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“I’ve been well, thanks. Just getting back on my feet.”
“And I assume you’re out of rehab, and that’s all behind you?”
“It is,” I tell him. “I’ve been clean for several months.”
“That’s really amazing. You went away for that, right?”
I nod. I’d rather not spend the whole interview talking about rehab as opposed to my qualifications, but as long as I wind up with a job, who cares? “Yes. I was outside Portland.”
He rocks back in his chair. “Love Portland. Did you get over to Cannon Beach? Fantastic place.”
This guy clearly doesn’t understand how rehab works. I force another smile. My jaw is starting to ache with the effort. “No, I didn’t. I’ve heard good things, though.”
He seems to sense, at last, that it’s time to wrap this shit up. He leans forward, pulling a file toward him. “You’ve got an impressive resume, obviously. I imagine it’s been hard finding something, in spite of that, with your job history?”
I wipe my palms, now slick with sweat, over my skirt. We’ve moved on to the portion of the interview where he tries to make me think I’d be lucky to get hired.
“I only started looking a short time ago, so I can’t say for sure, but I still have an MBA from Wharton and graduated at the top of my class. I imagine that will help.”
His smile is patient but nothing more. “I certainly hope you’re right, but to be honest, I have my doubts.”
I swallow. He already knew my background when I came in, so if he believes it leaves me unemployable, why the fuck am I here? “I’m a little confused. I’m here to interview for the CFO position, am I not?”
His gaze drifts to my tapping foot and lingers a little too long on my legs again before he gives me a sympathetic frown. “Well, when I saw your name, it occurred to me I might be able to offer some help until you find something. A position you can put on your resume and a letter of recommendation, perhaps.”
I grip the edges of my seat, steeling myself to be New Kate, the one who doesn’t immediately ask this fucking asshole why he thought he could lure me in like a used-car salesman. He basically promised me the new Mercedes out front and thinks I’ll be okay with a banged-up Chevy instead.
I can’t believe I got an eighty-dollar haircut and drove forty minutes for this utter bullshit.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask between gritted teeth.
“A mentorship.” His grin is sly. A smug president-of-the-frat, I-date-the-hottest-girls-on-campus grin from a guy who hasn’t set foot on a college campus in thirty years. “We wouldn’t necessarily need to call it that on your resume. We can work out the title.”
It would be an insulting offer even if it was a genuine one, and based on the way he keeps looking at my legs...I strongly suspect it’s not.
“A mentorship.” My voice is flat. “What would that entail?”
“You’d work directly under me. Maybementorshipisn’t the name for it. Let’s call it...a special friendship. Essentially, I help you and you return the favor.” His eyes meet mine. “If you know what I mean.”
I glance at the calendar behind him as he speaks and am reminded, once again, of the date. I should be sending out invites to Hannah’s preschool playmates right now. I should be off ordering aMulan-themed cake and renting a bouncy castle.
I’ve lost so much, and the solution is not to keep losing things, but I don’t really care at present.
I smile and cross my legs. He watches that too, and now there is ownership in his eyes, as if I’ve already agreed to the sale and we’re just haggling over the price. “And how soon would we start this, uh, ‘friendship’” I ask, letting my voice drop low, “where I’munderyou?”
He leans forward eagerly. “Obviously, we want to get you back on your feet. So, the sooner the better.”
I rise and walk around to his side of the desk, perching on its edge. His eyes widen as I rest my foot on his thigh, allowing it to slowly slide upward. “I assume this is the kind of friendship we’re talking about?” I purr.
He groans. “God. Let me just lock—”
I jab my heel in his crotch as hard as I can.
“I don’t need a friend, special or otherwise,” I tell him, rising from the desk as he falls forward with a cry of pain, “but I hope you’ve got a good lawyer.”
“Fucking bitch,” he gasps.
“You think?” I ask, walking out the door. “It’s possible, but let’s get your wife’s opinion first.”
