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“In conclusion,” Brian says, “by utilizing Six Sigma strategies, I was able to radically streamline our core business process, eradicating inefficiencies in our product development lifecycle and increasing revenues by nine percent.”
Nope. Not a clue.
“Impressive,” I say. “So, you’re a Six Sigma guy?”
“There’s no problem it can’t solve, and as a broker for Seyfried and Holt, I assure you, problem-solving would become my middle name.”
“What’s your middle name now?” I ask. Dick move, perhaps, but this is the seventh interview of the day, and each candidate has been as unimaginative as the one before. Blair was supposed to clear these guys in round one, sending me the cream of the crop.
But apparently she’s looking for docile and predictable, a guy who will toe the company line.
Me? I prefer a little fire.
“Forgive me. Terrible sense of humor,” I say, dialing it down. It’s not this poor guy’s fault I’m being blown off for lunch. No. That honor belongs to one Eleanor Seyfried, who hasn’t bothered to return a single one of my texts.
Ellie Seyfried—nowthere’sa problem Six Sigma can’t solve.
“Tell me more about your client acquisition philosophy,” I add.
I try to pay attention to Brian’s answer. Honestly, I do.
But this thing with Ellie has me on edge, which is definitelynotmy standard operating procedure. Sure, she’s always thrown me off my game—even when Ryan and I were in grad school and she was still an adorably awkward college kid. But back then, I only saw her for occasional Seyfried family parties. And yeah, maybe I had a little crush, and enjoyed making her laugh way too much, but I thought I’d left all that behind.
Until now.
Having her in the office all week has seriously messed with my head.
Both of them.
If Ellie had any idea the kind of thoughts she stirs up—the kind of dreams that send me bolting for a cold shower at three in the morning, desperate for something to alleviate the ache and scrub my thoughts clean—my ass would’ve been hauled down to HR before the opening bell chimed on the stock exchange. And then she’d have her story gift wrapped with a bow, courtesy of my definitely-not-workplace-appropriate hard-on problem.
Fucking ironic, is what it is.
“…but that’s all thanks to my contacts in the energy and biotech industries.”
I drag my attention back to Brian, who’s supremely pleased with himself. Just like the last guy. And the woman before him. The latest crop of MBA grads isn’t lacking in confidence, that’s for sure.
I let him natter on a bit longer, then wrap it up with a few noncommittal comments about next steps before I usher him out the door.
When my phone pings with a text a minute later, I know I should be embarrassed at how fast I whip it out of my pocket, but I don’t have time for that.
Shit. It’s not Ellie.
It’s her fucking big brother, like an omen from the universe warning me to cool it.
Just locked in the Ian Fox meeting. Dinner tomorrow night.
Great,I text back.I’ll let Rictor know.
How are the interviews panning out? Anything promising?he asks.
No stand-outs. Setting up a few more next week.
All right, keep me posted. Ellie giving you a hard time?
If he only knew.
Nothing I can’t handle,I text, then toss the phone onto my desk.
