I check my watch; it’s 8:45am. I take a deep breath and step through the glass sliding doors, the clack of my stilettos echoing off the high ceilings.
The walls, pillars, and floors are white marble. The only pop of color is the suited woman standing behind the security desk, flanked by guards and automated turnstiles. Her hair is red, a deep and shiny copper quite like mine.
“Good morning,” I say, overly bright. “I’m Ava Clark, I have a 9am interview that was scheduled through Amanda Johnson?”
“Identification.”
The redhead takes my driver’s license from me and assesses the picture. She nods at me, expressionless, and taps a button or two. A mechanical whirr under her desk ends with her ripping a newly printed nametag and handing it back to me with my license.
“Sixty-sixth floor, Miss Clark.”
I try to keep my face relaxed. “Did you say six-six?”
Without looking up she points to the elevator bank furthest to the left in the lobby. I gulp and go. My smile is twitchy by the time I reach the elevator attendant and play a ridiculous game of fumble-fingers with him over the buttons. He wins in the end. The doors click shut and we are catapulted into the sky.
Good thing there are no windows. My stomach is churning.
I am petrified of heights.
The doors open on the sixty-sixth floor and I see that unfortunately for my vertigo the entire eastern wall is a window. I avert my eyes from the too-close clouds and see clear glass chandeliers dangling from the high white ceiling, calla lilies in clear glass vases, and a secretary’s desk built in to the wall to my left. The only door is next to her desk and shut tight.
The elevator attendant holds the door for me because apparently corporate people don’t know how to enter and exit elevators by themselves. I step past him.
“Thank you,” I stammer.
He blinks at me, clearly unused to being noticed, and shuts the doors.
Friendly staff.
Avoiding the window view at all costs, I stare intently at the secretary typing behind the counter. She too is a redhead, more of a strawberry blonde.
I am sensing a pattern.
“Hello,” I say, but before I can proceed she holds up a finger to silence me and points to a white bench I hadn’t noticed floating out of the wall. Three other girls are perched, their hair perfectly smooth and blazers crisp. They all have briefcases and blank expressions. My smile stiffens as I move to join them and carefully sit on the slim plastic bench.
Watch check. It’s 8:50am.
I am so nervous and only have ten minutes to get a grip. Remembering my classical voice class back at University of Michigan, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly in a barely audible hissing “ssss” sound. The secretary glances at me sharply. I stare right back, eyebrow raised in challenge.
I have to relax, damn it.
Something buzzes. The secretary picks up a phone.
“Yes sir?”
Silence.
“Yes sir.”
Click.
She peers over her horn-rimmed white plastic glasses at the row of us. “Ladies, Mr. King will see you now.”
Uh-oh. I definitely didn’t mentally psych myself up for a group interview. It’s hard enough to be nice and charming to one dude, let alone a posse of competition.
But it’s happening anyway, happening now.
The secretary presses a button on the wall and the white section of door slides to the side, exposing a long, low-lit hallway.
There’s a tall thin man in a pressed gray suit waiting for us, a tablet in his hand. Surprise! Another redhead, or more like a carrot-top, his face barely discernable underneath a confusion of freckles. He looks us over and points to the girl on my left.
“Thank you for coming today,” he says, “That’s all we need. You are free to go. The rest of you follow me, please.”
Confused, the girl stands with a gaping mouth, but the man hasn’t stopped to wait for a response. With an impatient wave of his hand he leads the remaining three of us away. I glance over my shoulder trying to figure out what about her got her eliminated, and watch her shuffle dejected back to the elevator.
After a few twists and turns, our carrot-topped guide has led us into a conference room and motions for us to take places at the wide end of a white plastic oval table. Thank god the walls in here are gray, not white, otherwise I think I might scream.
“Thank you for your punctuality.”
The low, cool voice emanates from a man at the other side of the table. He stands as we all shuffle in and offers a dazzling smile that more than makes up for the brusqueness of the rest of corporate America. I feel my lady brain glaze over the way it automatically does around handsome men.
“I am Vincent King, CEO of Skollz Corp. You’ve been screened from over 1,500 applications and hand selected by my administrative staff to interview. Congratulations. As you are applying for the role of my Personal and Executive Assistant, I thought it best I oversee the selection process from here. Welcome, ladies.”
He reaches across to shake hands with each of us. I’m last, and as our skin brushes I feel an inconvenient bolt of attraction that manifests as one small, dumb butterfly trying to fly out of my stomach. My cheeks redden.
This is not a good time, body, damn it!
Mr. King is tall and broad with chiseled features and a tailored five-o’clock shadow. He looks something like a cross between that model Johnny Harrington and David Beckham, but in a perfectly fitted suit. There’s something magnetic about him. Power maybe.
And yup, he’s a redhead. Flaming. Suddenly it all makes sense. My lips twitch involuntarily a smile.
Mr. King catches it and quirks an eyebrow. “Something amusing?”
“No, no,” I stammer. His blue eyes burn into me, my gut clenches, and I fumble for something charming to say. “Just briefly wondering if maybe we’re related. You know.”
I glance at his hair and he laughs, breaking the tension, and tucks himself into the massive leather chair on his side of the table. Carrot-top sets his tablet down on the table on a stand, and I realize he’s recording us.
No pressure.
There are exactly enough chairs for each remaining applicant, telling me they had premeditated eliminating one of us right off the get-go. We all sit, and I look around. The brunette next to me has her eyes riveted on Mr. King like a worshipful teenager. Ew.
“The position is demanding,” began Mr. King. “Long hours, international travel. The ideal assistant will be able to transition seamlessly from providing a discreet hand in my personal affairs to maintaining flawless support in Skollz Corp. Once hired, my assistant will be subject to an extensive confidentiality contract and our company’s standard non-disclosure agreement. I’m very serious about protecting the integrity of our vision as a company. I warn you now; I am ruthlessly exacting in my standards and somewhat difficult to live with. But I make up for it with nice presents.”