When he gets in, he glances back at me in the rear view mirror and says, “You’re flying out of a private airfield.”
“OK,” I say, a little too quickly. I’m nervous.
“I just didn’t want you to wonder where we were going.” And then the driver shoots me a warm smile. “Top-secret stuff like this can make a young girl like you anxious.”
Hmm. What does that mean? Do I look so sheltered and scared that this complete stranger picked up on my innocence?
I need to do something about this. I realize I have no hope of getting this job, but I will need a job. If a driver who’s known me all of two minutes can pick me out as one of the weak ones, how will I ever impress big, important people enough to give me a chance on the business world?
Ivy Rockwell, you need to grow up. And not just in the sex department.
I make a vow to myself. This week is an opportunity to step out of my comfort zone and I’m going to accept every invitation that comes my way. I need to see more of the world. I need to do new things. I need to put myself out there and take risks.
Welcome to Opposite Ivy Weekend. Where every time I get the urge to say no to unfamiliar things, I will say yes. And every time I get the urge to say yes to familiar things, I will say no.
I think I saw this on an old episode of Seinfeld once, so it has to work. And the next time I have an interview I’m going to walk in there with an air of worldliness.
I bite my lip as we drive.
Can I really remake myself in one weekend?
I think I can. No one there knows me. They know nothing about me aside from what was on my résumé. And on paper, I look pretty good. Honor student at an exclusive private school growing up. Ivy League education at Brown. I graduated magna cum laude, which is very hard to do at Brown. They have a strict policy about giving out awards of distinction.
I have loads of hours under my belt for various Fortune 500 companies during my summer internships and I was a mentor sister to ten underprivileged girls in the entrepreneurial program in the New England area.
In fact, maybe I do deserve this job? I don’t have a lot of outside experience, but I am smart, hard-working, and…
Wait, Ivy.
You can’t sleep with the boss and get the job.
No, that would be the definition of awkward.
I let out a long breath as I take in the drive. So which one do I want more? The job? Or the sex? The odds of making either one come true are low. Very low, I admit. But if I don’t try…
I smile as I think about last night. I pictured Nolan Delaney’s face the entire time I was masturbating. Yeah, him. I think I want him more than the job. But if there’s no way I’m going to lose my virginity to the infamous Mr. Romantic, then I’ll take the job.
I’ll know right away if he’s even interested, right? Our eyes will meet across the room. He will look me up and down like he’s hungry, mentally undressing me in front of everyone. He’ll find ways to get me alone, make excuses for his fingertips to brush against my bare arm.
That’s how it works. I’ve read it in books.
So if I don’t get any of those signals today, then I’ll just go for the job. Problem solved.
The driver drops me off right on the tarmac of a small private airstrip where a jet is waiting. “Wow,” I say, getting out with the help of the driver. “It’s kinda big.”
“It’s a long trip, miss. Needs to be big to have enough fuel for a non-stop.”
That makes sense. But. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a plane this size. It looks massive. “Does he fly everyone around like this?” I ask the driver as he gets my carry-on out from the trunk.
“Only the ones he wants to impress, miss. I have you returning Sunday. But they’ll call me and let me know the exact time. Have a good time and good luck.” And then he tips his fancy driver hat at me and someone is there to take my case.
I smile at the driver and redirect my attention to the new guy. He says, “I’m Jerry, Miss Rockwell. I’m in charge of getting you safely to Borrego Springs per Mr. Delaney’s orders. It’s a long flight, I’m sorry to say.” We start walking towards the jet and I suddenly have a case of the butterflies. “But there’s plenty of entertainment on board. TV, gaming, if you like that. A full kitchen if you’re hungry and an office if you feel the need to work. If you get tired, we have two bedrooms to choose from.”
“Holy shit,” I say before I can stop myself.
“I know.” Jerry laughs. “Believe me, I’ve been working for these guys for eight years and I’m still not used to it.”
“These guys?” I ask. “You mean, like, all the Misters?”
“Yeah. Don’t let them scare you. They’re good men, not exactly what the reporters made them out to be.”
“So they’re still good friends. That’s nice.”
“Well,” Jerry says, waving me forward to ascend the stairs up to the jet door first, “not exactly. They hardly ever talk these days. They all went their separate ways a while back. But they purchased this jet together as a show of solidarity eight years ago when the charges were dropped.”
When I get to the top of the stairs I step inside and have to take a breath. It’s like a house in here. A narrow one, for sure. But it’s just as wide as the townhouse I share with Nora. And better equipped.
We enter what looks to be a living room, complete with flatscreen and a long sectional couch. There’s a bar, with a bartender, who smiles and says, “Hello,” as I gawk at him.
“Hello,” I say back, a little timid, even for me. Stop it, Ivy. Be assertive. I walk forward to the bartender and stick out my hand over the shiny burl wood bar. “Nice to meet you. I’m Ivy Rockwell. What should I call you?”
“Jonathan,” he says with a smile. “Now, what can I get you to relax?”
A drink. He’s asking me what I want to drink. I don’t really drink, but I’m Opposite Ivy now. So I say, “What do you think a girl like me drinks?”