Chapter 22

I was so shocked, I could hardly speak. Okay, maybe I shouldn't have been terribly surprised. This was, after all, supposedly a job interview.

But we hated each other. And I couldn’t help but notice that no actual interview had taken place.

I felt my gaze narrow. "What kind of job?"

As an answer, he made a point of looking at the empty chair. His message was loud and clear. If I wanted to learn more, I knew exactly where my butt belonged.

Damn it. I did want to learn more. But who wouldn’t?

With as much dignity as I could muster, I marched to the chair and sat.

He looked at me for a long, penetrating moment before saying, "You don't like me."

This, of course, was a massive understatement, so I didn't bother denying it. "You're right. I don't."

I waited for him to ask why. But he didn't. Instead, he gave a slow nod and said, "Good."

I felt my brow wrinkle. "Good? Why is that good?"

Ignoring my question, he said, "I need to know something."

Yeah, welcome to the club, buddy.

But I didn't say it, mostly because I was dying to hear what he'd say next.

He leaned forward and asked, "How good are you at pretending?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Pretending," he repeated. "Are you any good at it?"

Nope. Definitely not.

And yet, I was almost tempted to lie. But I couldn't, because in all honestly, I wasn't terribly good at that either. Stalling for time, I said, "Pretending what?"

"You ever hear the expression, 'good cop, bad cop.'?"

"Of course," I said. "I mean, I know the basic premise."

After all, I'd seen my share of police shows. In them, one officer would pretend to be nice and reasonable, while his partner would be a total hard-ass. Together, they'd wear the suspect down until he confessed, whether because he feared the bad cop, or because he trusted the good cop.

Zane said, "You wanna guess which cop I am?"

I almost snorted. "I don't need to guess."

"Right."

I gave him a perplexed look. "Wait a minute. You're hiring someone to be what? Your own personal 'good cop'?"

"In a sense."

"But why?"

"It's complicated."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "I bet."

The longer we talked, the more this felt like a joke. Over the last month, Zane Bennington had brought me nothing but misery. And the way it looked, he still wasn't quite done.

Once again, he leaned back in his chair. "Over the next few months, I'm gonna be ruffling a few feathers."

I wanted to laugh. A guy like Zane Bennington? He wouldn’t be content with merely ruffling a few feathers. No. Not him. He'd ruffle the whole bird. Hell, a flock of birds. And then, he'd eat the birds for dinner. Raw. With a side of gravel.

Because he was just that awful.

I said, "So, let me get this straight. You're hiring some sort of good-cop, feather smoother? Is that what you're saying?" I gave a nervous laugh. "Because that's one heck of a job title."

But Zane wasn't laughing. "That's not the title," he said, "although, if you wanna throw it on a card, be my guest."

"What card?"

"A business card."

"Oh." Damn it. I should've known that. "So, what is the title?"

As an answer, he reached into his top desk drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He slid it across the desk in my direction.

I reached out and picked it up. On the sheet was a single typewritten paragraph under an official-looking job title. I read the title out loud. "Personal public relations manager." I looked up. "Seriously?"

My degree was in public relations. It was true that I hadn't done a whole lot with it, but it seemed an odd coincidence – unless it wasn't a coincidence at all.

I said, "Is this for real?"

As usual, he ignored my question. He pointed to the sheet and said, "Read the first word again. Out loud."

I glanced at the sheet. "Personal?"

"Right. Which means you're employed by me, not the company."

Technically, I wasn't employed by anyone, not yet. And I couldn’t help but notice that he seemed awful certain that I'd accept any offer.

For some stupid reason, maybe old-fashioned pride, I didn't like it. And yet, I could see why he'd be so sure of my acceptance. I was, after all, an unemployed catering assistant with an old car and no other prospects.

I bit my lip. In truth, this would've been my dream job if only it involved working for someone else.

Even in college, I'd worked my share of menial jobs – fast food, retail, whatever, anything for tuition. One thing I'd learned the hard way – no matter how great a job might seem, it totally sucked if your boss was an asshole.

I studied the guy across from me. He returned my gaze with no discernable emotion. In truth, it was a little unsettling.

I looked down and quickly scanned the rest of the job description. It was pretty standard for this type of work. It involved setting up interviews, answering media inquiries, and dealing with the public as needed.

I saw nothing about pay and benefits.

As I stared down at the sheet of paper, I couldn’t help but recall that Zane was the guy who'd gotten me fired from my last job. And now, he was offering me a new one?

It didn't make any sense.

If he'd been anyone else, I might've chalked it up to pity or regret. But this was Zane Bennington. He had no pity, and he wouldn’t know regret if it bit him on the ass. No. He was the kind of guy who'd evict an entire family – of relatives, no less – from their family home just because he could.

That wasn't the only thing that bothered me. Other than a brief summer internship, I had nearly no experience. But this wasn't an entry-level job. It was the kind of job that someone worked their way up to.

I was inexperienced, but not naïve. Zane could hire anyone. So why me?

I recalled that old saying. If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. I pulled my gaze from the description and looked to Zane.

I just had to ask, "What's the catch?"

He sat, watching me, from his side of the desk. Behind him, the sky was blue with fluffy white clouds. But when it came to Zane, there was nothing fluffy about him. He looked hard and impervious, even as he studied my face with his usual cool detachment.

He never did answer my question. Instead, he casually informed me, "You start on Monday."

I made a scoffing sound. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"I haven't accepted."

"No. But you will."

"Oh yeah? Why?"

"You want the blunt answer? Or the polite answer?"

I couldn’t help but smirk. "The polite answer."

"All right. You'll accept because it's a good opportunity, and you damn well know it."

"And that's the polite answer?"

"Now, you want the blunt one?"

I wasn't so sure. And yet, I felt myself nod.

He said, "Your car's a heap. Your rent's chronically late. Your student loans are kicking your ass, and that extension you applied for last week? Let's just say, it's not gonna pan out."

My jaw dropped. Last Tuesday, in a fit of desperation, I'd applied for a hardship extension on my biggest student loan. As far as I knew, the application was still pending.

And now, he was telling me that it was going to be declined?

I felt my gaze narrow. "How do you know?"

"Guess."

I wanted to strangle him. "You didn't seriously sabotage me?"

"You think I wouldn’t?"

"Actually, I think you would, but I can't imagine why you'd go to that much trouble." I looked away and muttered, "Unless you're trying to ruin my life." I was still looking away when the rest of his statement caught up with me.

I looked back to him and said, "Wait a minute, how did you know all that?"

"You think I'm gonna hire someone without checking them out?"

I was glaring at him now. "You had no right."

"Wrong," he said. "You gave me the right."

"I did not."

Again, he reached into his desk drawer. He pulled out another sheet and held it out in my direction.

I snatched it from his hand and looked down. It was a printout of an on-line application – one of many that I'd submitted over the last few weeks. But the application wasn't with Bennington Hotels. It was with one of the most exclusive hiring agencies in the whole city.

He said, "You see that box by your digital signature?"

I did see it. I'd agreed to a background check as part of the application process. Still, it felt like a dirty trick.

I gave Zane a hard look. "A background check doesn't give you permission to pry, at least not like that."

"Wrong again," he said. "Now, you want some advice?"

"From you?" I crossed my arms. "No."

"Yeah? Well, you're getting it anyway." His tone grew harder. "Read the fine print. Always."

The longer this little interview – or whatever this was – went on, the worse I was feeling. It wasn't just his attitude. It was the way he'd spelled out my financial shortcomings like I was some sort of loser.

I felt my jaw tighten. Damn it. I wasn't a loser, and I refused to feel like one.

Suddenly, I didn't care whether this was a good opportunity or not. And I didn't care that I had no other offers. With one swift motion, I tore the application in two and tossed it onto his desk.

Take that, you prick.

He didn't even look down. "That's a copy, you know."

"What?"

"It's a copy," he repeated. "Lesson two. Always keep the original."

Once more, I felt like strangling him. Of course, I knew the application wasn't the original, because I'd submitted the whole thing by computer.

Technically, there was no original, as he obviously realized. So what was this, anyway? Just another way to make me feel stupid?"

I told him, "I don't need any lessons."

"If you say so."

"I do say so." My mouth tightened. "And you know what? I'm leaving."

"All right." His gaze shifted to the door. "No one's stopping you."

"Good." And with that, I stood and turned away. I marched toward the door with my head held high and a silent promise to not look back.

I'd made it only halfway when my foot snagged something in my path. Before I even realized what was happening, I'd done a full face-plant onto his fancy carpet, yelping, "Son-of-a-bitch!"

I scrambled to my feet and turned to glare – first at him, and then at that stupid "fuck-me" shoe, lying near my feet. On impulse, I picked it up and hurled it straight at him – or at least, it was supposed to go straight at him. But my aim sucked, and the shoe went careening into his desktop lamp.

The lamp toppled and crashed to the floor. To my infinite frustration, it didn't even break.

How unsatisfying.

And through all of this, Zane hadn't even moved, not even a twitch. Instead, he sat, watching me with his usual cool detachment.

Asshole.

My face was flaming, and my breath was coming in short, angry bursts. In a fit of pique, I yelled, "That was your fault!"

His eyebrows lifted. "The shoe or the lamp?"

"Both!"

"Lesson three —"

"I don't need another freaking lesson!"

Once again, he leaned back in his chair. "You're awful mouthy for a new hire."

His calmness grated on me, and I had a nearly uncontrollable urge to yank off my own shoes and hurl them straight at his head, one by one.

But I didn't – mostly because I couldn't afford to replace them.

So, with what little dignity I could muster, I took a deep, calming breath. And then, I coolly informed him, "I'm not your employee. And I'm not going to be."

Prick.

He said, "You think."

"No," I told him. "I know. There's a difference."

"Right."

"And," I said, "in case you're too stubborn to realize it, I'm declining your offer."

He looked utterly unfazed. "You can't 'til you see it."

"I have seen it," I said. "You just showed it to me."

"You saw the description. You didn't see the offer."

I gave a snort of derision. "So what? I don't care what you're offering. The answer's still no."

But as it turned out, that was a total lie.