“No partner, boyfriend? Anyone who might not understand the nature of the contract and its implications?”
She chews on her lower lip. It’s brief, but it’s there; a nervous tell. “No. There is no one else. I’m single.” The last two words slide out with her exhale.
“Wonderful,” Trys adds while Sabrina continues to oscillate her gaze between us. “It’s not an expectation that you be single; however, we have found in the past that it goes a long way. Some partners are not as understanding of intimate relationships with a boss.” No shit. The boss and secretary cliché is as old as time. Only this secretary would be paid forher exclusive time with my dick. No love, no feelings, just sex. Sex and spreadsheets, orgasms and analytics.
“I’m sure you’ve read over the personal grooming requirements, as well as the expectations for professional and personal conduct. You would be required to accompany Mr. Mercer to a variety of scheduled events. Some as his date of sorts, if you will, others in the capacity of an executive assistant. A lot can be garnered at functions when people are reliant on alcohol to get through an evening.” His chuckle reappears, as does Bri’s. “You will be required to remain sober, though, as you know.”
“Yes, sir.” She nods. Sir? What the fuck. When she says those words, in that tone while looking up through those glorious lashes, I want her face inches from my hips, and those eyes on me as she swallows me down.
“There is a stipend for grooming and waxing, or laser if you prefer, hair appointments, and spa appointments for facials. Any plastic surgery requests will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis.”
Her face pulled into an aghast grimace. “What displeases you, Ms. Broe?”
“You pay for plastic surgery for your assistants?” she says, the vitriol dripping off her tongue.
“Not always. As I said, it’s on a case-by-case basis,” Trystan corrects her. “Are there any aspects pertaining to the personal part of the position that you perceive may be a problem, Bri?”
That full bottom lip disappears between her teeth once more. Come on, share with the class. What will you not do for one million dollars? What is your deal-breaker, if anything?
“No. I’m more than happy to fulfill anything requested.” She smiles back. Interesting.
“Great, that’s good to hear. Mason?” His salacious wink twitches my groin again.
“Perfect,” I deadpan. If I were hoping to gain some more insight into why she’s willing to take this position, she’s not forthcoming. Yet. A little wine, maybe? What will it take to find out what makes Sabrina Arden Broe tick? My mind races at the idea of uncovering her, figuratively and literally.
Trystan continues to recite the executive side of the position requirements. “Of course, being a media group, your presentations are required to be innovative. You’ll have access to the full gamut of presses and technology. Our standards are high and exacting.”
Sabrina continues with polite replies around her proficiency with computer programs and business jargon; she’s worked predominantly in publishing and has an in-depth knowledge of language conventions and proper lexicon. I can’t take the pleasantries a moment longer.
“Why do you want this position, Sabrina?” This time, my candor throws her for a loop. She may have been prepared for the question to arise, but by whom and the timing of it caught her off guard. She reaches for the tumbler of water on the table after excusing herself and takes a long sip of the cool liquid. The symphony of the ripples across the column of her slender throat is mesmerizing. Trystan and I wait for her to answer, each of us eager to find out the reason for her being here and to get on with the actual work.
“I was put forward for this role because the agency deemed me to be a good fit.”
Nice try. Give us the unabridged version. The warts-and-all first draft with the scribbles and mess of arrows and crossing out. She’s here to fill a role that demands sex as part of a free-use contract that pays a million dollars for one year of tenure. This is not a job she stumbled into.
“I’m sure Mason will agree that I’m not speaking out of turn here,” Trys says, his cool, knowingeyes meeting mine across the rim of my tumbler. I arch a brow to encourage him to continue. “You differ from what agencies send us, Ms. Broe. Irrespective of your being put forward by Covet, why do youwantthis job?” Ah, there it is.
An index finger taps the table softly, once, twice. Sabrina cants her head to the side, perhaps deciding what version of the truth to convey. Covet sends us models and actresses. Other agencies send us pimped-up beauty queens and women who almost look like they begged to be included; their presentation and personality are so far removed from the position requirements we have blocked some agencies.
“I don’t want this job, Mr. Hynd, Mr. Mercer. Ineedit.”
“Go on,” I encourage, shuffling forward in the calfskin wingback.
“My sister has a medical issue that requires specialized treatment. We’ve been advised that it can be expensive.” Her fingers clasp together before she worries them loose again on another extended exhale. “I’m tech-savvy, reliable, and always on time, if not early, to work. I’m diligent and a quick learner, and I know I’ll be an asset to the executive team. I’m not asking you to consider me for this position; I’m begging you.”
Oh, I do adore a woman who begs.
What the fuck? I was prepared to face some hard-hitting questions about my double degree or the tiny hole in my resume that Pen wanted me to answer as delicately as possible. I was not prepared to face a firing squad that asked why I wanted so desperately to be the paid whore of a man sitting a meter away from me across a meeting table. Short answer: I don’t want to; I fucking need to. Both men were clothed in tailored suits, shirts, and ties that were classic, beautiful and, I’m guessing, overpriced as hell. Trystan, with his sandy blond hair and eyes that danced with a humor I found comforting until he loaded a new clip and began firing. To have me sweating rivulets of perspiration under the inappropriate blouse, because amethyst and a layer of salty sheen are not friends. Then everything leveled up when Mason Mercer, CEO, entered the equation and the conversation.
He’s not the austere prick who stared through me from the article I dug up on the way here. No, that would be his father. This guy is a much younger, much better-looking version of masculine perfection that had me clenching my thighs whenever he opened his mouth, which was a lot. I didn’t think he would sit in on the first round of interviews, but he did, for the entire hour. He had his own way of asking questions I found difficult to answer, leaning forward in the chair as if my answers were the key to some world problem only he and I could figure out together. As his focus seemed tohang on every word, I had to remind myself that he was doing the same process with many applicants. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that Wanda had been the applicant prior to my arrival, and the realization bottomed out my stomach. She’d be the better fit, for sure, and she’d probably do it for free, or the publicity would garner her sagging career. Is she, or anyone in her family, facing hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical expenses? Of course not! If so, they would have the funds to cover them, or be adequately insured so they could focus their efforts on treatment, support, and well-wishes.
I wanted to break down in the elevator. Fuck, I wanted the marble to fissure and swallow me into the depths of the earth when I shook hands prior to leaving. Both Trystan and Mason, with their buttery soft, manicured hands, grasped my sweaty one. I know I messed up more than one interview question. The entire hour was a hot mess of polite responses and my persistent internal dialogue of whether to stick with the prearranged script or go rogue. I was expecting his father, not some handsome legacy tycoon who needed a corporate fuck buddy. So, I held it together enough to thank them both for their time, farewell Helen and Sean at their respective desks, and hotfoot it out of there. Trystan had promised to be in touch, a line I vaguely remember over the blood whooshing in my ears. Once down to the foyer level again, I stride over to Sapphire and return the badge and winning smile.
“You too,” I all but vomit when she tells me to have a great day. Only once I’m back in the sedan and heading for home, do the tears fall from lashes unable to contain them any longer. Hands that won’t dry out still stretch over the charcoal skirt in repetitive movements.
“Glorious day, innit?” the driver says, surveying the expanse of cobalt sky on either side of the bridge as we cross.
“Sure is,” I stammer out, blinking as my head continues tostare out of the side window. If I make eye contact with the driver in the mirror, I will have no chance of holding back the threatening dam any further. The overwhelming sense of helplessness requires a wall for me to slide down and rock in the fetal position, not banter about the glorious fucking weather in a town car.
