of this ‘yes, sir’, ‘no, sir’ crap. You call me Chris just like everyone else.”
They call him Chris? Seriously?
“Yes, sir. I mean, Chris.”
Does that mean he’s offering me the job? Don’t I have to go through HR or something?
But wait a minute. Am I really sure I want this job? I mean . . . I need it. But there’s something mercurial and unpredictable about Christopher Morton, and I have the pervading premonition (yes, actual premonition) that this ‘job’ is not going to be an easy ride.
So you’re going to let yourself be scared off? my sly inner reasoning insinuates.
“Great,” Chris says, “so can you start immediately?”
Just like that?
I’m stunned. What about background checks? What about my qualifications? He hasn’t even looked at them, for goodness sakes! I should be uneasy. All my senses should be screaming RED ALERT.
“We, uh, haven’t talked about my package yet, sir . . . I mean Chris.”
“I pay a hundred thousand dollars a year. For benefits, you need to go to see Sully in HR.”
I’m floored. A hundred thousand? I think there’s something wrong with my ears.
I say, “Uh . . . did I hear you correctly?”
He grins. “You mean about Sully in HR?”
I’m speechless. Somewhere inside my skull, wheels are cranking and suspicions are rising. For one hundred thousand dollars, is he expecting me to do a lot more than what is purportedly listed in my job scope?
You’re reaching, Elizabeth Tyrell. Why would a man as sinfully attractive and dynamic as Christopher Morton want anything to do with you when he will have women crawling at his feet, practically falling over themselves to do anything he wants?
Yes, I shamefully admit. There’s that. I’m getting ahead of myself. Just because he’s eyeing me with interest and speculation, it doesn’t mean it’s carnal. I’m at an interview. My interview. It would only be normal if my future employer’s vivid eyes rake over me with a fine-tooth comb, making feel naked in the process.
And I do feel naked. Vulnerable and naked.
But it isn’t the type of naked that makes me feel down and dirty inside, like if I’m caught reading a porn magazine at a kiosk. It’s the type of naked that sends an undeniable frisson of something electrifying and dangerous through my insides, and I have to suppress the shudder flowing through my loins.
I steal a look at Christopher Morton’s face. Wham! It hits me again – his overpowering good looks and raw animal sensuality. My knees are wobbly underneath the table.
No, no, no. I must not. I cannot. He’s my employer now. His hazel eyes burn with a startling intensity, and I wonder if this is the reaction he elicits from everyone.
It strikes me that I have already accepted his job offer.
I say, “Yes. I mean . . . I can start immediately, sir . . . Mr. Morton . . . uh, Chris.”
His smile spreads broadly. “Good then. Let’s shake on it.”
He offers me his hand. After deliberating for a while, I take it. It’s not that I don’t want to shake his hand. It’s just that –
Our palms meet.
A tingle like a nerve struck at my elbow courses up my forearm. My breath freezes in my throat.
Oh. My. God.
I didn’t know that his sexual magnetism would translate into his touch.
I have to squeeze every ounce of my willpower to not retract my hand as though I have touched a livewire. This is not me. I don’t react this way to handsome boys, even though they may be sex gods. I’ve been brought up to be a good girl with good, deeply entrenched family values of virtue and modesty.
I’m starting to believe that I have been put here for a purpose. This is a test – of my willpower and reserve and my deep-seated commitment to my own values.
I steel myself.
I can do this.
I smile. “Thank you, Chris. I take it that I’ll start tomorrow.”
“Seeing as I’m left in a lurch without a PA, I’d rather you start right now. But tomorrow will be fine.”
We both get up together, pushing back our respective chairs. He hands me back my portfolio, and I take it.
“Sully in HR,” he says.
“Right.” I take a step backwards and almost stumble. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, Chris.”
I’m never going to get used to saying that name as long as I live, I swear.
“Tomorrow then.” He regards me with that unsettling stare of his.
I scuttle out of the room before I can embarrass myself further. Oh, this is a mistake. A major mistake, taking this job.
What have I gotten myself into?
