Page 11 of Babies for the Big Shot
“I insist.”
She hesitates. Long enough for satisfaction to edge in behind my ribs. Then she drops her bag to the floor and lowers herself into the chair, spine tight, every movement reluctant… an insult she has to endure.
I watch her. Her pulse flutters at her throat. Her fingers tap a rhythm on her knee. She’s thinking of ways to tear me apart with words; I can see it behind her eyes.
Good.
“So,” I begin, letting the silence stretch, “Sara Brooks.”
“That’s me.”
“You’re here for the junior marketing assistant role.”
“Technically, yes. Though this is starting to feel more like a hostile merger.”
I almost smile. Almost.
“Walk me through your experience.”
“You mean what’s on my résumé,” she replies, dry, “or the parts where I kept a dying campaign alive with caffeine and duct tape?”
“Surprise me.”
“I managed three major brand accounts at my last firm. Tripled their engagement in under six months. Rewrote their pitch deck after my boss tried to use Comic Sans in a client presentation.”
“Tragic.”
“Criminal.”
She’s sharp. Quick. No pandering, no fluff. Just brutal, irreverent honesty wrapped in a blouse that doesn’t apologize for the day she’s had.
“You left that job four months ago. Why?”
Her mouth flattens. “Let’s just say ‘collaborative environment’ was code for ‘do twice the work and take half the credit.’”
“And since then?”
“Freelance. Copywriting. Too much caffeine, not enough sleep.”
“And now Ashford Holdings.”
She shrugs. “I need a job. You need an employee. I didn’t expect this to involve eye contact with my… previous mistake.”
“Is that what I am?” I ask quietly.
“A catastrophic idea,” she mutters.
Her cheeks flush, color blooming high on her cheekbones. She’s embarrassed, but holding her ground. Admirable.
I let the silence stretch until it hums in the space between us.
“You’re smart,” I say finally.
“Usually.”
“Ambitious.”
“When necessary.”
