sifting through the closet again, and quickly settled on the plainest black dress I could find. I had worn it only once, because I normally liked to wear color. But it had a modest neckline, and was roomy so that it didn’t look like I was about to bust out of my clothing.
I threw on some makeup, making sure to tone it down from my usual look - and put my hair up in what I hoped was a professional style. Now, if only I could make it to the interview on time.
***
The Tableau main office building was imposing, huge and glass-fronted. I walked into the lobby, three minutes late and slightly flustered, and greeted the receptionist - a tall, thin woman wearing thick-rimmed glasses. She led me through a few doors and into a waiting area. I looked around, and my heart sank.
There were about eight other people waiting. Most of them were young women, clutching their resumes, looking infinitely more confident and professional than I imagined I did. What had I expected - James had gotten me an interview, but of course that didn’t mean I was the only one. I heartily wished I’d thought to go over my CV, and maybe put it in some fancy folder.
I took a seat, smoothing my skirt beneath me, and played with my phone to while away the time.
One by one, the applicants were shown through. I saw them leave, too, with smiles on their faces. I could have sworn each looked very confident about their chances for the job.
Eventually it was my turn. The receptionist peered around the room inquiringly. “Jessica Adams?”
I’d been in a daze, and jumped up in surprise . “I’m here.” Clutching my resume and my handbag, I followed her.
Rick Alcott’s office was huge. A giant desk dominated one side of the room, with comfortable-looking leather furniture on the other side. There was an adjoining room, which was closed. It was all very tidy, and had the requisite beautiful city view. I could see it had started raining outside, the sky darkening and a few drops of rain landing on the windows.
“Good afternoon, Miss Adams. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Please, take a seat.” Rick Alcott had a pleasant but bored-sounding baritone voice. He was seated at his desk; pen in hand, stack of papers in front of him. I wasn’t sure if he’d even looked up from his reading. I smiled, and walked toward the desk, heels clicking on the tiles and then growing silent as I stepped onto the thick carpet.
I sat down slowly, placing my resume on the desk before me, and waiting. After a minute, I felt decidedly awkward. I willed myself not to fidget. Instead, I crossed my legs and watched him. He was young - maybe five years older than me at most, I estimated. His hair was light brown, or perhaps dark blonde, and slightly messy, and he wore glasses with steel-colored wire frames. In his hand the pen tap-tapped restlessly against the desk as he read.
After a minute, he abruptly dropped the pen, and pulled off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes briefly, and then sat back with a sigh. His eyes met mine as he ran a hand through his hair, and his face was transformed with a warm smile. I could have sworn my heart skipped a beat under the force of that smile. His eyes were a light blue and his strong jaw was covered in light stubble, and he was… well, he was completely hot.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “ I hate this crap.”
I blinked.
He and reached over to grab my resume, and I slid it gently toward him over the polished wood. Then he looked stared at me, taking in my face and then briefly, my upper body. I fought the instinct to shield my expansive bust.
He went back to reading. “So…” He began. “As you know, I’m in need of a new assistant. James mentioned you’re a bartender?”
I flushed. “Yes, that’s what I’m doing at the moment. But I have had plenty of experience as a receptionist. I know all the new software, and I have an excellent phone manner.”
He smiled again, not looking up, eyes scanning the
I threw on some makeup, making sure to tone it down from my usual look - and put my hair up in what I hoped was a professional style. Now, if only I could make it to the interview on time.
***
The Tableau main office building was imposing, huge and glass-fronted. I walked into the lobby, three minutes late and slightly flustered, and greeted the receptionist - a tall, thin woman wearing thick-rimmed glasses. She led me through a few doors and into a waiting area. I looked around, and my heart sank.
There were about eight other people waiting. Most of them were young women, clutching their resumes, looking infinitely more confident and professional than I imagined I did. What had I expected - James had gotten me an interview, but of course that didn’t mean I was the only one. I heartily wished I’d thought to go over my CV, and maybe put it in some fancy folder.
I took a seat, smoothing my skirt beneath me, and played with my phone to while away the time.
One by one, the applicants were shown through. I saw them leave, too, with smiles on their faces. I could have sworn each looked very confident about their chances for the job.
Eventually it was my turn. The receptionist peered around the room inquiringly. “Jessica Adams?”
I’d been in a daze, and jumped up in surprise . “I’m here.” Clutching my resume and my handbag, I followed her.
Rick Alcott’s office was huge. A giant desk dominated one side of the room, with comfortable-looking leather furniture on the other side. There was an adjoining room, which was closed. It was all very tidy, and had the requisite beautiful city view. I could see it had started raining outside, the sky darkening and a few drops of rain landing on the windows.
“Good afternoon, Miss Adams. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Please, take a seat.” Rick Alcott had a pleasant but bored-sounding baritone voice. He was seated at his desk; pen in hand, stack of papers in front of him. I wasn’t sure if he’d even looked up from his reading. I smiled, and walked toward the desk, heels clicking on the tiles and then growing silent as I stepped onto the thick carpet.
I sat down slowly, placing my resume on the desk before me, and waiting. After a minute, I felt decidedly awkward. I willed myself not to fidget. Instead, I crossed my legs and watched him. He was young - maybe five years older than me at most, I estimated. His hair was light brown, or perhaps dark blonde, and slightly messy, and he wore glasses with steel-colored wire frames. In his hand the pen tap-tapped restlessly against the desk as he read.
After a minute, he abruptly dropped the pen, and pulled off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes briefly, and then sat back with a sigh. His eyes met mine as he ran a hand through his hair, and his face was transformed with a warm smile. I could have sworn my heart skipped a beat under the force of that smile. His eyes were a light blue and his strong jaw was covered in light stubble, and he was… well, he was completely hot.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “ I hate this crap.”
I blinked.
He and reached over to grab my resume, and I slid it gently toward him over the polished wood. Then he looked stared at me, taking in my face and then briefly, my upper body. I fought the instinct to shield my expansive bust.
He went back to reading. “So…” He began. “As you know, I’m in need of a new assistant. James mentioned you’re a bartender?”
I flushed. “Yes, that’s what I’m doing at the moment. But I have had plenty of experience as a receptionist. I know all the new software, and I have an excellent phone manner.”
He smiled again, not looking up, eyes scanning the
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