The Boss Project
She smiled through glossy lips. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I have a five o’clock appointment with Merrick Crawford.”
“Your name, please?”
“Evie Vaughn.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
As I walked over to the plush white couches, the woman called after me. “Ms. Vaughn?”
I turned. “Yes?”
“You have…” She motioned over her shoulder to her back. “…a tag hanging off your shirt.”
I reached around, patting until I found it, and tugged it off. “Thank you. I got something on the shirt I put on this morning, so I had to buy a new one before I got here.”
She smiled. “Thank God it’s Friday.”
“Most definitely.”
A few minutes later, the receptionist walked me back into the inner sanctum of offices. When we reached the proverbial corner office, there were two men inside embattled in some sort of a screaming match. They didn’t even seem to notice us. The entire office was glass, though, so I could see them standing toe to toe as they yelled. The shorter of the two was balding and talked animatedly with his hands. Every time he flailed his arms, he flashed giant sweat rings in his armpits. The taller of the two was definitely the boss, based on his stance. He stood with his feet spread wide and arms folded across a broad chest. I couldn’t see his whole face, but from the side, it looked like some of the confidence he oozed probably came from being extremely attractive.
“If you don’t like it…” the boss finally growled, “…don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”
“I have socks older than this kid! What kind of experience could he possibly have?”
“Age isn’t a number I give two shits about. It’s the other number that calls the shots around here—profit. His are double digits, and yours are in the toilet for the third quarter in a row. Until things improve, your trades all need to be approved by Lark.”
“Lark…” He shook his head. “Even the name pisses me off.”
“Well, go be pissed off somewhere else.”
Short Guy grumbled something I couldn’t make out and turned to leave. He wiped sweat from his ruddy face as he marched toward the door and swung it open, brushing past us as if we weren’t even here. Inside, the boss walked toward his desk. Apparently, we were invisible.
The receptionist looked at me sympathetically before knocking.
“What!”
She cracked open the door and peeked her head inside. “Your five o’clock interview is here. You told me to bring her back.”
“Great.” He frowned and shook his head. “Bring her in.”
Apparently, Kitty’s grandson didn’t inherit her kind demeanor.
The receptionist extended her hand with a hesitant smile. “Sorry,” she whispered. “But good luck.”
I took a few steps inside the palatial office. When the glass door clanked closed behind me, and the guy still hadn’t looked up or greeted me, I got the urge to turn and run back out. But while I stood debating doing exactly that, Mr. Grumpy lost his patience.
He kept his back to me as he put something on his bookshelf. “Are you going to take a seat, or do I need to get a tin can and string to interview you?”
I narrowed my eyes. What a jerk. I wasn’t sure if it was the day I’d had, or just this guy’s attitude that made me lose my cool, but suddenly I didn’t care if I got the job. Whatever happened, happened. The nice thing about the point when you stop giving a crap about whether you win or lose is that it takes all the pressure off playing the game. “Perhaps I was allowing you a minute in the hopes it would improve your mood,” I said.
The guy turned around. The first thing that caught my attention was his smirk. But when my eyes lifted to meet his, and I got my first good look at that startling green, I nearly fell over.
No.