Charming Her Boss

The toe to my pointed-toe heel tapped rhythmically on the tile beneath me, echoing against the huge concrete walls in the opened space of the gallery. I'd spent the last thirty minutes counting the off-white tiles on the floor, ignoring the uncomfortable look from the receptionist.

I was used to it though. The long skirts and modest dressing weren’t fashionable nowadays, and honestly, it hadn't been for a while. Unfortunately, skin and cleavage drew much more attention to men than a brain.

To receptionists, too, apparently. After getting the rude up and down look and a small smile, she pointed toward the—you guessed it—white chairs in the corner, where she reassured me Mr. Jace Archer would be right with me.

Thirty minutes ago. I mean—no one is in here—what could possibly be keeping this guy so long?

My cell buzzed in my overlarge tan purse, and I dug around trying to find it. My dad called it an endless void of nothing, which wasn't too far off. It did take me longer to find things then an average purse, but I needed the space for—necessities.

After several minutes of hunting, I sat my purse down in my seat and on bended knees, started to dig for it.

Where are you?

I found my cell next to my tampons in a forgotten corner and yanked it out, items spilling over to the tile while I answered the call. "This better be important—"

My best friend since junior high, Scott, scoffed. "He's still got you waiting? I mean—this isn't the white house."

I snorted, still bent down on my knees, gathering my things. I heard the receptionist say something, but I didn't acknowledge her with a glance. Staring was her game, not mine.

"Yeah, I've been waiting thirty minutes," I said. "I hope this is worth it. It kind of looks snooty in here—are you sure I'll fit in?" I asked, standing slowly.

I noticed the shine in his leather boots first, and then the crease in his navy blue expensive slacks as I climbed to my feet slowly. My eyes shot over his tucked in button-down and to his face quickly.

The breath I was about to take caught in the depths of my throat. This man did not look happy to be here, which wasn't reassuring me that a job as his personal assistant would help my walk in life. Did someone kill his dog this morning?

I coughed roughly, letting my phone slip into the endless void of my bag, and shoving the tampon I realized was in my hand behind it. His eyes followed the move of my hand to my purse and then drug back to my eyes.

Geesh—they resembled dark orbs of evil.

"Hello," I said with a chuckle. "Are you—you must be Mr. Jace—uh—"

"Archer," the receptionist answered for me.

Heat bloomed underneath my skin, as if the long leopard print maxi dress and wide-brimmed fedora didn't already have me sweating in the Houston summer heat.

His jaw twitched underneath a blanket of chocolate scruff, and he intently watched my face. Maybe he wasn't used to seeing women apply for positions without their boobs to their chin—or didn't like the fact that I called his business snooty.

I was going to lean toward the latter.

If he hadn't worn a scowl that resembled Satan, I would have noticed how good-looking he was, not that I didn't already know that from Google.

Playboy of the art gallery world—if there was such a thing.

Mr. Archer cleared his throat, his hand running through the length of his upright hair and then back to his pocket. "That would be me. If you will make your way with me, we'll start the interview—if you're still interested since this place is—" he glanced around the floor-length windows and the flawless white furniture—"snooty."

I cringed inwardly. So, he saw my tampons and heard me insult his art gallery. Way to go, Gabby Big Mouth. "I didn't—"

He leaned forward with a dark gaze that pierced through any hope I had at landing this job and said, "Yes, you did. Now, follow me."

He turned on his heel and started toward the floating staircase in the corner, as I tucked my tail and followed behind him. The receptionist smirked when I walked by, crunching on a carrot that I assumed was her breakfast and lunch rolled into one.

He led me upstairs to a small loft area that looked out of place in such a huge office building. "Sit," he said.

I sat in a chair adjacent to his desk and pressed my thighs together in a nervous way. What did Scott get me into? When I graduated UH, I knew finding a job wouldn't be easy with a BA in Art Design, but I got lucky when Scott knew someone who worked at a local gallery.

No excuse me—the local art gallery. Even though it was just an assistant position, it had room to grow—or at least that's what Scott told me. Maybe it had, especially before my grand introduction from Hell.

Mr. Archer sat back in his chair, fingers laced over the top of his stomach and his hard eyes narrowed in on me. A nervous chuckle left my lips, and my eyes searched the blank space of his office.

For someone interested in art, he didn't have much of anything in his office. Just white furniture, which was a smooth contrast to his energy that came off like blazing shots of black and dread.

Someone get this guy a Snickers.

Biting my lip, I nodded my head slowly at the silence slowly eating away at my insides. "Listen, Mr. Archer, I'm so sorry about before. Can we start over?"

The corner of his mouth momentarily pulled into a smirk before he leaned on his elbows.

What was that my debate professor always said? Silence is compliance. I stood up, leaned forward and offered him my hand. His palm swallowed mine as he took me into a firm handshake.

Okay that went—I pulled back, hitting the only thing on his desk—literally the only thing besides his shut laptop—a jar of pens that loudly scattered around the floor.

Oomph. I dropped down to my knees and began gathering them into my hands, all the while praying for anyone to come in and tell this man that he was needed elsewhere. Wasn't there anyone else to conduct this interview? I didn't know if his extremely good looks were making me nervous or the fact he'd heard me talking about his gallery.

"Leave them," he said. His voice was deep and held no accent like most of our Texas community.

I stood up with wide eyes and sat back down, my hat formed sweat on my head, leaving it itchy but I didn't dare scratch it. Or move. I was afraid he could sense my fear like an animal.

Mr. Archer cleared his throat. "So, Lidia what a first impression you've made today." I could almost see a hint of a smile, but his lips twitched, and it disappeared again. "When Derrek handed me your application, I have to admit, I didn't think you'd be—" His hand gestured over me. "—this."

This? Frustration formed in my chest and maneuvered its way up to my mouth, which was a bad habit I'd used as a guard in high school. Not everyone accepted a modest woman. And Mr. Player of the Art World was proving to be one of them.

"What does this mean?" I asked, mimicking his hand wave. "Do you mean modest? What were you expecting? What does an art major look like? A skinny hipster with a vegan coffee shirt? Or did you expect someone with their totties hanging out?"

His brows shot up to his hairline and he chuckled humorlessly. "No. I meant with so much talent. Your portfolio was faxed over this morning."

Oh. Someone get the chum—I'm shark bait. What is wrong with my mouth today? "I'm so sorry—"

"No, Lid," a muffled voice said. "You always stick your foot into your mouth."

I froze when I realized where that muffled voice came from. I hadn't hung up the phone with Scott earlier. Had he been listening this entire time? "Just stop. Stop talking. It's happening—word vomit."

My phone must have gone on speaker in the bottomless pit of my purse. "Just a second," I said, holding up one finger. I began to dig for my phone, giving him small looks as I tried to plan my way out of this wreck of an interview.

"Why is it quiet? Are you alive? Did you faint again?" His deep laugh echoed loudly as I hung up the phone and shoved it back into my purse.

I'm going to kill him when I get home.

Mr. Archer eyed me closely. "Do you always have your boyfriend on the phone while you interview for a job?"

I tucked my hair nervously. "Oh, no—no—he isn't my boyfriend. He's baseball friends with Derek and got me this interview. I thought he hung up. I guess I should have known better, he loves to give me a hard time, ya know, he's just your typical best friend. Scott doesn't think before he speaks, which seems to run in our friendship apparently. I can't even imagine what he was thinking this entire time. Probably laughing because I've completely embarrassed myself—"

Mr. Archer leaned forward and held his palm up to me. "No more. Please." It almost sounded like a plea.

I sighed and gave him a curt nod.

"I'll look over this and get back with you." He leaned back, rubbing his forehead with his index finger. "Do you know your way out?"

"I do. Thank you for the opportunity." I went to walk out, crunching on the litter of pens beneath me and wobbled over them toward the door.

When I glanced back at him, a small smile pulled at the corner of his full mouth. I appreciated him waiting until I was gone to laugh. My pride couldn't take much more.

***

The apartment door was unlocked when I forced myself through the threshold and tried to make a beeline for my room. Scott and I shared an apartment downtown, which proved necessary in such a harsh economy.

My parents didn't pay for my share of anything. My dad thought it built character, but what he didn't know was that Scott was the only reason I didn't eat ramen every night of the week. Not only because it was all I could afford, but because I sucked at cooking.

I burnt mac-n-cheese the first week I moved in with Scott, and after three nights of him shoveling in burnt food, he said, "How about you clean?"

Smart guy.

Scott popped out from behind the kitchen wall, a bag of popcorn in his hand and his baseball hat on backward. A bundle of his light blond hair poked through the front hole. "He heard me on the phone?"

I gave him a knowing look, then tossed my purse onto our hand-me-down dining table and flopped down on one of the stools. "Oh my gawd. I'm dead on the inside now," I whined, shaking my head.

Scott came over, placed his palm on the back of my head and hugged my face into his stomach as I screamed. "Was it that bad? I got most of it but—"

I pulled back and glanced up at him. "It was terrible. I couldn't stop talking. He heard me call the place snooty, I knocked over his pens and then he heard you on the phone. I stuck my foot in my mouth so many times today. And he saw my tampons."

I pouted.

Scott gave me a lopsided grin and sat down beside me. "What did you say?"

"Phew," I said, taking off my heels and tossing them over my shoulder dramatically. "Basically asked me to stop talking and said he would think it over. I’m sure it won't be a hard decision."

Scott shrugged. "You win some and you lose some."

"That's easy for you to say," I said. "You have a career with your family, and I have nothing. I have to find a job in one month before my savings dwindle and I can't pay my share of the rent and eat."

His family owned a huge car dealership, which he planned to take over one day—hence his degree in business management. I wished I had a path preplanned for me, but I didn't.

My mother taught grade school and my dad worked in a small garage downtown. And I wasn't about teaching disrespectful kids that listened to Cardi B and thought they were grown.

They did not understand the meaning of grown—it isn't what it's cracked up to be.

It wasn't their fault I picked a useless degree. I curse myself for following my heart and not my brain.

He sighed and rolled his amber eyes. "Stop worrying. It'll be fine. I'll ask around and see if I can find something else. Come on, let's watch Criminal Minds, grab some wine and order out. I'll buy."

I rested my elbow on the dining table and sighed. "Is that for code get drunk and let me cry on your shoulder?"

Scott grinned. "Would that make you happy?"

I twirled a piece of my chocolate hair around my finger. "When does wine not me happy?"

He shrugged. "When it has you up until three with the poops."

I pointed my index finger down my throat. "You know me too well. I think we need sometime apart."

He snorted while pulling out our to-go menus from on top of the refrigerator. "Right, who would cook you something to eat besides ramen, or show you how to work the TV."

I pointed my finger at him like I was going to defend myself, but I sat back in my seat. "Touché."

He braced his palms on the kitchen counter and glared at me. "But who would decorate our apartment with free artwork?" He gestured toward the sunset I painted for our living room. "And clean my underwear because I can't seem to get a grasp on laundry."

I walked over, snatched the Mexican to-go menu from the pile and shoved it toward his chest. "You know how to do laundry; you just don't want to do it."

He caught my wrist and gave me his best lighten up smile. "You're going to do great. We'll get you a different—better—job that isn't in some snooty art gallery. But first," he said, grabbing a bottle of wine from the top shelf of the cabinet—"we drink."

I grabbed our only two wine glasses from the cabinet. "What are we drinking to?" I asked.

Scott chuckled. "To three am diarrhea and embarrassing job interviews."

The blasting of my alarm clock rung out into my silent apartment at five am, but I'd been awake for an hour. Sleep hadn't come easy for me in years. When you felt as if the weight of the world pressed onto your shoulders—sleep seemed irrelevant.

I jerked the dark gray sheets from my legs and walked toward the bathroom adjacent to my bed. I turned on the golden faucet and stared at myself in the long half-wall length mirror.

The dark bags underneath my eyes hung heavier these days. With art shows every other week, and the pressure of my grandfather's lingering reputation over my head, I couldn't afford to make a mistake.

I showered quickly, made my coffee and took a quick look at the Houston Chronicle while leaning on the stainless steel island in my kitchen. The sunrise lingered over the Houston skyline in the distance, brightening up my dark gray furniture and what some would call broody atmosphere.

I sighed and braced my palms against the flat surface in front of me. A manila folder caught my eye on the far edge of the cabinet. I grabbed it, leaned back and crossed my ankles. Lidia Lambert stared back at me, her resume—that was impressive—underneath her grinning picture.

It looked more like a rap sheet folder, but I liked to see what my interviewees looked like. This one—she was a character. After hearing her call the place snotty, which wasn't too far off, I couldn't help but feel intrigued by her.

Even though she was a klutz and couldn't stop talking, her kind smile made me feel different from the two other kids I'd interviewed before her. She seemed genuine, which wouldn't last long in our business, because it was well that—business.

I shut the folder and leaned in to check my emails. Rebecca had emailed me over another interviewee scheduled for nine, which gave me plenty of time to open the gallery and settle in beforehand.

Not that I wouldn't make them wait thirty minutes, just to judge their attitude. Patience is a virtue, Grandpa always says.

I watched Lidia from my office on the second floor, tapping her heel and fixing her hat, and then dropping to her knees to dig in her purse. Poor girl had no idea I heard everything from the moment she walked in until the moment she left.

When I got to work at six thirty, the Houston traffic began its torturous pattern of horn blowing and curses out of the driver's side windows. The smell of pine wafted from the nightly cleaning crew sprucing up the place after I left the night before.

I started my coffee pot and sat down, hearing Rebecca come in a few minutes later and drop off my interviewee for the day. Rebecca came with the position. I hadn't hired her, and probably wouldn't have if it'd been up to me.

She rubbed me the wrong way, and I pretended not to notice the way she trailed her finger against the top of her dress and gave me eyes.

"Good morning, Mr. Archer," she said, walking over in ten-inch heels to pour me some coffee.

I didn't look up from the folder of Johnathon Thomas. "Good morning."

She sat down my mug and hugged her clipboard to her chest until I glanced up at her. Her makeup was perfect, her red painted lips pulled into a smirk. "So, yesterday—that girl—she was a hot mess, huh?"

I watched Rebecca eye her long dress for quite some time before I walked down to greet her. Lidia was the only girl she'd given me to interview from the stack of applications. She didn't want any competition.

I didn't respond and pointed toward the door. I caught her eye roll as she walked out and down the stairs. My phone rang a few moments later and I answered, "Hello."

"Jace," my grandfather's voice boomed. "Good morning. You at the office?"

I straightened even though he wasn't there and fixed my tie. "Yes Sir, been here since six thirty."

"Hmm," he said, never impressed. "The reason I'm calling is because I need to speak to you about our contract."

I furrowed my brow and opened my laptop. "What about it?"

Grandfather stayed quiet for a while and then cleared his throat. "You know the speculations that were made when you took this job nearly eight years ago."

I opened my email and started scanning them for importance and weeding out the trash. "I've been keeping up with appearances for publicity. I have a huge social planned for the end of the month and an artist is hosting an exhibition this coming Friday night—"

"Your brother, Seth, is getting married son. I know you received the invitation. That's what I'm talking about."

My eyes fell to the silver lined invitation that'd taken residence on my desk for the past two weeks. I'd glanced over it once, not caring that he was getting married—the dirty little …

I sighed and ran my palm over my face to calm myself. I loved my brother, and at one time in our lives, we were close, but he'd changed over the years. The family money went to his head years ago when he realized he could get under any skirt by using it.

Married, huh. To whom? A twenty-year-old college girl looking for a free ride into the Houston social circle. I didn't care about him getting married any more than I cared—the contract.

Realization washed over me in one heated moment. Nerves skated down my back and tied my tongue. It'd been eight years since I signed the contract with my grandfather, and it'd given me eight year to forget all the ridiculous speculations.

Married before thirty-five rolled over my mind, burying its own grave. I hadn't had time to date seriously. I invited a couple of pretty girls to different social events, but never really dated them. None of them held my interest.

"Son, are you there?" Grandfather said. "Did you hear me—"

"I heard you," I said, leaning back in my chair and twirling around to get a good look at the view of the bustling traffic beneath me. It might be one of my last times to sit in this desk.

Because I turned thirty-five in six months, and I hadn't been on a real date in … I couldn't remember how many years.

"I haven't seen you with anyone lately. Did you forget what I asked of you?"

Yes, yes I had. Or maybe I'd hoped he was joking—halfheartedly—and wouldn't enforce that part of the contract on me. Married? What was it to him anyway? Couldn't I be a better owner without any other responsibilities?

"I didn't forget," I said. "Just—"

Grandfather sighed. "Just didn't think I was serious, huh? I'm serious, son. If you don't get married by then I'm going to have to give the spot to Seth."

Red dotted my eyes and I stood suddenly, running a palm through my hair. I felt the urge to kick something but calmed myself and shoved my spare hand into the depth of my pocket.

"Grandfather, I don’t have time to date. I've been busy running the business, you of all people should know how much time it takes—"

"Exactly, son," he said, exasperated. "I put that into the contract because I didn't want you to turn out like me. I'm eighty something years old, and I've only spent thirty years with your grandma before she passed. I married late, had children late, and missed many things because of my age that I didn't want to. I don't want that for you. So … who are you dating?"

I opened my mouth to lie but shut it. I wasn't a liar, and I wasn't going to lie to this old man. I braced my palm against the center of my forehead and slid it back over my raven-colored hair.

"No one."

He went silent and I heard clicking and moving around on the other end of the phone. "You turn thirty-five in six months," he said matter-of-factly.

I rocked back on my heels, feeling the urge to hang up and check my emails. So much work to do. "I do."

"Well," he cleared his throat. "You better get busy then. I'll see you at Seth's wedding in a couple of months."

He hung up. A nervous chuckle left my lips as I imagined Seth running this business by himself. He couldn't keep his goldfish alive for more than two weeks in college, what would he do with the art gallery?

My finger hovered over grandfather's name in my contact log as I debated calling and begging for more time. However, I knew my grandfather was stern and matter-of-fact. He'd been that way my entire life.

When Dad turned down this position the year I was born, and turned to piolet school, it'd crushed him. He wanted this to stay in the Archer family, and he got that with me.

But at what expense? A forced marriage that would end in divorce. "God," I groaned, rubbing my palms over my eyes. "I don't have time for this."

Rebecca's voice came over the speaker. "Mr. Johnathon Thomas is here for his interview." She had that sweet tone in her voice that told me he was attractive.

"Send him up," I sighed, and plopped down in my chair.

My mind raced over what to do. Johnathon walked in with a strut, hands shoved down into his pocket and a golden boy smile. He offered me a handshake that I took, trying my best to seem interested.

Why am I holding this interview for an assistant if I wasn't going to be here much longer? I pulled up my laptop and opened up his file.

"It's so nice to meet you," he said. "When your brother told me about the position—"

"My brother?" I asked. "Seth told you about this position?"

He beamed as if I'd be proud that he knew my brother. "Yes, Sir. I went to college with him. We were in the same frat together."

My interest rolled down the hill and into a sewer ditch. He lost me at Seth. I tried to maintain my focus. "Tell me about you."

I opened his folder, but my gaze landed on Lidia Lambert's sitting on the desk beside him like a huge neon flag. I'd read something in her file that caught my attention. She worked her way through college and had student loan debt she wanted to hurry and pay off.

Which wasn't something you put under reasons why you need a job in the first place—but after meeting her—I realized why she put it. She couldn’t stop her mouth from moving.

Student loan debt danced in my mind. She needed this job—badly. She needed it so bad she'd do whatever it took to—

I stood abruptly, desperation filled my stomach and a proposition formed. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I'm not feeling well. I'll give you a call back if I'm interested, okay?"

He tilted his head as if it would help him understand better, but after a few moments of staring at one another, he stood and walked out without another word. A definite no.

I grabbed my phone, found her number and called it. It went straight to voicemail, and I clenched my fist into a tight ball on my desk. What am I doing?

I glanced around at my office and sighed. Desperate, indeed. "Lidia Lambert, this is Jace Archer. Please come in today at twelve for a second interview. See you soon."

I pressed the end button and glanced at the clock. Nine fifteen. I had a little over two hours to get myself together. I needed this girl as my assistant as I needed a bullet to my head.

However, if that bullet held my job position on the other side … a bullet to the head it was. I gulped down my pride and sighed.

"What am I doing?" I asked no one.