by Mira Bailee
Dating? No. I’m here for an interview.
“Miss Margot, correct?” A stubby, well-dressed man is waiting in a doorway to my right. I rush over realizing I may officially be late thanks to Mr. No-Name.
I reach out my hand to shake his. This guy will be much easier to talk to now that I’ve survived the encounter with that anonymous male model. You’ve got this girl. Now kick some interview ass.
“Thank you so much for meeting with me.”
“Yes, I see you found the place alright—”
“This is bullshit!” Stomping footsteps interrupt us as Mr. Hunk follows an older, white-haired man back down the stairs. The old man is dressed in a robe—in the middle of the day—and seems to be nursing a glass of scotch, but I can see from their scowls alone, they’re father and son. So I assume he’s the old man according to the gate guard. “You and Kaidan know what you’re doing, and you’re screwing me over in the meantime.”
He follows him into another room across the foyer, slamming the door behind them. Their arguing continues, muffled through the walls.
Mr. Keenly rolls his eyes. “Let’s speak in here where it’s quieter.”
“Does that happen a lot?” I motion to the chaos coming from the other room. Dreamy guy is still yelling, and I’m more intrigued by that than the impending interview. I gulp and remind myself I need to focus on the task at hand so I don’t blow it.
“You haven’t worked with them before? This family is intense, so brace yourself.”
I follow him into an office. I can’t help but be mesmerized by the mere size of everything. From the chandelier back in the entryway to the massive desk taking up the center of this room, I’m certain all of my belongings would fit in a single closet in this house—with plenty of room for myself and my growing doubt.
I feel torn. This is the nicest house I’ve ever been in, and to work in it… A part of me still wants to run. This is too much. I don’t belong.
“Welcome to my office away from my office. I do so many parties here, I just work in the residence while I’m planning. Makes it easier to get all the details right.”
“Of course.” Here we go. There’s no getting out of it now.
Mr. Keenly motions toward a desk, and I sit across from him in a plush, upholstered chair. I could nap in this thing. The desk is shiny and free of dust and clutter, and a massive paperweight looks out of place holding down a scrawny stack of notes. It could probably be better used anchoring a ship. Keenly snatches a pen from a marble cup and begins knocking it against the surface of the desk. Tap, tap.
“So a little about the job,” he begins. I focus on my breathing as I listen. In, out. In, out. “I coordinate a variety of events here and around the city. I’m a very busy man and have garnered high respect, so I’m seeking out an assistant who can, essentially, help me be in two places at once. An assistant must be able to make decisions on my behalf. They must possess excellent judgment and a professional image.”
I’m distracted by his tapping but so far, I think I can handle all this.
He continues, “At Platinum Planning, we’re an all-inclusive event planning agency. We have our own in-house catering division with renowned chefs and experienced staff. We handle furnishings, decorating, scheduling, and, of course, event day coordination. Our events are flawless—always have been under my watch. Does this sound like a position for which you’d excel?”
Think carefully. This could be a dream job. “Absolutely. Without a doubt. I—”
“Do you feel you possess the aptitude to make swift, flawless decisions?”
Aptitude? Yes. Ability? Well, I don’t have the cleanest record. I tend to overthink and screw up. “I’m very diligent when it comes to details and have excellent insight that will help ensure my decisions align to what you would expect.” So far, so good, O.
“Alright. And tell me about how well you interact with others. How are you with large crowds, high-profile guests, your confidence as a hostess?”
My nails dig into the arm of the chair as the thought alone—of catering to important people, of having their attention on me—brings back the same thumping in my chest as before. “Good.” My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. “I mean, I’m good in social situations. Have no problem with them.”
Mr. Keenly eyes me with suspicion as he continues his tap, tapping. “Tell me about your experience,” he says, sifting through a folder with his free hand and pulling out my resumé.
“Well, I received a Bachelors in Hospitality Management, graduating summa cum laude with a perfect 4.0 GPA.”
“Mhmm.” Tap, tap. Tap.
“…And during my last semester I had the honor of interning with Striker Events and Media—”
“And they are?” He’s not sounding impressed…at all.
I try to steady my voice. “They host events at a number of country clubs and hotels along the West Coast.”
His tapping halts, and now he’s glaring down at my resumé as if searching for a secret code. He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose like he has a sudden headache. “And what did you do as an intern?” The word sounds drenched in animosity.
What did I do? I picked up garbage and wrapped utensils in cloth napkins. I almost choke trying to come up with a spin to make my minuscule experience sound worthy. “I…uh…assisted in the pristine, impeccable design of each event location and ensured the amenities were top quality.”
“And were any of these pristine events catered to the rich and famous?”
I consider the events I attended. A graduation. Sweet sixteens. A couple of weddings.
“Every one of our clients were high class. And the events were planned and hosted to the…highest of standards. And the guest of honor was our hi—highest focus.” Who am I kidding?
Keenly stares at me blankly. Maybe I’ve pushed the bullshitting too far. My stomach is full of knots, and I’m ignoring the impulse to run away.
“With the highest of my patience being pushed, Miss Margot, I’ve heard enough.”
“No, wait. I—”
He holds his hand up to stop me. “This isn’t some middle class, weekend theme party thrown together by some low-rate party planners.” The pompous man closes his folder, leaving my resumé lying on the table next to a leather organizer and a gold-plated miniature globe. I’d happily pick any spot on that shiny, tiny world to disappear to right this second. “We’re talking Hollywood elite here. You’re in the midst of American royalty. And it takes more than some intern to pull off the quality of events that take place in this very residence. You have to keep up, and quite frankly, I’m far from convinced that you—”
“But sir, I can do it. I know I don’t… I may not be…” There has to be something I can say to redeem myself. “Please. I can prove—”
“You have to be kidding. Begging will not get you any points here.” He looks toward the closed office door and then down at his watch. “I’m on a tight schedule. There are other interviews. Other candidates. Many of which who’ve made names for themselves. If you want to work with some of the most influential, important people in this country, I suggest you do the same… Somewhere else.”
I’m frozen in place as Keenly picks up my resumé, wads it up, and tosses it into the trashcan near his feet. I bet that thing cost more than my monthly grocery budget. I want to say something, anything, to mend my broken ego, but Keenly clears his throat loudly, and I take it as my cue to leave.
I should’ve known better. I should’ve fled when I had the chance. Working here? I’d be an even bigger nervous wreck. Famous people—they’re always in the spotlight. Always surrounded by tons of people. Always composed and personable—ready to smile for the cameras with their perfect, bleached teeth. Their lives are beyond anything I can comprehend.
I cower out of the office. I can see myself out, thanks. I wish I had the nerve to get into Keenly’s face and tell him off. Asshole.
Instead I close the office door behind me and sigh wi
th relief. It’s easier to breathe in this vast, open foyer. Floor to ceiling windows invite all the day’s light inside. Two marble staircases curve up to the second floor. And an enormous sparkling chandelier hangs from the ceiling resembling an orb of dripping diamonds rather than a light fixture. I think the most expensive lamp in my house cost $30—and the bulb is burnt out.
The door across from me opens, and before I can make my escape, I’m staring into the icy blue eyes of my mystery man. Maybe I can take him up on his offer now. Let him take my mind off my own failures. I’m sure he can distract me. I’m sure he can do all sorts of things to me.
He gives me a once-over. “Are you crying?” he asks.
Dammit. I didn’t even notice. “No.”
I bring my hand to my face to wipe away the trail of tears that’s giving away my personal shame. There goes my chance with this guy. Now he can laugh at me, a perfect follow-up to the thorough berating I just endured. And later, an audience will have the opportunity to chuck tomatoes at my face. I’m an all out spectacle.
He walks closer, and I can only imagine the puffy eyes and smudged makeup I’m sporting. He stops in front of me, but instead of leaving any amount of personal space between us, he’s standing over me, his tie skimming the front of my dress. I try to look away, but he lifts my chin. His fingers seem to possess an electricity that travels through my body. Without speaking, he takes me in, demanding my eye contact as his own gaze scans my hair, my jaw, my lips, my neck. A shiver runs through me, and a grin reappears on his face. What’s so funny?
“Are you always this rigid?”
Oh honey, you don’t know the half of it.
I’m in a daze, entranced by his closeness. His cologne smells like lying in tangled sheets in the middle of a field—musky and herbal at the same time. It’s intoxicating. I don’t know what he wants, but I’m certain I’d do whatever it is.
That thought alone snaps me back to reality, and I step back. What am I doing?
“I take it a congratulations is not in order?” he asks.
Is he going to be rude now too? “I didn’t get it. It’s fine. I was just leaving.”
“Did you want the job?”
I want you. Forget the job. “It’s just a job. I can find another.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Did you want this one?”
A chance to work in this level of luxury? The chance to see this guy again? Hell yeah, I want it. “Yes.”
He walks past me into the office. “Hey, Keenly.”
“Devon, my favorite young man…”
Devon. Hot guy has a name now.
Keenly sees me standing behind Devon, and for a moment he glares at me. But he erases his face of any expression and plasters on a practiced smile instead. “What can I do for you?”
“Stop your shit.” Devon’s voice is calm, but there’s an authoritative tone to it that’s just as threatening as him storming through the house yelling earlier. “You have a job to do, and as far as I can see, you’re wasting my family’s time and money fishing around for employees to do your busywork for you. Here’s your new hire. Olivia Margot. When do you want her to start?”
Devon reaches back to me, flicking his hand to summon me forward. I take a couple steps, not sure what’s going on here.
“With all due respect, sir,” Keenly says while struggling to keep his composure. “This woman would not be a valuable asset to your time or money. She has none of the qualifications needed—”
“You work for me, Greg. And now she works for you. Is that clear?” Devon doesn’t have to move an inch to seem like he’s bearing down on the little man. His tone, alone, seems to be effective. “If you continue to argue, she’ll replace you entirely.”
Keenly releases an audible sigh but doesn’t object any further. Instead, he leans down to grab a briefcase, plopping it onto the desk and sifting through its contents. He pulls out a paper clipped bunch of pages and lays them on the edge of the desk rather than handing them to me directly.
“These need to be filled out. Bring them in tomorrow.”
“What time?” I ask, meekly.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Devon swipes the paperwork off the desk, handing it to me, and just as swiftly, he directs me back out of the office, his hand pressing against the small of my back. Such a casual touch, but his hand sends instant warmth deep into me. I could melt. I don’t know where this is heading. It feels like an out-of-body experience.
Back out of the office, Devon heads down a hallway before I can thank him. But I really should thank him, right?
I trace his steps down the hall and through a doorway on the right—the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator, pulling out a beer. A little early for that, in my opinion, but I won’t judge the person who just scored me a potential career-building job.
“Hey. Um…Sorry. I just wanted to say thanks.” I lean against the doorway, trying to keep my calm. Devon opens the bottle, taking a couple gulps before he even turns toward me.
“You know, if you want to show your thanks…” He looks at me with the same provoking expression he gave me outside.
Does he expect me to return the favor by sleeping with him? “No. Thank you. But. I’m not like th—I don’t. I just… You didn’t have to do that for me, that’s all.”
“Oh, I didn’t do it for you.” He moves toward some cabinets, rummaging through their contents. “I love pissing off that dickwad. He and my dad have been buddy-buddy since their college days. Now he mooches off my father however he can. I figure, if you’re any good, then it works out. Cool. But if you’re as awful as Greg seems to think you are…” He laughs. “Oh man, that’ll make this weekend much more entertaining.”
And with that he leaves through another doorway. No goodbye. No more sexual advances. He just leaves, and I’m dumbfounded. I don’t know whether to hate him or fantasize about him. And I can’t pinpoint how I went from bombing an interview to following this Devon guy around like a schoolgirl chasing after her crush.
It doesn’t matter. I got a job. And I’ll be seeing more of Devon soon enough.
“Olivia. You seem distracted today.”
Dr. Maureen Shannon sits across from me in a high-backed armchair, its upholstery a soft pink with little blue birds all over. I’m slouching in her forest green, corduroy love seat, twisting my phone in circles on my lap while my brain replays my interactions with Devon.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
I blink and focus on her. She wears a yellow skirt and jacket over a white, buttoned blouse. Her blond hair is pulled back from her face, and her entire ensemble makes me want to call her Sunshine. “Yeah. I’m fine.” I sit up straighter, trying to push out images of Devon—his strong jawline, his smooth skin, his very kissable mouth. “I…um…had another interview today.”
“That’s wonderful. How did it go?”
Awful. Worse than awful. “It went well. It’s a temp job as an assistant to a party planner. I’ll be able to afford rent.” I’m downplaying the extravagance of it all. I wouldn’t know where to start if I tried to describe the mansion and upcoming party and Devon.
“And how do you feel about the job itself? Or rather, how is this job making you feel?”
“I’ll be working around a lot of people—important people.” And Devon. What is his deal? He’s nice to me. He hits on me. Then he completely brushes me to the side like I’m…like I’m nothing.
“When you say ‘important people’, be careful to not belittle your own worth. You’re important as well—”
“Um, no. I’ll be working with famous people. Rich people. Influential and powerful people.” According to what Mr. Keenly claimed, at least. “It wasn’t a jab against myself.”
“Very well. Tell me how our experiment is going. How have your days been?”
She’s talking about my alarms. I don’t see what the problem is with them. I grip my phone tighter as I answer. “Fine. I’ve been fine. Check the clock a lot more
often, but it’s okay. I did have to turn them on today. But just today.”
“And how many did you set?”
I look down at my phone, though I already know the answer. “Eight.”
“Can you tell me what they were all for?”
Of course I can. I always can. I recite them in order. “8:00 wake up. 11:00 get ready. 12:00 leave for interview. 12:30 interview. 2:30 leave for this appointment. 3:00 appointment. 5:00 make dinner. 8:00 set tomorrow’s schedule.” I shouldn’t have admitted that last one. This is the closest thing to exposure therapy I’ve agreed to, and I’d promised I’d try my hardest.
“Do you plan to use them tomorrow?”
I know damn well I will. I have to go back to that mansion in the morning. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Good. Keep working on that. Next month, I want to discuss the next step I’d like you to try.”
“Which would be…?” I don’t want to try anything new. If I’m being honest, I don’t want to even come here. She’s the only person that makes me talk about my brother, Jared. But that’s why I keep coming back…because she’s the only person that makes me talk about him.
“Don’t worry about it. For now, you know what we’re working on.”
Don’t worry about it? That’s an evil trick. She said that knowing I will worry for the entire next month.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, as though she wouldn’t if I said no. “How would the events of your brother’s passing have changed if you relied on all these alarms back then?”
She’s asked me this before, so I think she’s checking to see if my answer’s changed. It hasn’t. I think back to five years ago.
* * *
I’d skipped school to hang out with my friends instead. Tyler and I were dating at the time. He had an older brother who’d sell us weed for unreasonable prices. Then Tyler and I and our little group of friends would hang out in Tyler’s pool house wasting away entire days sometimes. And when it was just me and Tyler, those days would be spent naked, getting lost in each other. His tan, Spanish skin. My purple-streaked hair. It was easy to be carefree and spontaneous back then.
