Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 38306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say automatically.
Maria wags a finger at me. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how confrontational—-”
“You mean bitchy?” I ask innocently.
Maria gives me a pointed look. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
Shit. She totally got me there.
“Now, you’ve been working for us for six years and throughout it you’ve had a succession of bosses as you climbed your way up.”
I can’t see where she’s going, and I say warily, “There’s a but, isn’t there?”
“They may have let you gotten away with a lot of things because they appreciate your hard work, but—-”
“I knew it,” I grumble.
“Our CEO won’t be the same.” Leaning forward, the older woman settles her elbows on her desk and laces her fingers under her chin. “Mr. Rochester is different, Mary Jane—-”
I cringe. “Reed please.”
“Mary Jane,” Maria says even more firmly. “And you better get used to it. Mr. Rochester happens to be the traditional and conservative sort—-”
“Is that the H.R. term for chauvinist?” I quip.
“My point is,” Maria says diplomatically, “it’s possible that Mr. Rochester won’t call you ‘Reed’ like you’ve convinced your other bosses to do so, and you must be prepared for this.”
“So he is a chauvinist.”
“No.” But Maria is visibly fighting off her smile, and when I snort, she loses the battle and the sound of her barely smothered laugh fills the room. “Oh, Ms. Reed.”
Every time she says that, I think wryly, I feel like I’m a hopeless case for Hell.
“Working for Mr. Rochester is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I want this for you. I really do. But I also know you’ll end up fired within the first five minutes if you don’t at least try to—-”
“Act like a sweet little idiot around him?”
“Mary Jane!”
“Sorry.” I gnaw on my lower lip. “I’m grateful you recommended me of all people, but I don’t know if I can meet your expectations. I’m not sure if I have the stomach to pretend being someone I’m not.”
“Which is good,” Maria surprisingly concurs, “since I’m not asking you to do such a thing. Rather, I’m imploring you to give Mr. Rochester a chance—-”
“Oh, please, Ms. Fairfax. You make him sound like I can bully him.” I snort at the mere idea of it, which is utterly preposterous. If what I’ve been hearing is even half-accurate, then someone like Mr. Rochester is the exact opposite of what he’s suggesting. Rather, he’s the type who throws his weight around on a whim, and of course no one has the power to stand in his way when he does.
When I notice Ms. Fairfax’s lips purse, I say defensively, “I only know what I’ve heard.”
“Then I’m disappointed,” she counters severely, “that you put so much stock in the office grapevine. I thought you were smarter than that.”
Shit. She has a point. “Sorry,” I mutter, properly chastened. I barely know anything about Mr. Rochester, and what I do know I’ve only picked up from workplace gossip, like the fact that our 35-year-old boss is considered one of Britain’s most legendary playboys (or at least he is according to The Daily Mail), and that he always leaves a string of broken hearts wherever he goes.
But to be fair to him, it always takes two to tango, and I don’t think he’s ever forced any woman to go out with him. Those women whose hearts Mr. Rochester allegedly broke were women who chose to play with fire in the first place.
“Perhaps we should clear the air now,” the H.R. manager suggests, “so we can avoid any preconceived notions about Mr. Rochester from affecting your job.” Maria reaches for a pen and taps the end of it against a pad of paper, saying, “To start with, tell me what you know of Mr. Rochester.”
Startled by her words, I stammer awkwardly, “Women think he’s hot?” But even though I know it’s true I can’t help wrinkling my nose as I speak. I’ve seen enough photos of Mr. Rochester to know he’s more than passably attractive, with his ebony black hair and sapphire eyes, and that his six-foot-plus frame is built more like a professional athlete. Supposedly, he’s this ridiculously wild animal in bed, too—-
“Dare I even ask what you’re thinking now?”
“Nope.”
Maria sighs. “This is going nowhere. I can see that you don’t like Mr. Rochester, so may I just go straight to the point and ask why?”
“It’s nothing personal,” I say uneasily. “It’s just...I hate the idea of him.” I shrug again. “Bad boys have never been my taste, you know?”
“Ah.” The older woman’s fingers tap on the desk. “I’m beginning to understand what you meant earlier. You are thinking about the previous PAs, aren’t you, Ms. Reed?”
I nod warily.
“And you’ve heard rumors about how he’s bullied and mistreated them, taking advantage of the fact that they’re in love with him. Yes?”