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Ridiculous.
I didn’t have time to obsess over an outfit, so I just threw on a black dress and blazer, found some respectable heels, and tied my hair into a bun.
I knew the office was at least twenty minutes out, so I’d be late if I didn’t leave within ten minutes. But just as I was about to head out, I had to scour the room for my car keys. I searched my bedroom, the living room, the bathroom, and my bedroom again before finally finding them in the fridge.
In the fridge.
Then, of course, I needed to find my portfolio; showing up without it would mean immediate back-logging. Truthfully though, I wondered if I even had a shot since I would probably be late even if I rushed.
Finally finding the damned thing in my pile of papers on the coffee table, I hurried out the door.
The city was so wrapped around with cars and trucks that I had to take backroads, running over so many pot holes I wouldn’t have been surprised if my hub caps were gone.
“Come on, come on,” I chanted, less than five minutes out.
I rushed into a parking spot in the lot across the street. Jumping out of my car, I had the misfortune of stepping into a pot hole and breaking my heel.
“Shit!” I cried, pretty sure the heel had snapped in half. Knowing I couldn’t walk into such an important interview with a broken heel, I ran back to my car and grabbed the pair of flats I always kept with me.
As I finally made it inside the building, I felt my bun loosening. My skin was flushed and the cool air inside did nothing to help.
I stepped up to the information desk. Everything was sleek, clear, and luxurious, instantly making me feel out of my league. The company name took up the wall behind the desk.
“Hi. I have an interview at one,” I announced.
The woman glanced at the clock that read twelve fifty-nine. “Wait here, please,” the woman said, and gestured to the couches by the door.
I pressed my lips together. I was already late, and now had to wait. I wondered if this was a sign that I had already ruined my chances. I knew I looked a mess, with my ratty shoes and quickly worsening hair situation. This interview was already turning out to be a disaster of epic proportions.
“Miss Cates?” A middle-aged woman with a soft voice appeared. I stood quickly, recognizing her voice from over the phone.
“Yes. Hi.” I smoothed out my skirt and hair, and followed her to the elevators.
“Hi. My name is Martha and I’ll take you to the conference room where you’ll wait for Mr. Hayes and Mr. Phillips,” she explained in the elevator.
“Thank you,” I said. “Were all applicants invited today?” I asked curiously.
“No. Mr. Hayes had only just extended me your information before I called you.” She then looked me up and down and pursed her lips.
I fought to keep my expression neutral. After such short notice, what did they expect? Did they think I would be just sitting around in a suit, waiting on their call with my portfolio in hand?
We reached the top floor and I clutched my purse and folder as we walked down the hall. Cubicles lined one side, while small pods of lounge chairs lined the other. Market numbers were displayed on a huge screen.
At the end of the hall, we stopped at a clear door—the kind you could only see shadows through.
“Wait here,” Martha instructed. I watched her walk away in her gray pant suit and somehow knew I hated her.
Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I hoped I wouldn’t have to stand for long. My shoes were too small, my feet hurt, and sweat was running my back.
It was half past one before the door swung open. I gave a slight start, thinking I was looking at the company’s advertisement models. One of them, tall with blond hair and blue eyes, wore a welcoming smile. His navy-blue suit looked like a second skin, the tight jacket drawing attention to his muscles. And the other one was the exact definition of dark and handsome. His dark brown hair hung artfully around his brown eyes, which were sharp, just like his jawline. My eyes trailed over his mouth, realizing he was frowning.
“H-hello,” I stammered. “I’m Henley Cates.” I held out my hand, and the friendlier one took it. There was a good five-second delay before the other moved to shake my hand.
“I’m Maverick Phillips,” the friendlier one said. “And this is Jude Hayes. We’re the ‘H and P.’” Maverick smiled warmly again and I relaxed a little bit until I noticed Jude still frowning, looking over me like I was a rare specimen.
“It’s wonderful to meet you both,” I said, nervously clutching my purse strap.
“Same here. Please, come in,” Maverick said, turning around. I could have sworn he shot Jude a look. As I followed them, I wished I’d spent more time getting ready; it would have been worth being late to have makeup, proper hair, and shoes that weren’t broken.
