It’s a good thing I’ll never see that woman again. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else.
“Excuse me, Mr. McCord. Sally Hutchinson is on line one for you.”
The voice of the receptionist whose name I can never remember comes through the intercom on the phone on my desk. Irritated by the interruption, I jab my finger onto the speaker button. “Take a message. I don’t have time to talk to her.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but she insisted. She says it’s urgent.”
Sally Hutchinson is the executive headhunter my brother Callum hired to find me an assistant. What could be so fucking urgent? What constitutes a recruiting emergency? The pool of candidates willing to work for the notoriously grumpy Cole McCord suddenly shrunk from zero to minus one?
Irritation makes my tone hard. “I said take a message.”
I can almost see the receptionist wilting in her chair when she responds, her voice going from merely hesitant to downright meek. “Um. It’s about, um, the opening for your assistant? She says she found someone perfect.”
Perfect? Sure. I almost laugh out loud. But as that’s not something I do, I growl instead.
The receptionist whispers, “I’ll take a message, sir,” and hangs up.
If only people obeyed my orders without question, the world would be a much better place.
Shay
The interview process is ridiculous.
And when I say ridiculous, I mean insane.
First, I meet with a junior recruiter at the executive search agency responsible for filling the position. I complete volumes of paperwork. I sign a nondisclosure agreement. I take a barrage of tests. Once those tasks are done, I sit through an hour-long interview.
That’s round one.
Round two consists of another visit to the executive search firm’s office, but this time I interview with a nervous senior recruiter who seems very concerned with my conflict resolution skills. Which basically translates to “In this job, you’ll have to deal with dicks.”
Or one dick in particular, my potential boss.
Round three is another interview a week later, this time with the owner of the firm, a harried woman named Sally Hutchinson who asks me in a dozen different ways how I handle pressure.
“How do you prevent a situation from getting too stressful to manage?”
“How would you respond if your manager gave you negative feedback in front of your co-workers?”
“Can you give me an example of a time you felt overwhelmed at work and what you did to solve it?”
Each time I answer, she peers at me doubtfully from behind her glasses. After a moment of silence, she asks the same question a new way.
She still doesn’t reveal the name of the company I’ll potentially be working for.
Or the name of her client.
What she does do is tell me she’ll send my resume to Mr. Mystery Man for review. If I pass that final hurdle, I can have the job.
“I’ll need to interview with him too, I assume?”
“No,” says Sally, very solemnly.
“But how will we know if it’s a good match? Personality wise, I mean.”
Sally sits back in her chair and removes her glasses. “Ms. Sanders, I’ll be frank with you. I’ve worked in this field for more than thirty years. For fifteen of those years, I’ve owned my own firm. And in that time, I have never had a client as challenging as the gentleman for whom you’d be working.”
“Challenging,” I repeat warily.
“Yes. He’s very demanding. He expects perfection. And he’s brusque to the point of rudeness.”
I say drily, “Sounds like a real charmer.”
“A charmer he is not. But he is a brilliant businessman, and you can learn much from him. If you can endure his personal shortcomings, that is.”
Picturing a crazed man in a business suit throwing a screaming fit in the middle of a meeting, I grimace. “Does he throw things?”
“No.”
“Does he verbally harass people? Call them names, that kind of thing?”
“No. If he were violent or subjected his employees to any kind of harassment, he wouldn’t be a client of mine. But I have met him, and I can tell you that he gives the impression that internally, World War III has erupted, the troops are all deserting their posts, and chaos reigns.”
Thinking of Cole, I smile. “I’ve met someone like that. And I really liked him.”
Sally arches her overplucked brows. “Did you now.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of disbelief. But something about the way I spoke must convince Sally that I’m a good match for her client, because a few days later, she calls and tells me the job is mine if I want it. Then she lays a bombshell on me.
“And if you can last ninety days, I’ll give you a bonus of thirty thousand dollars.”
“Wow. Why?”
“Because I get paid on commission. It’s a percentage of your salary. A big percentage. But if you quit before ninety days, I don’t get paid at all. What do you say?”
I think of the scarlet cashmere Balmain jacket I coveted. I think of the house I’m saving for. I think about all my bills and the interest rates on my credit cards.
And I say yes.
It’s the first of many times I should’ve said no.
After signing another nondisclosure agreement, I finally learn the name of the corporation I’ll be working for.
McCord Media.
To say I’m thrilled would be an understatement.
I’m ecstatic.
McCord Media is the largest private corporation in the world. They’re considered one of the most successful and influential businesses on the planet. In addition to owning a media empire that consists of newspapers, television stations, cable networks, and a film studio, they’re heavily invested in real estate all over the globe.
My new position is not only a giant step up for me in salary, it’s a giant step up in prestige. Emery was right: if I can last a year there, I’ll be able to write my own ticket for a position anywhere else. Winning the job is a huge boost for my career.
I give notice to my current employer. I send Emery and Sally thank-you notes and flower bouquets. I buy a few new work outfits and celebrate my luck with champagne.
It must be all the euphoria I feel over the money, the power, and the possibilities for growth that make me neglect to do the most important thing of all.
Ask the name of the CFO.
Cole
I’m sitting behind my desk poring over the company’s most recent financial statement when someone knocks tentatively on my closed office door. I speak without looking up.
“Go away.”
Through the door comes the voice of the receptionist whose name I can never remember.
“Mr. McCord? Your new assistant is here.”
Now I do look up, and I frown.
It’s five minutes past the hour. This new assistant of mine is late.
“Shall I send her in, sir?”
So the person is a she. I never know the gender of the candidates Sally sends over because she replaces their names on their resumes with a number to avoid discrimination in hiring practices.
But I’d never discriminate based on something as arbitrary as gender. Or race, religion, age, appearance, sexual orientation, or disability for that matter. Or anything else.
The only thing that matters to me is competency.
Coming in a close second is punctuality. If you’re supposed to be somewhere at a certain time but you’re not, you can’t be trusted.
Period. End of story.
I make a mental note to call Sally later this afternoon and voice my displeasure that she’d send me such an untrustworthy candidate. Right after that, I’ll tell Sally she’s fired.
And so is the new hire.
I call out to the door, “I’m in the middle of something,” then turn my attention back to my work.
That lasts for all of ten seconds, until I hear a sound that sizzles through me like a jolt of electricity.
A laugh.
A female laugh.
Her laugh.
But it can’t be. No, I’m imagining it. There’s no way the unforgettable green-eyed woman is in this building. She’s not standing outside my door. She’s a memory I’ve clung to for reasons I don’t want to examine, and my imagination is playing tricks on me.
Just to be sure, I push back my chair, stride over to the door, and yank it open.