We hurry to the entrance. Hudson Communications is housed in a former department store building in Phoenix’s trendiest neighborhoods and extends over multiple floors.
Saluting the two security officers, we step into the spacious entry hall. I can’t suppress a bewildered gasp. Chelsea googled pictures of the office this morning and raved about its gizmos, but I didn’t have time to look at the photos. I was too busy memorizing the company’s mission statement.
Every inch of the space is covered in bright, inviting colors, from the boldly patterned floors to the vibrant hanging light fixtures. It might even appear gaudy, if it weren’t for plenty of neutral elements artfully added into the mix, like polished wooden panels and walls covered with plants.
One thing is sure—whoever envisioned this interior design was aiming to avoiding boredom and monotony.
“I guess we should register at the reception,” I tell Chelsea in a low voice as we approach a large desk that stands in the middle of the hall.
“But there is nobody,” Chelsea protests.
The yellow-painted counter is indeed empty. So is the rest of the reception area. Where are all the other candidates?
“Maybe the receptionist is having a coffee break.” I shrug.
“Or maybe we’re late, and the other applicants were taken to the designated interview location. All because you couldn’t stop yourself from taking a peek at my engine. I told you the noise was fine.”
A slight annoyance curls through me. “That pinging could have been something terrible, like your EGR valve malfunctioning. Anyway, we’re still ten minutes early.”
Instead of thanking me for keeping close tabs on her car, Chelsea is trying to lecture me on being punctual. I was ready and dressed when she was still applying her second coat of mascara.
My friend must sense my irritation, because she gives me a soothing nudge between my ribs. “Sorry, Laia. I know you spare me loads of trips to the mechanic. Come, let’s walk closer and wait over there.”
We sidle to the reception.
To the left of the desk, there’s an enormous sculpture of a bulldog. Its shiny, white surface reflects natural light flowing in from the large windows.
Chelsea pats the statue’s head, giggling. “This is the only kind of pet I could keep at home. It doesn’t need much and always looks clean.”
“Chels, I’m not sure we’re allowed to touch it,” I whisper.
“No, no, that’s quite okay.”
We whip around and find ourselves face to face with a smiling black woman. Her curly hair is pulled back in a low chignon, which accentuates her dimples.
I didn’t hear her approach, and as my eyes wander to her shoes, the reason she managed to sneak up on us becomes clear.
She’s wearing flats just like I do.
Of course, her tall figure doesn’t need any heels, while my short frame could use the advantageous lengthening of a pair of stilettos. But I can’t walk straight in pumps, and I didn’t have time to practice during the weekend.
“I’m Sarah, the HR manager. I’ll be doing your interviews today. You’re here for the intern positions, am I right?” she asks.
“Yes, exactly.” Chelsea gathers her wits first.
After we introduce ourselves, Sarah waves to us to follow. “Let’s join the other five candidates.”
I ignore Chelsea’s didn’t-I-tell-you-the-others-were-here smirk and strut behind Sarah.
She leads us to a corridor with black and white tiles that remind me of the chessboard my father brought home from an overseas deployment.
Chelsea shows me a seven, then a three, and finally gives me a thumbs up. She obviously thinks that both of us have a great chance to snatch our desired spots.
I wish I shared her self-assurance, but I don’t. Despite thorough studying, I still feel unprepared. Looking at Sarah’s fitted dress and Chelsea’s elegant pencil skirt, I’m suddenly feeling bad about my own clothes. I didn’t remember my blazer being so askew. True, the last time I wore it, I had my graduation regalia covering it, but still.
I’d tried to pull out the shoulder pads at home—without those, I’d look slightly less like a lost soul from the eighties—but those danged things were sewn on so tightly that if I’d kept tearing at them, I would have made a hole in the fabric.
We arrive at the casual sitting area where the other candidates are gathered, and my embarrassment grows.
Four women and a man rise as they see us approach. All the females are impeccably dressed, as if they’ve stepped out of a magazine. Not from the working gals’ section, but rather from the dress-to-impress-your-date one. Their stilettos are so high I’d break an ankle if I tried to stand on them, and their necklines are generously low-cut—with the accent on generously.
Compared to them, Chelsea’s silk blouse is rather sober.
My friend must make the same realization because she fiddles at her collarbone and pops another button open.
“So,” Sarah says when we are all standing in a circle, “let’s start with breaking you up into three groups. How many of you would like to interview for the accounting intern position?”
No hands shoot in the air.
Sarah nods twice. “And who is interested in the job in our creative department?” I raise my arm, and so does the man, an Asian guy with slicked-back hair and a grey suit. His clothes are similar in shade to mine, only his outfit is well-tailored, shiny, and topped with a thin red tie.
We exchange a quick glance filled with a mixture of mutual respect, since we both chose the most interesting of the three internships, and the realization that we are each other’s only competition.
Sarah sighs. She eyes Chelsea and the other women with furrowed brows. “So, I guess that leaves you five for the PA position?”
“Indeed,” replies a redhead. “That’s the most interesting one. Right, gals?” She bends forward and ends with a giggle that couldn’t sound more obnoxious, even if she practiced it for weeks.
I turn my eyes away from her because I don’t want to peer at her belly button, a real possibility considering how plunging her dress is.
The other women nod, but they throw daggers at each other.
I’m tempted to interject that making coffee and answering phones can hardly qualify as exciting, but I swallow back my comment.
Sarah scratches her chin. “Well, that depends on your ambitions. Though I can’t deny that working for Devon Griffin isn’t like working for any other CEO.”
“Oh, I think we all know that,” a brunette agrees promptly. “Or, at least almost all of us.”
She runs a hand through her asymmetrical bob and gives me a belittling smirk as if to make it clear for those who didn’t get her subtle hint.
Chelsea shakes her head imperceptibly. But I don’t need my roomie to remind me that it’s better to let the snarky remark slide. After all, I’m not here to compete in a beauty pageant.
Sarah claps her hands. “Since most of you came for the PA position, we’ll start with that, okay?”
Her question is directed at the man and me, and we both nod.
“Excuse me, Sarah,” a melodious male baritone interrupts. “I’d like to propose a small change to the plans, if I may.”
Sarah’s eyes widen, and her shoulders pull back. “Oh, hello, Devon. I didn’t know you’d be joining us for the interviews. You’re most welcome to suggest anything you like. Everyone, this is Devon Griffin, our CEO. Devon, these are our candidates.”
I turn around, and all the others do the same.
“Good morning, Mr. Griffin,” the women call out in a seductive chorus.
“Good morning.” I sound like a middle school student, my voice trailing a half-second behind the others.
Sarah chuckles. “Just call him Devon. We all do.”
Devon saunters closer to us.
He’s wearing slim-cut navy chinos, a white button-down shirt, and a striped jacket. While his clothes are business smart, he could walk into a club and
spend the evening there without anyone thinking that he doesn’t belong. Especially if he tousled up that French crop haircut the way it was done up in that tabloid picture.
Almost everyone adjusts their postures, and even I find myself standing a little straighter as Devon draws closer.
Why is he here? Does he want to inspect if we’re to his liking before we even get a chance to prove our worth?
“Hi, everyone,” Devon says. “As you know, I’m looking for a new assistant. This position is listed as an internship, but if the person who gets it performs well, the contract could transform into a permanent one. The right candidate will have a secure job at her,” he nods to the male candidate, “or his, hand.”
“Oh no, Devon.” Sarah points at the guy. “Fu is here for the copywriting position only.”
I raise my hand to signal that I’m also here for the same internship, but Sarah doesn’t notice me.
The old me would undoubtedly stay quiet and avoid drawing further attention to herself. But won’t it be better for my rebooted-heart-chakra self if I speak up? I open my mouth to intervene.
“So you don’t wish to become my PA. Why is that?” Devon asks Fu.
I close my mouth again.
It’s wiser to listen to my opponent’s answer. I might be confronted with a similar question.
Fu fingers his shirt collar as if it’s suddenly too tight. “Uhm, I’m not sure. I think I might be a better fit in your creative team,” he mutters.
Devon nods. “Very well, Fu. You don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you? In this company, we like to keep things casual and friendly. If I’m honest, I’d also be happier with one of these ladies here. In my experience, male PAs make the worst coffee ever.”
He flashes a smile to show that his comment is a joke.
“I can make a wicked espresso,” the redhead moans.
“I learned how to stir up a good cuppa from my Italian grandmother,” the brunette purrs.
“Me, too,” Chelsea adds, not wanting to be outdone.
While I give an are-you-nuts glance to my bestie for her fib, the remaining two candidates also voice how interested they would be in preparing the perfect coffee for Devon.
Devon chuckles. “Wow, wow. I’m happy to see your professional enthusiasm.”
Professional enthusiasm? Ah, please. I roll my eyes at his comment.
Unexpectedly, his glance travels to me, and he gives me a once-over.
His brows round as he studies me. I can’t help but think that he’s wondering what I’m doing among these supermodels, dressed like an ABBA fan.
Devon steps over to me. He’s almost a head taller than I am, and he has to dip his chin to his chest to intercept my gaze.
He has a symmetrical bone structure, with sharp cheekbones and a stubborn cleft chin. This gives his face a bit of a voracious feel, as if he’s not only eager to take a bite from what the world has to offer, but also ready to eat it all up.
“What’s your name?” he says.
“Laia, Laia Flores. I belong to the rare species of non-coffee drinkers,” I jabber. It’s pure nervousness that made me add that last silly bit.
Though I’m not affected by Devon Griffin’s devilishly good looks, I’m uncomfortable about being singled out by him.
Despite my quivering stomach, I stand his observing glance with a straight face. After all, I’m here to demonstrate my aptitude for writing and not my barista skills.
His lips twitch. The tiny movement makes his eyes flicker, adding a certain softness to his features.
“A non-coffee drinker. Interesting. And so is your name. It’s not very common. Do you write it with a simple ‘i’?” he inquires.
I can literally feel the other candidates’ gazes, including Chelsea’s, dig a hole into my chest. They must be pondering the exact same thing I am.
Why is Devon wasting so many words on my name?
“Yes, with an ‘i’.” I nod. “It’s a shortened version of the Catalan name Eulàlia. It means sweet-speaking.”
“Ah, really? And are you sweet-speaking?” Devon arches his brows.
He has a very peculiar shade of blue irises. It gives me a sense of déjà vu. I know I’ve seen his color somewhere, but I can’t recall where. Probably because I’m distracted by the accelerated pulse slamming in my neck.
“Uhm, not always. No,” I mutter.
Especially not now, dang it.
This could be my occasion to outshine Fu and his fancy suit. While I have the CEO’s attention, I could show him that I’d be a valuable addition to his creative team, thanks to my wit.
But what do I do instead? I bore him with an idiotic detail about my name.
I inhale and set on to correct my mistake. “Mr. Griffin, just like Fu, I—”
Devon is already moving on to Sarah. “Let’s do it like this, Sarah. You start with Fu, and I’ll start with…” He smiles at Chelsea.
“Chelsea,” my friend says, batting her long lashes.
“My name is Helena,” the redhead adds.
“Good to know,” Devon answers. “But I’d like to start with…” His eyes flick to me. “Laia.”
I freeze. Why does Devon want to begin the rounds with me?
“I’m not interviewing for the…” My eyes dart to Sarah. This time she notices my pleading glance and takes the relay from me with a confident smile.
“Devon, Laia would like to apply to our creative department, just like Fu.”
“Is that so? Well, then…” Devon’s eyes narrow at me, then he turns to Sarah. “Then just send Laia up to my office once she’s done with you. In the meantime, I’ll speak to the other candidates.”
“But—” I squeak.
“But what, Laia?” Devon’s penetrating glance is on my face once more. “Is there a problem?”
There couldn’t be a worse moment for my mind to draw a blank, but my brain hasn’t received the memo. Instead of coming up with a polite way to refuse his invitation, I find myself musing about how it would be to work for Devon.
What’s happening to me?
Sarah comes to my aid. “What I meant is that Laia came to do only the copywriting interview. Like Fu.”
“Ah.” Devon taps on his forehead. “I see. That’s no problem. I imagine that Laia won’t mind doing two interviews, instead of one?”
I want to tell him that I very much would mind it. I’m not here to compete with his groupies, especially not with my roomie, so there’s no need for me to endure a second round of questions once I survive my first meeting with Sarah. But I’m afraid if I blurt this out bluntly, he’ll take offense and won’t let me do any internship.
Why does he even want to speak to me? Could it be just his attempt to annoy me? He can’t be that peevish about the fact that I didn’t want to prepare his morning cup, can he?
I inhale and raise my eyes to meet his. “No, it won’t be a problem, Mr. Griffin.”
“Devon.” He smiles.
“No, it won’t be a problem, Devon,” I repeat while I stare at him.
As his cheeks lift and press his eyes into tiny crinkles, I suddenly know where I saw his eye color. It’s the exact shade of those cornflowers my mother used to plant in our backyard when I was little.
Almost as if the puzzling hue of Devon’s eyes have occupied a hidden corner of my brain since he appeared.
“Everything okay, Laia? Ready to start the interview with me?” Sarah’s voice snaps me out of my reverie.
“Yes, ready. Very,” I declare cheerfully.
“Then let’s go into the orange room over there,” Sarah says.
I exchange a look with Chelsea and mouth “good luck” at her.
She gawks at me with her what’s-going-on gaze. Her brows furrow and she purses her lips, but I can’t stop to explain my take on events, because Sarah’s already moving toward the meeting room.
I stride behind the HR manager, trying to instill some pep into my timid step when I hear Devon’s baritone.
“Until later, Laia.”
Chapter 4
(Devon)
I bury my face into my palms and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
My fifth interviewee, a sassy and overly flirty brunette, has just finished sashaying her way out of my office. To think, only one-tenth of the applicants were invited to an actual interview. The remaining candidates should be the crème de la crème, but they clearly are not.
Katja warned me that this would happen when I asked her to add the PA position to the other internships on our website. She predicted that my reputation would attract a vast number—but the wrong kind—of applicants. According to Sarah’s report, even those who didn’t make the cut were predominantly female. Which, together with the interviews I’ve just conducted, makes me suspect that my secretary might have been right.
None of the women I spoke to is the right fit for my company. Not when they all act like they’re auditioning for The Bachelor.
To be honest, I’d have gladly offered a drink to any of them, had I met them in a club, but I can’t, with a clear conscience, take them on board as my assistant. Not when I’m set on avoiding the same situation as happened with Hayley.
I don’t want to hire someone who is more interested in chatting with me about my private life than learning about the job she will need to perform. So, although these women technically have the proper credentials, they don’t possesses the mindset, diligence, and wit I’m looking for.
All the better that I forced that drably dressed girl to accept an interview with me. Laia didn’t dress up to impress me, which shows that she’s interested in my company and not in going on a date with me.
I snort as I remember her unflattering grey pants. As if those trousers aren’t ugly enough, Laia paired them with a matching blazer one size too large. The cut has distorted her otherwise likely well-proportioned figure into that of a wide-shouldered swimming champion, especially with those shoulder pads sticking out on either side.
My lips move into a smile.
I also like that Laia didn’t turn into a crazy cheerleader when I spoke about my love for caffeine. Maybe my interview with her will be more uplifting and exciting than the others. The fact that she didn’t come here to become my assistant could, paradoxically, make her the best contestant after all.
Law #2: Don't Play with a Player: A Sweet Office Romance Story (Laws of Love) Page 3
