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He arches a brow. I can’t tell if he’s amused or irritated by my non-answer. “Humor me.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m punctual. I have an excellent work ethic. I pay attention to detail. I also know Los Angeles like the back of my hand, which might prove useful to you if you need me to run your errands. Although, I guess that’s kinda the whole job description, isn’t it?”
Hunter pauses, considers. “Where are you from?”
“LA, born and raised.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“Nobody’s reallyfromhere.”
“Guess that makes me the exception.”
He sets my resumé down, leaning back in the chair he sits in like a throne. I’m across from him on the other side of his desk like a damn pauper.
“What are your qualifications? Do you have prior experience as a personal assistant?”
I nibble on my bottom lip, deep in thought. I don’t miss the way his eyes follow the movement. “I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t have very much experience. I recently graduated from UCLA with a Bachelors in bioscience.”
“Then what the hell are you doing at a film studio looking for a job? Shouldn’t you be working an internship at a lab or something?”
“Internships don’t pay. And I need…” I trail off. He doesn’t need my back story. Probably doesn’t care in the first place, so I may as well save my breath.
“What’s your availability?” he asks, moving on like I’m the one wastinghistime.
“Completely clear.”
“Even weekends?”
“Yep.”
“Do you have reliable transportation?”
“I’ve been using my roommate’s car. She works from home, so I pretty much have free reign of it.”
Hunter stands and circles the desk until he’s right in front of me, leaning casually against the edge. He towers over me. I can’t imagine what it’ll feel like to have him standing at full height. Especially this close.Tooclose.
His cologne is a mild one, but my sensitive nose appreciates the subtlety. Most Hollywood wannabes drown themselves in Calvin Klein, Versace, or Dior. It gives me a headache, to be perfectly honest. Everyone here is loud and obnoxious and trying to prove themselves. They drive fancy cars they can’t afford, wear designer brands they bought secondhand, and do anything and everything to earn their fifteen seconds of fame.
Hunter doesn’t seem to have this problem. He smells like fresh laundry or the air after a heavy rain. It’s soothing, calming. He’s well-dressed, sure, but not in a loud or flashy way. The fanciest thing he wears is his silver Rolex. Everything about him is cool, calm, and collected. His quiet confidence is the most striking thing about him. He has nothing to prove because he already has everything the dreamers out there can only yearn for.
His eyes still haven’t left my small, curvy frame. The frown he wears seems permanent, etched into his features like he’s made of fine marble.
“The position starts at two hundred,” he says firmly.
“A week?”
“No. Two hundred thousand a year.”
My face heats up. I can’t even begin to picture that many zeros in my bank account. “Oh,” I mumble, throat suddenly really dry. “That’s… a lot.”
“You’d be required to handle sensitive information on the daily,” Hunter explains. “Confidential movie scripts, correspondence with A-list celebrities, buyout contracts, among other things. I pay generously for the privilege of discretion. Naturally, you’d have to be comfortable signing an NDA.”
“What if I’m not?”
“Then don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
