The Position (2 page)

“Yes,” the woman mutters. “I can see that.”
 

The reception area of the office is stunning. One of the walls is made of brick; the others are gleaming white. A series of flat planks hangs in an artistic pattern from the vaulted ceilings and the white tile floor gleams. The reception desk is also white and shaped in undulating curves. Behind it, a shocking square of blood red has been painted on the wall. The place is so over-the-top stylish, I’m amazed they let me in at all. My heart sinks as I sense my rebellious side kicking in—the side that won’t give up until the last shred of my dignity has been destroyed. I’m sure a shrink would have a lot to say about that.
 

“Just let me interview,” I say. “I won’t even sit on your furniture.”
 

The woman stares at me for a long time with pity in her eyes. I hate her for that. Finally, she sighs deeply and turns on her remarkably pointy heel. “Follow me, then,” she concedes, obviously just wanting to get it over with.
 

She saunters down a hushed hall of brick and white, and turns into an office. I follow her inside. It’s not huge, but it’s beautifully appointed and it has a window that looks down onto the bustling streets below. She sits primly at her desk and wrinkles her brow. There are two slim, white designer chairs arranged in front of her desk and I can tell she’s worried that I’ll sit on one. But I don’t. Instead I hover just beside them, holding my hands in front of me like a schoolgirl summoned to the principal’s office.
 

The tall woman opens a file on her desk and skims through it. “To be honest, this isn’t the kind of place that hires recent graduates,” she takes a moment to find my name on the header of my résumé, “Michaela. We like to get you when you’re just a little more seasoned. Even in the entry-level positions. Perhaps you would consider an internship somewhere? Just to get a sense of things?”
 

Even though I try not to, I look down at the ground. “I really don’t have the money to do that.”
 

An older woman passes by the office and then stops. She pokes her head in. Her short hair is black with a stripe of gray in the front. She gestures at me with her head, curiosity in her eyes. “Seriously?” she whispers, as if I couldn’t hear her at all. “Another one already?”
 

The woman behind the desk arches her eyebrows in response. I can’t tell what’s being communicated, but the older woman shakes her head in disbelief and continues down the hall. The tall woman turns her attention back to me.
 

“Perhaps you could find a position at a temp agency,” she suggests condescendingly. “Squeeze in some internship hours on the side.”
 

I meet her gaze and don’t look away this time. “Another what?”
 

“Excuse me?” She tilts her head to the side and turns an ear toward me, as if straining to hear.
 

“What did that lady mean, ‘Another one?’ Another what?”
 

The tall woman sits up straight and clears her throat. This time she’s the one who looks away. “Not your concern, Michaela,” she says with exaggerated enunciation.
 

I have nothing to lose, so I don’t care anymore. “Assistants? Do you go through a lot of assistants?”
 

The woman turns back to me, her eyes heavy-lidded with disdain. “Don’t you even understand what this position is?”

“Assistant to an architect. That’s what it said on Craigslist.” I shift my weight, starting to feel a little dizzy again. For a moment I consider sitting down in her fancy chair, but I’m too chicken to go that far.
 

“My dear, I’m not an architect.” The woman sounds amused. “I work in H.R.” She pushes the folder with my résumé across the desk, giving it back to me. Thanks but no thanks, honey. “This is an extremely important position. You would be assisting Mr. Lazarus. He’s the head of the firm. In fact, Mr. Lazarus is…”
 

“I know who he is,” I blurt out. “I’ve studied his designs. They’re amazing. That’s why I want to work here.”
 

I feel the bloom of disappointment starting to spread inside me. What a disaster. I’ve ruined my chance to work directly with one of the most famous architects in the world. There won’t be another like it anywhere in Denver. There’s not another American architect as prestigious as Lazarus outside of New York or San Francisco. The adrenaline from the accident begins to subside and the pain in my back is creeping in.
 

The woman nods curtly and gets to her feet. “Well, I’m afraid a lot of motivated young people do. Each time Mr. Lazarus needs a new assistant I’m bombarded with résumés. I have no reason not to be very selective.”
 

She walks around the side of her desk and heads for the door. “Thank you for making such a heroic effort to get here,” she calls over her shoulder. Taking the cue, I follow her out the door and down the hall. “I’m sure that tenacity will take you far.” When we reach the reception area she stops so abruptly I nearly run right into her. She turns to look at me. “Can I give you a bit of friendly advice, Michaela?”
 

“Okay,” I say, even though I can tell it won’t be friendly at all.
 

“Take a little more pride in how you look.” Her eyes flick up and down my sad, soiled outfit. “Try to make an attempt at fashion. You don’t have to wear Prada to make an impression. But the more stylish you are, the most confident you’ll feel. And other people will sense that.”
 

That’s awesome. As if I didn’t feel ugly and pathetic enough. Now I also want to punch her in the face. Instead I nod and look down at my wet, worn-out shoes. It feels like forever that I stand there, my face on fire, waiting for some signal that I can go. Then I think, wait a minute. Why am I waiting? I don’t work here and never will. Fuck her.
 

“Have a nice life, lady,” I mutter and head for the elevator.
 

“Michaela,” the woman says quickly.
 

In spite of myself I turn around. But before she can say another word, the elevator doors open behind me and her face completely changes. Her eyes are fixed on something that makes her stony expression soften. She stands a little straighter, clasps her hands together, and lets them hang before her, as if coming to attention.
 

“Mr. Lazarus,” she says by way of a greeting.
 

My heart leaps in my chest, and I feel a mix of shame and excitement at the thought of meeting this famous man in these mortifying circumstances. I sigh, resigned to humiliation, and turn around. Immediately, the breath catches in my throat and I feel a spidery tingle all over my skin.
 

It’s the guy who doored me.

Chapter Three

I stare at the man, dumbstruck. The famous Jude Lazarus is young? I’d always assumed he was at least over forty. But this guy couldn’t be past thirty. And yet he’s already a legend in modern architecture and environmental design. He blew away both scholars and the press by perfectly restoring a few deteriorating buildings in Europe, while creating a breathtakingly modern interior. He’s had projects in Brazil, Dubai, Taipei, Tokyo. Kids in my class wrote papers on his work. It’s unbelievable. The famous Jude Lazarus doored me!
 

The rain has soaked his hair, which is now disheveled and gorgeous. His gray peacoat has darkened with the damp. But his face is so lovely it physically hurts to look at him. He raises his eyebrows and fixes his honey-amber eyes on me.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he scoffs in a low voice. “I hope you’re not already seeking damages.”
 

The tall woman steps between us, as if shielding him from my squalidness. “She was here for an interview. Now she’s leaving.” She hesitates a moment, looking back and forth between us. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lazarus,” she says, her face twisted in confusion. “You’ve met before?”
 

Lazarus unbuttons his coat and shrugs out of it. I’m expecting to see an expensive suit. Instead he is wearing a casual button-up shirt, untucked, and jeans. Of course, both look super expensive and are perfectly tailored to his muscular chest, narrow waist, and athletic legs. Holy shit. What a body! I catch myself gaping at him like an idiot and force my eyes away.
 

“We have,” he says matter-of-factly. “Though it was not by choice, especially for the young lady.” He hangs his coat on a hook by the door and looks at the tall woman. “She was bicycling past when I opened my door. I’m afraid this…” he waves a hand up and down in the air, indicating my wrecked appearance, “is all my fault.”
 

Then he looks straight at me. His expression is inscrutable. “So…you were on your way here? To interview for this position?” He shakes his head, though there’s a glint in his eye. “What a depressing coincidence. The least I can do is offer you a coffee or a cup of tea.”
 

I self-consciously brush at the stains on my blouse. I’m a mess, but it’s the only chance I’ll ever have to be in the presence of this famous man who I admire so much. Also, it’s a chance to drink in his gorgeousness a little longer.
 

“I could use a cup of coffee, I guess.”
 

Lazarus turns to the young man sitting quietly behind the reception desk. I hadn’t even noticed him there, but now he leaps to his feet ready to serve. He’s extremely well put together, with perfectly styled and lacquered hair, a pristine cream-colored shirt, purple tie, and expensive-looking trousers. When he swishes out from behind the desk and formally nods his head, it’s clear to me. Gay. It seems men will only make an effort if they want to appeal to other men. Women usually get stuck with the slouchy sweatpants and ball caps.
 

“Coffee for the young lady,” Lazarus says. He turns to the tall woman. “Eva, bring me her résumé, please.”
 

The tall woman, Eva, goes ashen, as if he’s asked her to slaughter her favorite pet cat. “I assure you, Mr. Lazarus, she doesn’t yet have…”
 

“Eva…” An unsettling shadow darkens his expression, like a cloud passing over the sun. “I didn’t ask you what she does or does not have. I asked you to bring me her résumé.”
 

Eva’s face splotches with red and she clenches her jaw. I can tell how much it kills her to be dressed down in front of me. She straightens primly and nods once.
 

“Of course.”
 

She pads down the hall and disappears into her office. Lazarus approaches me and holds out an elbow like a gentleman in an old movie. With a shy smile, I take his arm. I feel the solid mass of his bicep beneath my fingers. The faint musk of his cologne sends tingles all through me.
 

It’s weird. I don’t usually flip for guys. Like, ever. My best friend, Travis, is a total hottie, but I’ve always seen him as a brother type. Okay, so that’s not entirely true. I guess because I’ve never had the luxury of nice clothes or a stylish haircut, I’ve eliminated all hope and resigned myself to being alone. I’ve been hand-to-mouth since running away from home when I was sixteen. I know guys don’t go for me, so I’ve gotten used to not wasting my energy on them.
 

But this isn’t just an attraction. Since the moment I laid eyes on Lazarus, it’s like a crazed entity has possessed my body and completely clouded my brain. As he leads me down the hall, I imagine what it would be like to run my hands over his chest, to feel the ripples of his abs through his shirt. Suddenly, I’m dizzy again and can’t seem to catch my breath. So this is what it means to have your breath taken away.
 

He leads me all the way to the end of the hall and into an enormous corner office that is floor-to-ceiling glass. I stare in awe at the city sprawled out below us, and the blue mountains of the Front Range beyond. His desk is a strange, sensuously curved slab of smooth wood. Stretched before the window-wall in the middle of the room is a large drafting table. At the far end is a door to a smaller office, probably that of his assistant. What’s the deal with his assistants, anyway? He seems like such a nice, normal guy. Maybe he’s just a demanding pain in the ass.
 

Lazarus sweeps his free arm in the direction of the seating area, which consists of a Deco-inspired couch surrounded by equally exotic chairs.
 

“Have a seat.”
 

I wistfully pull my hand from his bicep, knowing that I’ll never have the chance to touch it again. I look at the outrageously expensive, custom-designed chairs.
 

“I can’t sit there,” I say quietly. “I’m all dirty.”
 

But he just waves it away and casually drops onto the sofa. “Oh, I don’t care. They’re just chairs, for God’s sake.”
 

I grimace a little and lower myself onto the very edge of a fancy chair. The male receptionist appears with my coffee just as Eva enters the room. She hands the folder to Lazarus with a tight smile and leaves the room without a word.
 

“Cream and sugar?” the receptionist asks.
 

“Okay.”
 

He smiles, sets the cup down on the coffee table, and prepares it for me. As Lazarus looks over my résumé, my stomach clenches into a fist. In a million years I wouldn’t have expected Jude Lazarus to look at my lame little résumé. I hold the warm cup in my hand and take the moment to study him. There’s a small mole just under his jawbone and his eyelashes are wickedly long. Then I catch myself and look away. What is the matter with you? You’re not a moony-eyed teenager! What are you going to do? Print out a poster of the guy and put it up in your locker? Get a grip! I hate feeling under the sway of anyone. It makes me feel out of control, and out of control is very bad.
 

“Michaela Clark,” he reads from the header. “You sound famous already.”
 

I smile at the sound of him saying my name. He grins at me, sending beautiful laugh lines around his amber eyes. Oh, fuck control. I’m in love.