Page 210 of The Billionaires

I turn so she can see the mud, then say, “There was an accident on my way here. I’m very sorry.” I doubt it would help if I also told her, “A dog that belongs to a very hot guy pushed me down.” That sounds like a less plausible version of “the dog ate my homework.”

Nodding disapprovingly, Mrs. Corsica says, “Do you mind doing the interview standing? That guest chair is an antique.”

“No problem,” I say with faux cheerfulness. In reality, standing when an older woman is sitting seems rude, but what can I do? It’s not like I have a shot at the job at this point, so my best bet is to treat this as a chance to practice my interview skills under extremely difficult conditions.

“Tell me why I should hire you,” Mrs. Corsica says, and I can almost hear the unstated, “Not that anything you say at this point will convince me.”

This is the hardest part of the interview process because I’m humble by nature, so selling myself is much harder for me than answering specific questions. Nevertheless, I launch into the spiel I’ve rehearsed in my head for a few years, one that highlights how organized and detail-oriented, how good with the latest library tech, and how amazing at research I am. As a coup de grâce, I tell her how much I love reading and how big of a dream it is for me to work with books.

The whole time, Mrs. Corsica’s expression is so unreadable that I start to wonder if she abuses Botox, is a poker champion, or was replaced by a wax statue when I blinked.

“Your only focus is books?” she asks. “A curator needs to be knowledgeable about many different forms of media.”

I explain that I stay up to speed on movies and TV shows, and even challenge her to ask me about one if she wants.

She does, and I get lucky for the first time today. Her question is about Sense and Sensibility, which I’ve obviously seen and read, having been named after Jane Austen and the film being one of a small handful of historical romances.

She next asks me about my Master’s thesis and work experience at Columbia University’s library.

As I speak, I do my best not to shift from foot to foot and not to think about Adrian, both herculean tasks.

Eventually, Mrs. Corsica must feel that she’s asked enough questions politeness dictates in a case when you have no desire to actually hire someone for the job—a bit like my conversation with my date the other day, after the man turned out to be at least twenty years older than he looked in his profile photo.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Corsica says frostily. “You’ll hear from us.”

Translation: you’ll get this job over my dead body. Get the hell out of here, and for the love of God, clean yourself up.

CHAPTER 2

ADRIAN

“The lack of pleasure was all mine?” I say to Leo with a headshake as soon as the mystery woman disappears into the library. “Do you understand what I meant?”

Leo cocks his head.

I’m smoother than that, and my idea of flirting is sniffing a bitch’s butthole.

“Oh, well,” I say. “Maybe I’ll say something smarter when she comes back.”

Leo lies down on the ground and looks at me skeptically.

I thought stalking was my thing, but whatever floats your two-legged boat.

“You got me into this in the first place,” I tell him. “The least I can do is offer to buy her clothes to replace the ones you ruined.”

Leo whines—which makes me feel like I’ve won the imaginary argument.

As we wait, I can’t help but picture how I’d paint the mystery woman. Or make a statue of her using the laser welding techniques I’ve recently mastered.

A smile curves my lips. To some, she might seem either dorky or like a sexy librarian. They might think she’s like the heroine in She’s All That—pretty but needs to take off her glasses and have a makeover. I think she’s reminiscent of the Mona Lisa, with a face as close to ideal as it comes, and her glasses expertly framing that perfection. In fact, I’d bet a million dollars that if I measured her face and divided its width by its length, the result would be the Golden Ratio. Same goes for her other proportions: the length of her ears would be exactly equal to that of her nose, the width of her eyes identical to the distance between them, not to mention?—

My phone rings.

It’s Bob, one of my army of lawyers who’s an expert at destroying my good mood. He’s the best at what he does, but he has an annoying habit of acting as though the upcoming hearing is the most important thing in his life, instead of mine. As if he found me so that he can help, not the other way around. Sometimes, I wonder if he believes all the bullshit his opponents are planning to say about me at said hearing—things that, unfortunately, a lot of people believe.

“Hi,” Bob says. “Did you hear from the agency?”

I frown. “None of the candidates they provided are any good.”

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