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I kept walking, waiting for his gaze to move on from me, and when it did, I felt relieved, like a weight had come off my chest. I went back to looking at the book, determined not to look up at him again until I was called for. I very nearly made it.
The first candidate was called in. She went in meekly and returned only minutes later. As she sat in the chair, she had that thousand-yard stare that told me whatever happened in there, it hadn’t been good. Yet, she was here again. Sitting in the office. Waiting a second turn, perhaps?
One by one, they all went in, then came back, ending with the Bro guy, who was somehow an even shorter interview than the others. They had only taken minutes a piece. If that. What was going on?
“Julia?” the older gentleman with the kind smile asked as the door opened again.
“Coming,” I said, stepping off the treadmill and slipping my heels back on almost mid-stride. I took my bag with me to the door, but the man stopped me.
“You won’t need that,” he said. “You’ll be coming back. Just sit it on the chair, over there.”
“Okay,” I said, following instructions without question.
When I turned back, he was already halfway out the door, holding it open for me. I walked as confidently as I could to the leather-bound chair I was guided to and sat down while the man disappeared.
I was alone. Left looking into the face of what had to be the most gorgeous and terrifying man I had ever seen.
His name was Hunter Erickson. I had done plenty of research on the company last night, as soon as I found out I’d be interviewing. He was incredibly wealthy and powerful. He was also known to be difficult and serious and kind of an asshole. There were Reddit threads from former employees, all of which had mixed reports on him. He wasn’t mean, but he was ruthless. They made tons of money, but had no personal life. They hated him but admired him.
Some said they would have died for him if he had asked while they worked for him. Now they never wanted to see his face again. But every single one of them had more money in the bank than I had ever seen, and owed all of that to the work they did for his company.
I sat in silence as he looked at me over clenched hands, his chin rested on his thumbs and his forefingers pressed against the tip of his nose. His fingers had tattoos. That was unusual. Really, really unusual.
I wondered if I should say something, but I didn’t. This felt like part of it. Part of the interview was a game, to see how long you waited before you spoke. Maybe you weren’t supposed to. Maybe you were supposed to start the conversation in an interesting way. There had to be a reason, and it had to be tied to how quickly some of the others had come back to the tiny office.
Part of me wanted to clear my throat, but I resisted. It was a cliché move, and a rude one. It meant that you clearly expected the other person to speak and were so worked up over it, you would make a sound like you were dying. I wasn’t going to fall for that. Or for introducing myself. He knew who I was. My résuméwas right in front of him.
So, what did he want? What was the magic key to get this interview going?
I felt speechless. I had forgotten everything I prepared the night before. Whether that was the unusual game we were playing or because he was so hot, he was making me squeeze my thighs together and wish the office had an open window, I didn’t know.
Then I saw something that might be part of it. His coffee mug. I could smell roasted coffee in the air, fresh and spicy. But his mug was empty, or as far as I could see it was. Even if it wasn’t, it was initiative. I could just go grab it and try to fill it.
With a bravery that defied even my own expectations of myself, I stood, straightened my skirt smartly, took the two steps to his desk and reached down to grab the mug. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to hesitate under his icy glare. So, I kept my eyes on the mug. I grabbed it, turned on my heels, and made my way across the room.
I was heading for Bobby, since I had no idea where the coffeemaker was and hadn’t looked for it. As my eyes met his, he was smiling. Three steps closer to him as he stood near the wall and I saw an almost imperceptible nod to his side. To the coffeemaker.
Changing my direction slightly, I headed to it and filled the mug. There was no creamer, no sugar nearby. I assumed that meant he didn’t use any. So, I turned back, slapping a smile on my face, and brought him his coffee like the most overdressed barista in Boston. I set it down exactly where it had been and then took my seat once more.
Slowly, his hands left his face and one gripped the mug handle. He brought it to his lips and took a long, deep draw. Then he set it down gently and let his body relax into his chair.
“Why the treadmill?” he asked.
“I like to run,” I said. “It’s my primary hobby.”
“Running?” he asked. “Nothing else?”
“No other hobbies, no,” I said. “I keep myself busy, though, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I ask what I ask,” he said sternly. “I don’t beat around the bush.”
“Fair,” I said.
My heart thumped in my chest. This seemed to be working. It seemed to be going better than any of the others at least. His eyes, those piercing, almost black eyes looked down, losing their magnetic grip on mine as he glanced at my résumé. He didn’t look impressed by it.
“Columbia,” he said. “Not Yale? Harvard?”
“Not a legacy rich kid,” I said. “I went where I could afford. With loans, grants, and scholarships, of course.”
