At His Command

AT HIS COMMAND - Chapter One

I'd read where Blackmoir Publishing is the edgy upstart in the New York literary world, and I figure the company might take a chance on me.

He leans back in his chair. "Tell me about yourself."

I paste on a bright expression and make sure my voice doesn't wobble. "I'm twenty-four, graduated from CUNY-Brooklyn. That's where I was born and raised. I'm Italian. Only child. I love dogs. All animals, really. I read every day and..." I take in a breath, "I'm close with my mother. My father died when I was young. Oh, and I've hoped to work in publishing since I was small."

"Favorite book?"

I smile, genuinely. "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Of course."

He nods, and I detect a thoughtful expression in his eyes. "Tell me about your perfect day."

It registers that he has a slight British accent. I rake my teeth over my bottom lip and fight the urge to tear into my nails. "Wake up, have coffee, read the paper in bed. It would be raining."

"You enjoy the rain?"

"Yes. I like the moodiness, the melancholy. Then I'd go to a museum. The Met, probably, and wander around the Egyptian wing. Buy a hot cocoa on the way home, or sit in a diner somewhere. Then go home, take a hot bath and read for the rest of the evening."

His eyes widen and he leans in as if listening intently. "So you'd spend your perfect day alone?"

I scrunch up my mouth. "I mean, I don't have a boyfriend but if I did, and he wanted to join me, that would be nice, too."

Nice. That would be nice. Great use of language skills. He tilts his head, probably thinking I'm pathetic.

"If you could wake up tomorrow having gained one thing, what would it be?"

A cure for my mother's disease. But I'm sure he doesn't want to hear that, not in a job interview. I attempt to hold my head high. "A purposeful and creative career."

I had one of those but it dissolved almost overnight.

"So, Miss Amato," he pauses, as if daring me to correct him again, "I had a glimpse of your resume. I'm wondering why you bothered to apply for this position. It's obvious you're not qualified to be a secretary."

Well, this went sideways quick.

I clear my throat and sit on the edge of the leather chair, which is so big it makes me feel like a girl. "I believe my typing skills, and my knowledge of Microsoft Office and other software, will be an excellent fit for your company."

He leans back in his chair. "Really? I see you've listed those capabilities. But I can't find anything on this resume that shows me evidence of those skills. I see a college degree from CUNY, an editorial position at the school newspaper, and," he pauses while picking up my one-page resume and glancing at it with disdain, "a job at a pet store when you were probably in high school."

"I believe I'm well suited for this position," I assert.

"Are you challenging me?"

A frown crosses my face. Why's this guy so combative and bossy? Normally I'm mild mannered, but something in his tone brings out the Brooklyn in me.

"You didn't need to call me in for an interview if you didn't think I was qualified. You could've saved yourself the time. And saved me the taxi fare."

He chuckles, a low, lazy sound. With a maddening smirk on his face, he sits forward and turns to the sleek silver laptop that's open on his desk.

"Miss Amato. I summoned you here for an interview not because of this pathetic application you proffered, but because," he turns the laptop in my direction, "of this."