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“The apartment you found for me is great. Exactly what I need.” It beats where I’d been living before—my friend Milagro’s guestroom. “Have you worked for Tate International for long?”
She nods, sliding her office chair closer to where I am. “Several years. Our corporate headquarters were in Denver up until last year, when Sebastian told us he’d be slowly transitioning our offices over here—a place of nostalgia for him. That was a surprise, but I’m glad for it now. My husband and I love this little town.”
“You do? It’s cute and all, but I need a place with more of an artsy vibe long term.” I think of Dana Point, the playhouse near Capistrano Beach, the galleries—all of it’s my home. “Why is Longdale nostalgic for him? Did he used to live here?” I thought he grew up in Denver.
Maggie nods. “As a kid. Just in the summers while he and his brothers lived with his aunt.”
“So any advice for me?” I give a nervous chuckle.
She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear. “It might be a steep learning curve, I’m afraid. Sebastian’s . . . particular. He’s great. He’s a good man. But he demands a lot.”
I laugh. “I sort of gathered that.”
She shrugs and offers a kind smile. “You’ll be okay. Be willing to put in the hours and go back and correct any mistakes you make. And if you’re not a workaholic, be prepared to become one.”
I shudder. I’m anti-workaholism. Which is part of the reason I went into theater history. The vibe is completely different from corporate America. I’m not anti-working hard. But my family—all of them—have been overworked for as long as I can remember.
“And get to know the brothers,” Maggie adds. “That will work in your favor because Sebastian doesn’t tolerate anyone not getting along with his brothers.”
She shows me a paper that details my salary, and even though I knew this before I came here, I get a thrill down my spine when I see it again. Mama Mia, that’s more money than I’ve ever made.
No wonder people do boring jobs like executive assisting important people. At least I’m assuming it will be boring. I don’t know what to expect. But I love the new and unexpected, which will help.
My hand cramps up with all the paperwork I’m signing, and it’s mid-morning before River from the HR office escorts me upstairs to the top floor.
This level is different from downstairs. The floors are white marble with gray spidery lines and a hint of sheen. The ceilings are at least ten feet high. River shows me to some double doors, all fancy with their blonde wood, thick casings, and transom windows at the top.
She types in a code and the doors hum open.
There, standing at a large, solid wood desk, is the most handsome man alive.
It’shim.
A lint roller of shock whooshes down my middle. It’s the man from the park. The man who had a front-row seat to my shameful display on Saturday.
Please. Please for the love of everything holy let this be someone else and not my new boss.
“Frog legs?” His eyebrows go sky high.
I have the sudden urge to . . . pee? Really, body?
“Okay!” I say, a little too loudly. “How random is this? Are you Sebastian Tate?”
His tongue darts around his lips. He looks ready for something. A chiropractic adjustment maybe? A cookie? Something to ease the tension in those incredible shoulders of his? Because this man is tense. A hot, brooding, male model on the runway.
I prickle at his surliness.Sorry for being born!is the first thing to come to mind.
But I don’t say anything. His gaze goes up and down me, in my brightly colored blouse and skirt, and I feel like a piece of meat in a seedy club.
Alright. That’s it. I don’t need to be both despised and objectified here.
River stands near the door as Sebastian motions to a little room off to the side of the entrance that has a stiff, brocade couch in a muted floral design and two complementary wingback chairs. This must be the interrogation room. The coffee table that separates the sofa and chairs is like a wall between us as Sebastian follows us in. He sits and gestures to the sofa, so I sit as well. River stands off to the side.
Somehow, Sebastian Tate looks completely at home in the wingback chair, like he’s a 1950s leading man in films, stiff, handsome, and completely unattainable. I’m surprised there isn’t a thin tendril of cigar smoke floating up from some heavy glass ashtray on the side table next to him.
Another surprising thing? As polished as he seems, Sebastian’s not speaking in Mid-Atlantic English, the dialect of choice of old movie stars, a slightly British sounding, posh way of speaking.
I took a couple of dialect classes in college, and I never could get Mid-Atlantic English quite right.
