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One
Hollie
Clack Clack Clack
The receptionist, whose desk fills the center of the spacious marble and glass lobby, continues typing away while I nervously glance at the time on my phone for what must be the hundredth time in the past five minutes. Occasionally, she raises her head of perfectly coiffed hair and eyes me suspiciously. I’m sure she’s wondering what I’m doing here as much as I am.
I’m perfectly out of place in my best—and only—black pencil skirt, white blouse, herringbone blazer, and 3-inch heels I borrowed from my much more stylish roommate, Bianca. It’s unfortunate that said heels are about two sizes too small and pinch my toes cruelly.
This is my sixth job interview in the past month. I sent my resume out to at least one hundred companies and six interviews was all I had to show for it. How many call backs had I gotten from those interviews? Exactly zero.
Everyone wanted someone with experience for their marketing department. The problem was that I couldn’t get anyone to hire me togiveme that experience. I felt like I was stuck in a perpetual catch 22.
The only reason I was sitting here in the executive lobby of Clarke Hotels’ executive offices was because Bianca’s father had called in a favor. Apparently, he and the CEO, Archer Clarke, have done some business together in the past and were friends. Mr. Clarke has agreed to give me an interview, but I would have to earn the job on my own.
At 10 a.m. on the dot, the receptionist clears her throat and narrows her eyes on me. “Ms. Simmons, Mr. Clarke, will see you now. Follow the hall on the left and it will be the office at the end.” She quickly diverts her eyes back to the computer screen, effectively dismissing me.
I hop up, trying not to wince as the borrowed shoes scrape across the backs of my heels. I was definitely going to have blisters. “Thanks,” I choke out, adding a little wave that the receptionist doesn’t acknowledge and make my way down the hallway.
As I proceed across the lobby, I nervously smooth my skirt over my full thighs. This was the most professional outfit I could put together from the meager offerings in my closet. Ihadto get this job. My family back home was counting on me. They needed any money I could send them. My mother isn’t exactly what you would call a nurturing provider. In fact, I was pretty sure she blamed me for every problem in her life. Mostly because that was what she told me when she was wasted. Which was often.
Mom made it clear that she blamed me for coming along unexpectedly and my father taking off. He didn’t provide any support while I was growing up, even though he was well off and a major player in the Seattle business scene. Mom did the best she could, working retail and waitressing jobs, but when my half-sister came along and she didn’t even know who her father was, the drinking got worse. Like it often does, the drinking eventually led to drugs and soon she couldn’t keep even the simplest jobs.
Throughout high school, I had to step up to make sure that the house stayed in order and the bills were getting paid. I wasn’t so much worried for my mother as I was for my half-sister, Paige, who was now in her junior year of high school. Since I’d been gone for the past four years at Branson College, they needed all the help they could get.
I didn’t spend four years acing every class and completely neglecting my social life to sit around unemployed. I was going to get this job and send money home. Everything would fall into place.
Keep telling yourself that, Hollie.
I turned left and swiftly made my way down the long hallway lined with artwork that probably cost more than I could ever make in a year. There was a buzz in the air as I walked by offices filled with people working away. Every person I passed seemed to move at high speeds, like they had somewhere very important to be.
Approaching the office at the end, I notice the conspicuously empty desk in front of Mr. Clarke’s giant door where an assistant would normally sit. Maybe they’re on a break? Releasing a shaky breath and gathering my courage, I knock on the wooden door. From within I hear a deep, masculine voice bark, “Enter.”
Pulling open the door, I step inside an office that’s almost as large as the lobby downstairs. There’s an impressive wall of floor to ceiling windows that look out on the downtown Seattle skyline and the waterfront beyond.
Glancing around the room, I spot who I can only assume is Mr. Clarke. His head is down, staring at documents on his desk, and he appears to be making notations on them with a red inked pen. His desk and leather chair are huge, but that seems only to be to accommodate the enormous expanse of his shoulders in what looks like a bespoke gray suit. It had to be custom, right? No off the rack suit would fit those shoulders.
Sitting down in the plush chair stationed in front of the mahogany desk, I hold my head high, ready to make my best first impression. I can’t see his face as he reads the document centered in front of him but note his dark brown hair that’s cut shorter on the sides than it is on the top. He still hasn’t looked up at me or said a word. After about a minute, I grow more anxious and fidget in my chair.
He knew I was here, right? I mean, he had to. He told me to come in. Was he expecting me to say something? “Excuse me, Mr. Clarke—”
“Just a moment.” His deep voice washes over me and makes my stomach do a tiny flip. This is ridiculous. No guy’s voice has ever made me nervous before. That’s what the flip was, right? Nerves. I take a deep breath and try to steady myself while studying his masculine, yet somehow elegant, hands as he marks up his paperwork.
After what feels like an eternity, he sets aside the pen and lifts his gaze to mine. I suck in a quick breath as whiskey-colored eyes meet my own.
Man, he’s pretty. Wait, can a man be pretty? He’s gorgeous. Of course I researched him online before coming here and it was obvious the man was good-looking. However, those pictures didn’t do the man justice.
In the flesh, Archer Clarke is more than good-looking. He radiates an energy of strength and power that only the most confident of men could possess. I’ve met men with this kind of presence before and they were always bad news.
There’s that stomach flip again, only larger this time. Nerves. That’s what it was. His eyes flash an emotion that I can’t quite read before he schools his features and stares at me steadily. “Miss. Simmons, it appears you are here for a job.”
“Y-yes, sir,” I stammer slightly.
Get it together, Hollie. This is just another guy in a suit.
I suck in another breath and straighten my shoulders, steadily meeting his eyes. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
“I’m sure you realize I don’t make it a normal practice to meet with prospective entry-level employees,” he says icily. “Dante Moreno asked to give you a shot, and he’s been a good friend and business associate to me over the years. That doesn’t mean you have the job yet.”
