Page 36 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

Claire- Hey sis. How did the interview go? Did you get the job?

Yes. And I turned it down. Because I’m an idiot. An idiot who needs to get her shit together because she’s about to be homeless.

Scarlett- It went really well. And I’m going to take the job.

Chapter 12

Scarlett

Dear Mr. Morgan Bale,

After careful consideration, I have decided to accept the job as travel blogger for Bale Resorts. I am available immediately and look forward to working with you.

Scarlett Moore

MooreToExplore

I wrote the email that night, right after texting my sister back and right before downing the last glass of wine my box wine bladder had to offer. It was desperate and pathetic and completely beneath me and–very effective. Because the next morning, I woke up to an email from Donovan. I work for Bale Resorts, and the job starts today.

Well. A second interview disguised as dinner with Morgan, anyways.

“Wow,” I say as I sit in the leather-bound chair that is being pulled out for me by a man who looks like he could be the butler in an Agatha Christie novel. Sans the murderer part. “Just wow. This is…really fancy,” I point out.

“Is it?” Morgan asks as he sits down. I scoff so loud I might have just sprayed my immaculate water goblet with spit. I am doing great so far.

“Yeah,” I let out as I unwrap my silverware and place the cloth napkin on my lap.

“I thought you were well-traveled,” he says, eyeing the wine menu.

“I am,” I state. “But I don’t usually go to ritzy places.”

“Interesting,” Morgan says. It feels so weird putting a name to the face. The face of the company. The face of the Sapphire. The face of the man I fooled around with at the Sapphire. “So where do you go then…when you travel?”

“I’m more of a hole in the wall kind of girl,” I admit as I look over the menu. It literally takes physical effort to keep my eyes from dilating as I look at the prices.

“So dives and such?” he asks.

“And such.” I smirk at him. This guy really is three pieces all the time. I thought it was just a tough day at the office when he walked into my suite. Yes. I am calling it mine until the day I die, because it was. I didn’t realize it was his entire personality. I bet the man sleeps with cufflinks on. “No. Not dives. Local restaurants. Family owned places. Food trucks. Markets. That is where the good stuff is.”

“The good stuff,” he echoes. “So what would you, a well-seasoned traveler, call the things on this menu?”

Overpriced? Over-hyped? Overrated?

“Flashy,” I say. And when my eyes meet his, my smirk disappears quickly. “Sorry. I suddenly get the feeling I am saying all the wrong things.”

“How so?” he asks.

“This is like part two of the interview, right? I should be trying to make a good impression,” I say as the waiter comes back and goes through all the flashy motions of serving our wine to us, leaving the bottle on the table afterwards.

Morgan orders the black truffle scallops, I am assuming as an appetizer, before answering my question.

“You already did make a good impression. If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be sitting in front of me now,” he says and something about his tone feels like he’s implying more. Does he remember me? Is he making a sideways reference to the night at the Sapphire? Surely not.

“Of course,” I answer. Because as much as this man’s constant reminders that he is quote-unquote better than me, the ice below my feet right now is still thin. I would be wise not to go stomping around.

“So let’s get to it then,” Morgan says after taking a sip of wine and setting his glass back down on the table. I follow suit. It is a Spanish wine after all. Aged. Oaky. Plum with a hint of vanilla and spice.

Perfect.