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What else would Aunt Mable have done for the new intern on her first day? Didn’t she say something about giving her a tour before I shipped her off to the doctor? I couldn’t do it myself and take up my valuable time to act as a tour guide to a lowly intern, shepherding her around from department to department for thousands of employees to see. I’d lose credibility.
I picked up the phone to make one more call.
Ibounced in my chair, desperate for a bathroom break, but I had trouble tearing myself away from this read. Using a pen as a placeholder, I finally closed the book and ran my fingers over the smooth hardcover. How had I not read this one yet? It was so fascinating. Derivatives were better than chocolate.
Walking out of my office to explore the halls on the top floor, I went in search of a bathroom. No one had given me a tour yet, but maybe his assistant would when she got back. I was really looking forward to discovering the rest of the building.
When I got back, Mr. Cox was standing in my office with a monitor in his arms. For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw panic in his eyes, like a lost puppy dog. But the look was gone so fast I figured I was probably wrong.
Confidence dominated his expression and posture. He towered over my 5-foot-2 frame by at least a whole foot. He oozed confidence that was barely contained by my tiny office, as if a space this small was beneath his authority. I had never met a man with such a commanding presence. My heart skipped a beat.
“Ms. Bloom. I thought you had left.”
Left? What kind of employee would leave the office at 10 a.m.? On her first day? Without telling her boss? “Sorry, had to go to the ladies’ room. Is that for me?” I asked, pointing at the monitor.
He puffed out his chest. “Yes. I called IT.” His voice was full of pride as if he had overcome a monumental challenge.
I wasn’t sure what he was so proud of. Surely it wasn’t because of the monitor. “Thank you so much. I could have called them myself. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
He shrugged. “It was nothing. But that department? Nothing but a bunch of incompetent idiots. Why is it so hard to find good workers? It’s like the entire world is one giant incompetent cesspool.”
He placed the monitor on my desk, grabbed the connecting cable, and got down on his knees.
I gasped. “No, Mr. Cox. I can do that myself. Please. Don’t get down on the floor in your expensive suit.”
Without looking up, he said, “It’s only a suit. I have dozens. Besides, my dry cleaner will take care of it. I’ve got the best one in Manhattan. Took me five years to find one up to my standards.”
That wasn’t the response I was expecting. Most rich people I had known treasured their clothes more than other people’s lives. When I was a kid, my dad never even brushed the dirt off my shirt when I fell at the park because he didn’t want to get his clothes dirty.
Why was my boss doing this himself? It was so beneath him. But then again, he was a self-made man. He was different from most rich people. He seemed nothing like those born with silver spoons in their mouths or golden horseshoes up their asses.
Mr. Cox was one of thosenouveau richewith high standards. He came from nothing and had worked his way up. It wasn’t old money. And it wasn’t luck. He was probably used to having to do everything himself if he wanted it done properly. I respected that.
That was why he had been my role model for the past ten years. I had closely followed his career and never missed any of his published articles.
I still couldn’t believe I was here. With one of the most brilliant minds in the financial world. And there he was under my desk, hooking my screen up to my computer, his impressive ass staring me in the face.
I quickly averted my eyes. I should not be staring at my boss’s ass. No matter how fine it is.
Pushing the computer back into place, Mr. Cox stood up and dusted off his knees.
“Thank you very much,” I said with an appreciative smile.
He put his hand up as if to stop me from saying anything else. “Don’t mention it…ever. To anyone.”
“Sign your soul away to the devil on the dotted line, Ms. Bloom,” said the HR team leader with a chuckle as he sat across from me in my cramped office.
I didn’t care how tiny my office was. It was mine, and I was on the top floor. Side by side with the big bulls, ready to learn from the titans of Wall Street.
I burst out laughing at his joke and put my twelfth signature on the employment documents.
“Will I burn in hell if I break article 43D of the contract, Mr. Harris?” I asked jokingly.
“Mister doesnotsuit me. Call me Andrew.” His playful gray eyes looked at me over the top of his half-rim glasses. “You won’t perish in the bowels of eternal damnation if you chew gum in the halls.”
This guy was fun. Although, I still wasn’t sure why HR came to me when I would have gone down to them. I signed on more dotted lines.
“Now,” he said in a more serious tone, “if you need to change your work schedule, you arrange that with Mr. Cox. You work directly under him, and he’s the only one who can assign projects to you. Don’t let the other employees try to pawn their work off on you.”
