He had one more candidate to interview before the end of the day. He’d promised his niece Emmy that he would be home early tonight. He’d broken so many promises to her lately, and he couldn’t face the guilt that came with breaking the heart of the only person in this world that he truly cared about.
He skimmed the next candidate’s CV. Doris Granger. She sounded a hundred years old but, according to this, was only twenty-nine. He read over her previous job experience . . .
Executive Assistant to the CEO of a company he’d never heard about in Paraguay. Waitress and perfume salesperson. He sighed. Her CV didn’t exactly gleam and sparkle and inspire him with confidence, but this was the last,last, person he could interview.
He’d gone through five assistants in the last two months. Two had quit in tears after their first day and the other three,yes, you guessed it, the heartless bastard had fired them. But none of them had been good enough, and now the job recruitment company said they weren’t sending anyone else to him. Apparently, he was “insensitive” and “emotionally abusive.” This was a job, not a bloody date. What did they expect? Candlelit dinners, roses and walks on the fucking moonlit beach? But now he had been forced to place a job listing in the paper, which had caused all manner of strange people to come crawling out of the woodwork.
Maybe he would need to lower his expectations somewhat? What was he thinking . . .lower them?His expectations would need to be somewhere in a gutter to hire someone who’d served burgers, sprayed perfume and did God knows what for some company in, where was it? Paraguay, Papua New Guinea . . .Whatever!But what other choice did he have?
He buzzed down to the main reception. “Send Doris Granger up.” He paused and listened. “What do you mean she’s left?”
“Sorry,” Ayanda’s voice quivered, as if she was afraid of him. She probably was. They all were. It was better that way: “Never mix business and your personal life,” he’d learned that the hard way. “Yes, she just seemed to—oh wait, she’s back.”
“What do you mean she’s back?” he asked. Doris was clearly indecisive. He hated indecisiveness.
“Yes, she’s back. I’ll send her up, Mr. Stark.”
“Fine.” He hung up the phone and sat back down at his desk.
CHAPTERTHREE
Poppy
He was certainlyveryattractive, that’s for sure. The kind of attractive that steals your breath for a moment and makes your heart beat a little faster. Pitch-black hair, sky-blue eyes, a jaw so masculine and chiseled that it could probably cut glass. Yet, he was unbelievably intimidating at the same time as he sat there and stared at me relentlessly. I hadn’t said a word since walking in and sliding my CV across his massive desk. Why was his desk so large? It was unnecessary and seemed more like an intimidation device than anything else. Well, Doris Granger was not one to be intimidated . . .oh, who was I kidding!?Both Doris and Poppy were shaking in their bloody seats. I gazed around his office quickly. It was cold, impersonal and had a somewhat dead, morgue-ish feel to it. The only other sign of (almost) life in it was the poorChlorophytum comosum, aka the spider plant, in the corner that looked like it hadn’t been watered all year and should not be kept in direct sunlight. “You can tell a lot about a person by the plants they keep,” my mother used to say. I wondered what this dead pot plant said about Ryan Stark?
“So?” He finally spoke. His voice was gruff and demanding and it made me feel like I was back in the principal’s office, about to get detention.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Oh . . . sorry, yes.” I jumped back up and tried my best to extend my hand across the enormous table. “Doris Granger, pleased to meet y—” my voice trailed off when he made no attempt to shake hands.
“I know your name, Miss Granger. Now please, sit back down.” He gestured and I obeyed.
There was another awkward silence, and I suddenly pointed at my CV on his desk.
“My CV,” I mumbled.
“I know,” he said. “You also emailed it. There was no need to bring a hard copy too.”
A pit formed in my stomach. I hadn’t even been in his office for a minute and I was already in trouble. He glanced down at the CV on his desk and gave a slow tutting sound before looking up at me again.
“And?” he asked.
“And?” I repeated stupidly, my voice cracking slightly.
He shook his head. He seemed frustrated. “I see you worked as an assistant in Uruguay?”
“Paraguay. The ‘guays’ can get very confusing.” I smiled as widely as I could. Smiling like this would hopefully hide the fact I was a blatant liar. Not that it mattered at this stage, I was clearlynotgoing to get this job.
“And how did you land up there?” he asked. “It’s a rather unusual place to work.”
“Mmmm.” My mind raced for an answer. I hadn’t given my character a backstory yet. “My uncle,” I said, uttering the first thing that popped into my head. “He’s South American and he . . .” I tapered off, unable to finish the lie that was about to come pouring out of my mouth. “Uncle,” I repeated.
“Don’t they speak Spanish there?” he asked.
“¡Sí! ¡Muchas gracias!” I said quickly and immediately regretted it.
“You speak Spanish?” he asked, looking as perplexed as I felt right now.
