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“Yes, Mr. Sharpe,” Tamara says as she accepts the contracts.
“And get me Richard Benson,” I add. “Iwant full financial projections on what it would take to get a college building built in Henderson, Nevada.”
“Planning on a Sharpe School of Business, sir?” Tamara asks wryly, and I smirk.
“No,” I reply. “Geno Miller wants to leave his mark on the world.”
“Wouldn’t we all, sir,” Tamara says with a touch of humor, slipping her thinned rimmed glasses on. “I’ll run this over to legal before heading to lunch, if you don’t mind?”
“Perfect,” I assure her. “Thank you.”
She closes my office door as she leaves, and the moment I’m alone, work falls away and my thoughts are once again consumed with one thing and one thing only…
Raven Hill.
CHAPTER 11
RAVEN
The clock keeps ticking. Somehow, it’s both too fast and not fast enough. There are only a few days remaining until my Saturday night date with Dylan Sharpe. I swallow down the nerves like I’ve been doing since he messaged me. Just the idea of seeing him again has me twisted up in knots all week, and I can’t get away from him in my thoughts. I’ve dreamed of seeing him again every single night.
All the other nerves, though, are for something else entirely. I can’t shake them off. I’ve made follow-up calls, sent emails, and even had a meeting with one of the people I met Friday night, but each time, the connections have been complete dead ends, and I’m starting to feel like the common denominator is me.
But I’m not giving up. Not yet. Not ever.
I check my phone again as I sit in the conference room waiting for my next meeting to begin. Dylan told me that this was one of the ‘small fish’ interviews, but Ithink that had more to do with the fact that Michael Styles doesn’t strike me as friends with Dylan. They’re too similar in personalities, two rival companies.
With a steadying inhale, I look up at the sound of smacking oxfords echoing from the hall to my right. The door opens, and Mr. Styles comes in, his tall, commanding presence filling the space. “Miss Hill. Have you been waiting long?”
“No, thank you,” I reply, offering a hand as I stand from the chair I was designated by his assistant. We shake, and he sits at the head of the table. He’s in his early forties, with a haircut that’s clearly touched up by a stylist every other week, a tailored suit that’s less than six months old, and a well-done shave. He’s the sort of man who takes care of himself. His skin’s got the well-hydrated glow of an expensive skin cream, and his hand was baby soft in mine, probably from a recent manicure. “Thank you for seeing me so quickly.”
“Well, when you make an impression like you did the other night, I knew that you wouldn’t be on the market for long,” he says. He smiles, but something about it feels off. “By the way, I talked with our HR department. You put in an application with our firm a year ago?”
“Yes,” I reply, reaching into my bag and taking out my updated resume. “I was in business school at the time and was looking for an internship.”
“But you weren’t interviewed,” Michael notes, taking my updated resume from me. “Would you like to make a guess as to why?”
“I know that a firm like this gets dozens, if not hundreds, of applications for every internship spot available. And while I was a top-notch student, with a 4.0 GPA and an impressive senior project portfolio…” I pause, letting those highlights sink in. “When you don’t have a prestigious name or a prestigious university name on your application, you’re banging on the door from the sidewalk. I assumed you received more applications with Yale or the Wharton School on them than you had opportunities.”
Michael hums, neither confirming nor denying my assumption as he gives my resume a cursory glance. “And you didn’t reach out here again why?”
The truth is that I’ve heard the rumors about this firm—their freshman interns and new hires are predominantly three things—white, male, and wealthy, so I focused my efforts on other firms who might be a better fit for me. That’s not what I tell Michael, of course. “I wasn’t aware you had a position available,” I reply. “But I think if you look at my portfolio numbers, you’ll see that I more than fit in on your team.”
Michael flips to my portfolio, lifting an eyebrow. “The dollar amounts are on the smaller side, but your margins are impressive. Better than some of my current managers, if I’m being honest.”
He absolutely just intentionally called me poor, but I’m taking the compliment on my margins because I worked hard for them and have the instincts to make them even better.
“The dollar amounts are low because I didn’t have a lot to work with as an intern,” I explain. “You know the old lyric, trying to make a dollar out of fifteen cents?”
“I recall that back from my college days,” Michael says, and I feel a bit surprised that he gets the reference.
“I can make a dollar out of my fifteen cents. After our talk the other night, you know I can take ten grand and turn it into a hundred k, and take a hundred k and turn it into a million. That’s what I bring to your firm.”
“And of course, you’d take your percentage,” Michael says with a nod as he meets my gaze, but there’s respect in his comment. He knows how this works. The money-makers should make some money of their own.
“If I’m going to make this firm tens of millions of dollars a year, I think it’s fair that I can at least affordmy own apartment in the city.” It’s not exactly a compensation package negotiation, but we’re both testing our expectations without spelling out ‘I want X percentage’ or ‘I’m offering Y salary.’ I add a small smile with the comment, and thankfully, it lands how I hoped it would.
Michael laughs. “I don’t know, with the way residential real estate’s been going around town, I heard a rumor that the Yankees are having their rookies double up on apartment rent in order to save some cash.”
