Page 22 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

My stiletto heels clicked on the elegant ceramic floor as I approached her.

8

STELLA

“Ma’am, can I help you?” the receptionist asked, staring at my shoes.She, herself, looked flawless, from her blonde hair braided in a perfect ring, to her subtly shimmering dark-blue silk blouse. I was sure the rest of her appearance was impeccable, but since she was behind the reception desk, I couldn’t see it.

“Sorry, so sorry,” I instinctively began when I stood before her. “I’m late. I’m here to interview for the assistant vacancy.”

The receptionist tilted her head. She seemed to be trying to determine whether I could be trusted or if I was a crazy person. “And your name is?” she asked coldly.

“Oh. Stella Copeland. I was supposed to be here at eleven, but there was an accident near Chinatown.”

She glanced up at the clock. “You’re late, Ms. Copeland. I see here on my list that our CEO Mr. Windsor has scheduled to see you personally at 11 a.m. sharp. I’m afraid I’m not supposed to let late interviewees in. Mr. Windsor sets exceedingly high standards for his employees, and neither he nor HR tolerate tardiness.”

“Could you make an exception? Just this once?” I pleaded. “I’m usually very punctual.”

“I don’t think I can. I’m sorr—”

“Could you phone Mr. Windsor, please? I’d really appreciate it,” I insisted. “Please tell him I’m Damon Copeland’s sister.”

She stared at me, motionless.

“It really wasn’t my fault that I’m late.”

“Very well,” she said with a smug sigh. “But the chances that he’ll be interested in seeing you really are minuscule.” She picked up the office phone and punched a few numbers on its keypad. “Mr. Windsor, I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said into its speaker. “There’s a ‘Miss Copeland’ here to see you. She’sverylate for her interview, but she’s insisting I phone you to find out whether you’d still like to meet with her, despite her apparent lack of time management skills. She asked me to mention that she’s Damon Copeland’s sister.”

I couldn’t hear what Ace was saying on the other end of the line, although I desperately wished I could.

Suddenly, her face fell. “Oh. Very well. Yes, Mr. Windsor. Of course, Mr. Windsor. I’ll send her up,” the receptionist said into the phone’s speaker. She hung up slowly, as if to come to grips with how truly astonishing whatever she’d just heard was. Then she looked up at me. “Mr. Windsor says he will see you. Take the elevator to the 8th floor, and Mrs. Mills will show you the way. In case she isn’t at her desk, head down the hallway to your left. The last door at the end of it leads into a conference room. It’s next to Mr. Windsor’s office. He will meet you there.”

“Thank you, but I thought he wouldn’t be personally interviewing me?”

“His schedule opened up this morning,” she explained, then added a rather weak, “Good luck,” which clearly meant she wasn’t wishing me good luck at all. She pointed toward the elevator and motioned for me to hurry. I smiled at her and set off at a near jog.

A group of people were squeezing into the elevator by the time I reached it. I joined them and stood shoulder to shoulder with two well-dressed businessmen. “We’re kind of like sardines in here, eh?” I joked, but no one reacted.Tough audience.

So, there I stood and took a deep breath, counted to five, and exhaled. It was an old breathing exercise my former yoga instructor taught me several months ago. He said that utilizing it would help me to calm my nerves during exam season. However, standing in the middle of Windsor Architect’s elevator surrounded by all the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, I feared it wasn’t nearly potent enough to diminish my sweaty hands.

Ping.

When the elevator doors finally opened at the top floor, I bolted through them.

Gosh, my heart was drumming ninety miles a minute.

There was nobody there. The nearby receptionist’s desk was empty. Where did the woman at the front desk say I needed to go? Was I on the correct floor?

He is going to think I’m so scatterbrained, I scolded myself, accelerating to a sprint that any track athlete would have been proud of, and zooming down the hallway to my left. The creamy-white wall color complimented the calming spaciousness. I just needed to pay attention to the door signs.

The hall was lined with office doors that had names and important-sounding titles clearly marked on each of them. One said, “Mrs. Mary Kettles: Senior Account Executive,” another said, “Mr. Harvey Hardy: Head Engineer.” I wondered if he was as fun as his name sounded. I also wondered if I’d ever have an office with my name on it. I could see it now. “Miss Stella Copeland: Head Architect.”

What would Ace’s sign say? “Mr. Ace Windsor: GWIC (Grumpzilla Who’s in Charge)”? I was so busy fantasizing that I almost forgot where I was.

I continued my sprint.

Inconveniently, my armpits were sweating, and other places too. My boobs. Was the A/C even working up here? A bead of sweat started tracking a path down my lower back.Gross. I couldn’t greet him all sweaty. Hopefully my deodorant was holding up.

What would be the best thing to say to him?

---