Romance: The Boss (5 page)

Chapter Ten

Two months later

There’s something invigoratingly beautiful about autumn in New York besides the way the leaves change pigment and fall, piling onto the sidewalks for children and lovers to kick their feet in.

There’s also something in the air, an almost stillness to it like a crisp and homely sentiment, which makes an idle walk along the city’s streets all the more gratifying.

I’m sitting by the window in Brooke’s apartment, watching the old tree in the courtyard below trying to steady itself in the usurping breeze.

Over the last two months, I’ve seen a lot of New York by foot. It’s helped fill in time between interviews and casual hospitality jobs—I still haven’t found a full-time position; at most I get a few hours a week serving at some “high society” event.

Brooke got me the work through a guy she knows who manages a company that hires people for catered events. Although it isn’t my usual field of work, it pays well, and I desperately need the money—that $601 I came with two months ago is long gone like the hills of Colorado.

Below the tree it’s becoming more frantic, leaves tearing off to spiral away and down the street. As I continue to stare at it I almost don’t hear my cellphone buzzing in my pocket, barely managing to hit Accept before it rings out.

“Hello.”

“Hello. Is this Miss Lauren Swift?” comes a stiff female voice from the other end.

“Yes,” I reply.

“I’m calling on behalf of Townsend Investments. The panel reviewed your application for the personal assistant position and would like to schedule an interview with you tomorrow afternoon. Are you available?”

“Um, sure,” I say, trying to remember the application. I’ve written so many now that I can’t remember each one offhand.

Townsend Investments…it does sound familiar.

“The interview is at three o’clock. Punctuality is a must and dress code is formal. I assume you know where the building is?”

Well, you’ve assumed wrong, lady.

“Ah, no, I don’t. Sorry.”

“Hmm.” She pauses with a clear, inimitable tone of judgment. “It’s on Wall Street,” she says snappishly.

“Okay,” I reply, wishing I could ask what her problem is but knowing it would kill the interview opportunity. “I should be able to find that.”

“Good. The panel will see you tomorrow, then. Goodbye.”

“Good—” But the line has already gone dead.

Nice, that’s some people skills she has there.

I hope she isn’t on the panel she mentioned—she’ll cut through me like a knife in warm butter.

“Townsend Investments,” I say out loud.

It sounds like something you’d find on Wall Street.

Yes, that’s right.

It’s a Wall Street fund and the position is of a PA for the fund’s president.

I remember writing the cover letter for it now and thinking that there was no way I was ever going to get selected for an interview. It seemed like the kind of post that required years and years of experience and credentials far greater than mine. I didn’t think my advanced diploma in business administration that I got in Colorado would pass their blue-pencil standards.

I wonder how my resume got pushed through?

I sigh, toss the phone onto the couch behind me, and return to gaze out the window. The tree has become motionless with the city’s skyscrapers towering beyond it.

Clouds drift over, bowls of orange and gold appearing in the white wisps. Sunset, my favorite part of the day, is almost here.

Chapter Eleven

The waiting room at Townsend Investments is exactly how I’d imagined it.

It’s styled like an elegant nook by the main desk, with two white leather lounges on either side, an expensive-looking glass table shaped like a wave in the middle, and a huge painting on an accent wall that appears to be a Jackson Pollock original.

The vivid splashes and drips of color are somewhat comforting as a backdrop, like the calm before a harrowing storm—or in my case, an interview. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to wipe my hands on my suit pants.

No matter how much preparation I do for an interview, I’m always still unbelievably nervous right before I go in.

From the small amount of research that I was able to gather about Townsend Investments from Brooke’s severely outdated computer, the Wall Street fund is owned by renowned thirty-two year old billionaire Clint Townsend—renowned to everyone but me, that is.

Apparently Townsend ranks as number one most handsome billionaire in the Northern Hemisphere and is forty-second on Forbes’ wealthiest billionaires list.

He was born and raised in Rapid City, South Dakota, and is the third youngest of the four Townsend heirs, the children of the late real estate tycoon Lorne Townsend, who is survived by his socialite wife, Delilah Townsend.

Clint Townsend graduated from the University of South Dakota with a degree in arts and science and then went on to Harvard to complete his master’s in business administration.

From trading out of his dorm room to getting his start on Wall Street, Townsend established his own hedge fund with twelve million dollars and all before his twenty-seventh birthday.

Now Townsend Investments makes around thirty billion a year.

If all that isn’t enough to make someone nervous about an interview with this corporation, I don’t know what will.

It’s a shame the photos of him wouldn’t load, though. I should’ve used Brooke’s laptop, but she hadn’t been around last night so I could ask for the password.

Ah well, I guess I’ll be seeing him soon enough.

“Lauren Swift!” a stern voice suddenly calls out, interrupting my thoughts.

I look up to see a mature woman in a gray skirt and matching jacket. Her voice alone tells me that she is the pleasant woman I had the privilege of speaking to on the phone yesterday.

But now that I’m standing face to face with her, I see her real problem: that high bun on top of her head has been wound just a little bit too tightly.

“Yes,” I answer, being as equally short with her.

“The panel will see you now. This way, please.”

Wow, she managed to throw in a please this time. Good for her. Baby steps.

Tight Bun Lady leads me past the main desk, down a long corridor, and over an air bridge, a glass panorama of light all round us displaying this side of New York City in exquisite definition.

Now this is not a view you get to see every day.

It’s simply breathtaking and as I stare out wide-eyed at it, I begin to fantasize about what it would be like to work here, to be able to gaze out at the vast expanse of open space every day.

But my thoughts come crashing down brutally when Tight Bun Lady notices I’ve stopped halfway across the bridge.

“Time is money here, Miss Swift. Do come along,” she nips, quickly directing me off the bridge.

I screw my face up at her once her back is turned.

I know it’s immature for a twenty-six-year-old woman, but I can’t stand bumptious people, and she certainly fits the description of one.

As we round the next corner and virtually power walk down another long hallway, Tight Bun Lady finally brings us to a halt outside two closed large wooden doors.

She knocks twice before entering, swiftly ushering me in behind her like I’m a scullery maid working for some grand dynasty.

From first glance it’s obvious that this is the main boardroom for the fund, with its long, polished black table, padded swivel chairs, huge whiteboard with a clock overhead, and a coffee urn with cups, cream, and sugar ready beside it.

Sitting on the left of the table is the interview panel: one man, roughly in his forties, with puffed-out cheeks and a receding silver hairline; one woman, middle-aged, with boldly cut shoulder-length black hair and a stare that even Medusa would be proud of; and another man whose face I can’t quite see due to being buried in what I assume is my resume.

“Miss Swift,” Tight Bun Lady announces to the panel before gesturing for me to take a seat opposite them.

“Thank you, Penny,” the silver-haired panelist says. “Miss Swift, please take a seat.”

The smile on his face is the fakest one I have ever seen.

When Penny leaves the room, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been thrown to the wolves.

All eyes are on me as I make my way over to the black table, my heels tapping noisily on the smooth, granite floor.

“Miss Swift, time is money for our corporation so we’ll try to make this interview as short as possible,” the first panelist says as I sit down.

I’m beginning to think that’s the slogan around here.

“My name is Bill Meagher, and I’m vice president of Townsend Investments. This lady to my left is Robyn Hewitt, our chief communications officer, and then we have the president himself, Mr. Clint Townsend.”

I nod curtly and take the time to look each of them in the eye.

Until I get to the president.

And then my jaw drops immediately.

No freakin’ way.

It can’t be…

Chapter Twelve

“Your resume says that you have over four years’ experience,” Bill states, distracting me from my shock. “You first worked as a secretary for a real estate company and then as a personal assistant for a congresswoman back in Colorado. Correct?”

I stare at him vacantly, my eyes shifting between him and the billionaire.

I look away and try to compose myself, my heart rate accelerating as flashes of two months ago come flooding back.

This guy is the president of Townsend Investments?

This guy is the renowned billionaire?

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Sorry…. um… yes. That’s correct,” I finally stutter, blushing wildly.

I’ve had some strange coincidences in my time but this one takes the cake—no, the whole cake shop!

“Well, can you tell us a little bit about what was required of you in that position?”

“Sure,” I say, catching a glimpse of the diamond-studded Rolex sitting on the cuff of the billionaire’s sleeve.

Yes, it’s definitely him.

No doubt about it.

Except for the name—
James my ass
.

“Um, well, I worked for Congresswoman Martha Connolly for two years. My formal duties included filing, scheduling appointments, helping with conferences—both in standard and via video link—and organizing local events and charity drives. That sort of thing.”

Wow, I said that all way too fast.

Calm down, Lauren, maybe he won’t recognize you…

“I see. Good. Go on.”

Go on?

Didn’t I just answer the question?

“Ah,” I splutter awkwardly. “I…also had less formal duties, like lunch runs, picking up laundry, and taking her cat to the vet, ha ha.”

I laugh weakly only to be met with cold silence.

They’re a tough crowd all right, and obviously not animal people.

“And what did you learn in the position?”

“What did I learn?” I repeat. “Ah…”

I try to think of a clever answer.

Any answer.

But the truth is, there wasn’t much to learn in the position except maybe…

‘That no matter how hard you work, it’s never good enough. And that no matter how much overtime you do, you never get paid for it. As a PA, you are constantly taken for granted and often treated like a third-class citizen, like a pebble on the shoe of someone who deems themselves as being way more important. Oh, and on top of that I’ve also slept with James, I mean Clint. Anything else you want to know?’

But of course I don’t say any of that.

“I learnt that…Congresswoman Connolly is…an exceptional politician. And that…sometimes, you need to go above and beyond for your boss,” I tell them instead, avoiding all eye contact with the billionaire president.

“Elaborate on ‘above and beyond’?”

Crap.

That was a complete lie.

Think fast, Lauren. Think fast.

“I believe that…you need to be available for your employer 24/7. You’re a PA. A crutch…of sorts.”

A crutch of sorts? What am I even saying?

“And you’d be willingly to do that?” he asks abruptly, the same air of authority in his voice as he had in the bar.

He looks at me inquisitively, the steel-blue eyes once again dissolving into mine.

“Excuse me?” I gulp, going redder. I’m losing focus again.

“You’d be willing to make yourself available to me 24/7?”

Why does that sound like more of a come-on than a business question?

Oh, maybe it’s because we fucked once.

But I can’t tell by his tone if he remembers that or not.

How many women has this guy slept with in order to not recognize me?

Either way, this is not going well.

“I…yes…would be available.”

Was that even a sentence?

Why can’t the floor just open up and swallow me already?

“Good.” He nods, turning away again to look at my resume.

My replies to the rest of the panel’s questions come out just as stunted.

This is definitely up there as one of the most humiliating experiences of my life, if not the most.

There’s no way I’m getting the job.

Mr. Fancy Face sitting over there has blown it for me completely. And to think he may have been my boss…

“Well, thank you for coming along today, Miss Swift,” Bill finally says, putting me out of my misery. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” I reply, getting ready to make a dash for it.

But just as I get up from the chair, my heel twists on one of its legs, throwing me back down onto the table.

I lock eyes with the billionaire instantly.

No…this moment, right here, is now the most humiliating experience of my life.

“Lauren, are you all right?” he asks, a hint of personal worry in his voice that makes me think he does recognize me.

“Yes, thanks. Nothing broken but my pride,” I joke, only to once again be encountered by dead silence.

“Have you two met before?” Robyn asks abruptly, her stare going into overdrive.

I guess she picked up on that personal tone too.

I look back at the billionaire uneasily. Fuck.

“Robyn.” He chuckles, turning to her. “What on earth makes you say that? Of course not.”

Robyn hurls me a look like she doesn’t believe him and wants me to confirm it.

Who is this woman, his mother?

Why the hell does she care so much anyway?

“No, we’ve never met before. Thanks again for the interview,” I utter, before racing the hell out of there.

As I walk out, I half expect a panel to open up beneath me, dropping me down a long chute that leads straight to a water tank where a great white shark is waiting to devour me.

But that, of course, would be ridiculous.

Outside the door, Penny is waiting.

Has she been standing out here this entire time?

Eavesdropping, no doubt.

Well, at least someone got some entertainment out of it.

“If you don’t hear from us tomorrow then you’ve been unsuccessful. Mr. Townsend makes decisions rather quickly,” she says incisively, walking me back down the hallway, over the air bridge, and past the main desk to the elevator. Jeez, someone’s in a hurry to get me out of here.

“Okay,” I reply, but she acts like she hasn’t heard me, turning hard on her heels before marching away with the same stick still firmly wedged up her ass.

“What a happy workplace,” I mutter and count the seconds before the elevator door opens and…

I’m free.

I lean over and press the big G for the ground floor, sighing loudly when the doors finally close.

That’s another interview that’s crashed and burned, and not for the usual reasons…