Page 6 of It Will Always Be You
“Watch your tone. He’s only a year younger than you, so I’d lay off the kid remarks. And he’s surprisingly good at what he does. But moving on from him: how about Ella? She could make a good stand in,” she offers, naming her executive assistant.
“Fine, but how long is it going to take to get a replacement? This is the last thing I need right now.” I blow out a breath, trying to do the mental maths of the hiring process. I need someone competent, and I need them now. I’ve no doubt Jack will have shared some of our meeting with her, so surely, she understands the why without me having to spell it out to her.
“Hopefully, not too long. I have the first batch of interviews scheduled for later today, with the last few wrapped up by Friday afternoon.We should have it narrowed down to the top candidates for you to review by Monday afternoon, and then we’ll expedite the pre-employment checks,” she reassures me before pinning me under her mother hen look and asking, “Now, enough about all that. How’s the family situation?”
“Stressful, but what family situation isn’t?” I toss her a smile. “I want to sit in on the interviews.”
“That’s not a good idea. Don’t you remember the last time? You scared them half to death,” she reminds me with an eye roll before chucking the pen that’s always wedged either in her hair or behind her ear at me.
Dodging it with a chuckle, I hold up my hands. “And weeding out the ones who wouldn’t last a week is a bad thing?” At her pointed glare, I concede. “Fine. I won’t say anything, you’ll hardly notice I’m there.”
“Give me your word,” she demands, her eyes narrowing into slits.
“You have my word.” After assessing me for a moment, she gives me the details with a roll of her eyes before leaving me to catch up on what I missed.
Chapter 5
Alot can change in two years, and yet, at the same time, some things never do. I might have spent the last year keeping a low profile, trying to shake my accent and working a myriad of agency jobs, but the second I saw a job opening as an executive assistant at O’Neill’s Corporation HQ, I had the application filled out before I’d even finished my morning coffee. You can take the girl out of the mafia, but turns out, you can’t take the mafia out of the girl. Working for a rival mafia might be a recipe for disaster, but at the same time, where better to hide than in plain sight? Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and the state of my bank account, thanks to a sudden lack of temp work, says it all.
But still, this interview is little more than practice. It doesn’t truly count if they turn me away. It’s highly unlikely my paper-thin résumé will land me the job. Honestly, I’m shocked it even landed me an interview. Sure, I need the job, and I absolutely need the money, but there’s bound to be a hundred more qualified people interviewing.
During my time in the waiting room, I’ve seen two othercandidates come and go. The confidence in their strides alone had me questioning why I’m putting myself through this. Interviews are a form of torture, and anyone who enjoys them is a psychopath. Letting the agency hook me up with a new temp post would be the smart thing, the responsible thing. Thesafething. If I leave now, it’s no harm, no foul. Edging forward, I have one hand on my bag, ready to bolt, when a serious-looking redhead enters the room, clipboard in hand, a professional yet polite smile on her face.
So much for dipping out of here.
“Helen Mongomery?”
“That would be me.” I offer her a smile, following her as she leads me down the corridor. From the moment I crossed the threshold, it has been clear no cost has been spared—chandeliers, lush cream carpets accented by oak hardwood floors and marble surfaces, high-end brands scattered around like it’s nothing. This place screams money in a way I should be used to, and yet, it still takes my breath away. There’s a distinct difference between buying lavish things you probably can’tactuallyafford to show off your wealth, and the casual-yet-undisputable evidence of it, this building has. I can only imagine how luxe the executive floor is.
Entering the interview room behind the redhead, I’m still taking in the impressive décor when my eyes land on the imposing figure in one of the chairs on the other side of the table. Even without my upbringing, I would know this man radiates power, danger, and more red flags than should be normal. It’s more than just his clenched jaw, muscles tensed like he’s ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice, and the glower on his face. It’s in the way he commands all the energy in the room without so much as moving a muscle. It’s the way he has perfectly placed himself near the exits. A man like him would never be cornered. Even before the introductions happen, I know in my very soul he is no doubt a member of the Four Points. To my great disdain, he’s undeniably handsome, that classic kind of attractive that stabs you in the heart and sends you to your knees. His eyes are so blue, theyput the ocean to shame, and his jaw is something angels would weep over. He drips effortless perfection and oozes confidence from his very pores, all from a seat behind a table. I fear I wouldn’t be able to cope if I were cursed with the full vision him standing would provide.
Swallowing is a challenge, but I manage it—barely.
As the redhead rounds the table, taking her seat beside him, I take the only chair on this side of the table. It puts me directly in front of him, and I have to fight the urge not to shuffle it over a few inches to face the woman instead. Unfortunately for my nerves, showing such a weakness isn’t in my marrow. Father made sure of that.
“Welcome. I’m Donna. This is Jonathan. You’re Helen, yes?” Her brisk, no-nonsense tone helps me shake off the unease and focus my attention on her.
“Pleasure to meet you. Yes, I’m Helen,” I confirm, noting that, while Donna looks prepared to take notes, her pen poised above her clipboard, Jonathan looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. If he leant any further back, he’d be horizontal, and the bored look on his face looks like it’s glued there.
What an asshole.
“Tell us a bit about yourself. Your résumé was a bit on the thin side; can you expand on that for us?” Donna prompts, pinning me under her stare. I bet she’s normally intimidating beyond belief, but beside Jonathan, who demands all the attention without even trying, she seems like the safer option. I look solely at her as I recite my now-well-practised story.
“Of course. I was raised in a very traditional household, so it’s only in the past year or so, since I moved out, that I’ve been able to secure work for myself. My father, the old school gentleman he is, was a huge believer in women staying home to be wives and mothers, being the homemaker while the men bring home the bacon.” The words taste like ash on my tongue, but it’s better than the alternative. This is one of those times in life when the truth is not the answer. My words have their desired effect, the corners of Donna’s mouth turning down, lipspursing like she tasted something sour. Jonathan scoffs from his seat beside her.
“How outdated,” he mutters, much to my pleasant shock. Maybe he’s not a total asshole after all. It would be such a shame for looks as good as his to be wasted, a true crime against womankind.
“I wholeheartedly agree. That’s why as soon as I was able to secure new living arrangements, I got straight to looking for work and, as you can see from my résumé, I’ve done a lot of temp work as a secretary or personal assistant covering sick leave, maternity, that type of thing.”
“Any reason they were all temp roles?” Donna probes, jotting something down in her notes.
“Due to my lack of experience, my options were a bit limited. I’d love something more permanent, the opportunity to get into the swing of things and find a rhythm that works, both for me and for whoever I’d be reporting to,” I supply, doing my best to convey how serious I am about getting a permanent post. Temp work is great when you’re in a fix, but the instability of it leaves a lot to be desired.
“And how soon would you be able to start?” Jonathan inserts himself—much to Donna’s irritation, if her side eye and scoff are anything to go by. Seems like my kind of woman. I wonder if she’d be up for getting a coffee even if I don’t get the job. God knows I’m in desperate need of friends, even if I do have to keep secrets from them.
“Immediately. My last position finished up a couple of weeks ago.” Basically, please hire me, because I am beyond desperate. Bills are calling my name, and there’s only so far I can stretch that last pay check.
“How do you feel about long hours?” he demands, leaning forward and closing the distance between us. The bite in his words and the fire in his eyes have me biting back the retort on the tip of my tongue.
