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We stared at each other for a moment longer, until I was squirming under her scrutiny.
I had taken my time getting dressed in the AMH uniform earlier today. The black skirt suit fit a little snugger than I’d have liked, but I still looked good in it. The AMH logo was stitched into the right side of the jacket, a little beneath the lapel, in gold embroidery thread. I was wearing my only pair of heels, a pair of hand-me-down Piccadilly’s from Rebecca that had never failed me. My hair was pulled back into the neatest, tightest bun I had ever done and my makeup was minimal.
“You the new receptionist?” she asked, eyeing me over the rim of her glasses.
“Yes ma’am. I mean—”
“Ma’am is fine, darling. Name’s Sheryl Hackson, but you can call me Mrs. H,” she huffed out, then gestured to the desk. She had a distinctly southern charm, and although she appeared very stern, it didn’t rub me the wrong way. It also helped that she hadn’t pointed out that I was a wolf. “Get back there, then. I only have about fifteen minutes until Mr. Ambrose comes in, which means I only have fifteen minutes to train you.”
I blanched. Mr. Ambrose? As in,theMr. Ambrose? Whose signature I stood beneath?Coming in?
It had never occurred to me that I would actually get to meet the legendary media mogul while working here, which, in retrospect, was stupid of me.
My nerves frayed. I was so lost in thought, I barely registered Sheryl’s instructions on how to navigate the system and book appointments. At the end of her spiel, she handed me a neatly-organized binder with AMH’s logo on it.
“This is in case you forget what I’ve told you. In here’s a list of extension numbers, emergency contacts, a map of the building, and codes for Mr. Ambrose’s personal elevator in case you get any VIP clients…”
I stopped hearing anything after that, because a commotion out front suddenly cropped up, followed by the double doors opening.
Azazel Ambrose stepped in with a flourish.
I caught a brief glimpse of cameras flashing and heard what sounded like paparazzi yelling questions before the doors were slammed shut behind him.
The man looked way better than any other fifty-eight-year-old man I’d ever seen in my lifetime. I’d never had a crush on him, but I could appreciate that any man with red hair and those piercing blue eyes would make most girls' hearts sputter. He looked intimidating in his navy suit and black trench coat, and even though he wasn’t exactly tall compared to me in my four-inch heels and already above-average height, he was quite broad. His wide shoulders filled out his clothes perfectly.
In the silence that followed, I watched, mouth agape, as AMH employees seemed to crawl out of the woodwork itself to get his coat and offer him coffee. One even attempted to shine his shoe as he was making his way to his private elevator.
The scent of stale blood—like damp, rusted iron—suddenly accosted me, and I almost gagged.
Somewhere in the reception area, avampirewas attempting to get Mr. Ambrose’s attention. I couldn’t tell exactly who it was in the sea of people, but their presence confirmed that this place didhiresupernaturals.
That grueling interview and application process made sense now. The blood tests and physicals, the hyperspecific questions about self-control and family history.
Briefly, I wondered just how thorough they were, since they had hired me despite my hybrid status. They must not have thought that anyone like me would be bold enough to apply for a job at a place like this.
Regardless, the fact that Mr. Ambrose hired supernaturals earned him about one hundred bonus points, in my mind. Most humans refused to work with them, and in consequence, human-owned companies didn’t hire supernaturals.
When he reached the reception desk, he paused to greet Sheryl, and my heart sank into my ass when those intense eyes soon landed on me.
My wolf shuddered within me, and I had to suppress the urge to rub my arms nervously. She rarely reacted to anyone outside of family these days, but Mr. Ambrose seemed to have affected her. I could feel her stand and stretch languidly in my subconscious, almost like she was flexing her dominance.
His eyes flickered with something vaguely like interest when he turned his full attention on me.
I lost the ability to speak.
“You must be the new receptionist,” he said.
I swallowed in an attempt to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. When that didn’t work, I simply nodded.
His lips twitched, and for one horrifying second, I thought he might realize that I was having the ultimate fangirl experience, that my organs were exploding and fireworks were going off in my head.
“What is your name, new receptionist?” he asked.
“Aria Gribald,” I croaked out. I cleared my throat in an attempt to get my voice working like normal again.
“Hm.”
He stared at me for a moment longer before he turned and left, taking his posse of employees with him.
