He gave her the address and directions. After he hung up, he sat staring at the wall. Don’t get too excited, he warned himself. Once she finds out what a tiny operation this is and all the paperwork that keeping it running entails, a woman like her will laugh at the pittance of salary I have to offer.
Brad forced his attention back to the reports before he returned to work with his crew. As the day progressed, he kept an eye on the clock to be certain he’d arrive at the interview on time.
By the time he walked into the coffee shop, Brad had washed up, but what he wore—faded jeans, a shirt with the sleeves ripped out and battered work boots covered with dust and grime—marked him for what he was: a construction worker. He might be the boss, but he knew he was too rough around the edges to mingle socially with the clientele he hoped to impress with his company’s performance.
He glanced around the small café, realizing too late that he’d neglected to get a description of Rachel Wood. He’d been more rattled at the time than he’d thought.
He rubbed his hand over his face, frowning. All right. Process of elimination. How many women were there? Alone?
Unfortunately, at least five.
Were any of them looking at him?
He dropped his head in disgust and stared at his boots. All of them watched him, and two of them wore predatory expressions.
A strong sense of relief coursed through him when a familiar voice from behind him said, “Pardon me, but are you Mr. Phillips?”
He turned and met the cool green gaze of a very attractive young woman who wore a tailored dress the color of her eyes. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a knot and framed her heart-shaped face.
The top of her head was level with his chin.
“You must be Ms. Wood,” he replied, a sense of relief that they’d connected washing over him. This woman couldn’t actually save his life; it only felt that way.
She smiled and nodded. “I chose a booth toward the back, thinking it would be a little more private.”
Brad almost missed what she said, because he was so intent on listening to her voice. In person, she sounded even more well-bred than she had on the phone. Rachel Wood was one classy lady. He was a little intimidated by her beauty, her poise and her obviously expensive education.
He wished he’d taken time to go to his apartment to change clothes, but it was too late now.
Brad motioned for her to lead the way and was treated to a view of her erect posture, her confident stride and a figure that was almost—but not quite—disguised by the prim dress she wore.
They sat across from each other. The waitress immediately appeared.
“Hi Brad,” the waitress said, giving him the seductive smile that he’d seen every time she was on duty.
“Yeah, hi, Mitzi, just a cup of coffee, please.”
Mitzi glanced at Rachel and motioned to the cup in front of her. “Need a refill?”
Rachel shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Once the waitress left, Brad faced Rachel, wondering where to begin. He’d interviewed a dozen women so far, but today he felt like an awkward teenager on a first date. Either that, or as though he was the one being interviewed for a job he desperately wanted.
“I need to tell you up front that I have very little office experience,” Rachel said, looking as though she’d confessed to a crime. “Your ad didn’t state that you required experience, but I didn’t want to mislead you.”
“How are you at learning?” he asked, smiling. She was more nervous than he was, although she’d done a great job of disguising the fact. He relaxed a little, sat back and enjoyed the view. She is one good-looking woman. Way above your league, he reminded himself.
She gave a quick nod. “Show me what you want done and I’ll do it.”
Mitzi returned with his coffee. He nodded without taking his eyes off Rachel. “Thanks,” he murmured. “You know anything about construction work?”
“No, sir.”
He flinched in mock horror. “Hey, I’m not that much older than you. You don’t need to ‘sir’ me.” He noticed her hand trembling beside the coffee mug, confirming his assessment of her. She was nervous. Of him? Or the interview?
In an attempt to help her to relax, Brad described the company. “I formed my own company a little more than three years ago. I’ve worked construction since I was old enough to wear a tool belt and balance on a girder. What I don’t know anything about is keeping up with bills and payroll and the kind of paperwork that IRS insists I file on a regular basis.”
She picked up her cup and delicately sipped before she commented. “Your ad said something about being a receptionist,” she said with a hint of question in her voice.
“Yeah, because once I have the office open, I need someone to handle calls. I lose more business than I want to think about because I’m unable to check my answering machine at home more often. I get involved in a project and forget about everything else, but I know I can’t keep doing that or I’ll lose the momentum I’ve got going for me.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” she said slowly. She paused, as though searching for words. Finally she said, “About the salary—” she began, then stopped when he waved his hand as though a salary was incidental.
He knew this was the tricky part. He’d lose her when she heard what the job paid. He had to pitch the job as one of opportunity for greater things in the future. His con-artist dad had given Brad innumerable examples of how to convince a mark the future looked rosy.
“The thing is,” he said with what he hoped was a confident grin, “I’m getting more business than I can handle without working around the clock, which is close to what I’m doing already. The jobs are there, you see, but right now my cash flow is a little tight. If you’re willing to work for me, we can work something out now for a starting salary with a firm promise that your pay will increase steadily as we grow.”
Although her shoulders remained the same, Brad got the impression that Rachel had slumped into the bench at his explanation.
He sighed. “How much money were you looking for?” he asked, almost holding his breath for the answer.
“I don’t have a set figure. I finished college in May. I need to find work. My mother has some health problems and can no longer work. She sacrificed a comfortable life to ensure that my brother, sister and I received a good education. I don’t want her to worry about money. She’s done enough.” She sounded composed. Only the pain in her eyes revealed her emotions.
“Are you saying you’ve never worked before?” he asked, rubbing his cheek and realizing he should have shaved before the meeting.
Her lips curled into a wry smile. “Oh, I’ve worked, Mr. Phillips. Just not in an office. I began baby-sitting when I was thirteen, bused tables during high school and graduated to waitress in college. So yes, I’ve worked before,” she quietly added.
He
