The Position (5 page)

I’m thrown by her sense of entitlement. “Who’s calling?” I ask, looking forward to putting her in her place. *Mr. Lazarus doesn’t take direct calls. *

“Celestina,” she says curtly, as if I should know better than to ask.
 

“Ah,” I mutter. “Right. One moment.” I get up and step out of my tiny office to find Lazarus standing at the window staring blankly into space. I hesitate for a moment, afraid to interrupt him. But what can I do? It’s in the fucking manual. “Excuse me, Jude,” I practically whisper.
 

He turns to me, his face strangely hard and dark. Then the shadow inside him seems to dissipate and he looks almost surprised to see me. “I’m sorry, Michaela. Did you say something?”
 

“Celestina is on the line,” I say quietly.
 

Lazarus nods and heads to his desk. He looks very tired, as if something distressing were weighing him down. Still, he gives me a smile. “Good work today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
 

I smile back. As I cross the office, jacket and purse in hand, I watch him kick up his feet on the desk and pick up the phone. His voice is low and seductive, and I can tell right away what the deal is with Celestina. As I slip out the door and head down the hall to the reception area, I can’t help but imagine what it must be like to undress Jude Lazarus. Undress him completely. I happen to have a very visual imagination, and I shudder with pleasure at the thought.
 

“Everything good with the first day?” I turn to find Eva leaning against the reception desk flipping through the pages of a file. Christian is already gone. I expect her to follow up with a barbed comment but she doesn’t. Whatever she might think of me personally, the woman obviously knows when she’s lost a fight. She gives me a wide, insincere smile. “Figure it all out okay?”
 

“I did,” I say, returning the phony smile. “Thanks to the brilliant manual. It’s so detailed. Did you write it?”
 

Eva’s smile disappears and her lips pucker with disgust. “Heavens no. That was someone who worked with us long ago. I’m glad she left one positive thing behind.”
 

I nod as if I understand, but of course I don’t. There’s something about the way the manual is written that almost goes beyond the office. But I can’t place my finger on what it is. I wonder to myself if Lazarus had an affair with her and that’s why she knew him so well. I excuse myself and slip out the door. The elevator hasn’t even reached the first floor when I hear my phone buzz in my purse. I pull it out. It’s from J. Lazarus. I feel a rush of adrenaline at the sight of his name. When I read the message, my stomach does a summersault.
 

Meet me for dinner. 6pm, Il Vecino, 2345 16
th
Street.

Chapter Eight

I’ve been sitting alone in the booth looking out the window for almost twenty minutes. Outside, people are gathering for after-work dinner or drinks, little gaggles of well-dressed professionals cutting loose. The women are wearing hip-hugging skirts that fall just above the knees and blouses cut to accentuate their waistlines and show off their boobs. That’s probably what Celestina Marquez looks like, I think. What Lazarus goes for, I’m certain of it. Why wouldn’t he? I smooth the fabric of my flower print blouse, wishing that it showed off a little more of my body, but it just hangs over me like a burlap sack.

The restaurant is exactly the kind I’ve walked past a hundred times, barely resisting the urge to press my nose against the window. It’s all dim lights and dark wood, and it smells of firewood and roasting meat. The wait staff contrasts the formal setting by being vastly tatted up and wearing edgy, big city clothes. Each one of them, male and female, is gorgeous. I flash back to the Denny’s restaurant where my father would take us when there was some “big occasion,” like somebody’s birthday, and the way it always smelled of grease and floor cleaner.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
 

Startled from my thoughts, I nearly knock over my water glass. It’s Lazarus. He slips into the booth pulling off his jacket, sending a subtle waft of musky cologne through the air. The smell of him makes me unconsciously squeeze my thighs together.
 

“It’s okay,” I say. I take a self-conscious sip of water.

He holds up a finger and summons the waitress, who is wearing a ribbed wife beater and torn jeans. A tattooed rose vine twists and wraps around her right arm. She rushes over with a big smile and moony eyes. He must get that a lot.
 

“Bourbon,” he says. “Neat.” He points to me solicitously. “Something to drink? Take the edge off your day?”
 

That’s exactly what I need, I think. Something to calm me the fuck down. “White wine,” I say with a gracious smile. I push the loose strands of hair behind my ears, knowing the waitress is wondering what he’s doing having dinner with me.
 

Since I’m not specific, Lazarus chooses some kind of Pinot Grigio, and then orders something called charcuterie. When the waitress leaves he leans back against the banquette with a loud sigh.

“I know it’s been a long day for you, Michaela,” he says. “And you’re probably ready to get home and relax. Watch TV. Not see my mug for a while.”
 

I smile, this time sincerely. “Actually, this is pretty nice. I don’t go out to eat very often.”
 

He nods. Our drinks arrive and he takes a healthy gulp of his bourbon that empties half the glass. “Good,” he says. “I wanted to start things out right this time.”
 

Even though I feel like glugging my wine like Mountain Dew, I force myself to take delicate sips. I know that if I drink too fast or too much, I’ll come straight out and ask the guy why he goes through so many assistants…and why so many of them want to sue him. I’m surprised when he brings it up.
 

“I haven’t been an easy boss,” he says, holding his eyes steady on mine. “I’ve been a pain in the ass and I’ve lost some good assistants.” He throws back the other half of his drink and gestures to the waitress to bring him another. “But I’m turning over a new leaf. Starting with you.”
 

There’s a half-smile on his face as he openly studies me. His eyes take in my straggly hair, geeky glasses, baggy clothes. For whatever reason, he seems happy about it. Maybe happy isn’t the right word. I guess it’s more like relieved. Thanks to prissy little Christian, I know exactly why.
 

“Lucky me,” I exclaim, holding up my glass of wine in a toasting gesture. I take a sip.
 

His second bourbon arrives along with a platter full of different kinds of meat. I’m famished. I’ve never seen such fancy food in my life and before I think twice, I’ve sunk my fork into a slice of sausage and popped it into my mouth. Lazarus sips his second bourbon more slowly and holds it in his mouth to savor. He smiles to see me devour the food, though he doesn’t take a bite.
 

“I’m glad you eat meat,” he chortled. “It occurred to me after I ordered that you might be a vegetarian.”
 

“No way,” I say, spreading some kind of paté over a tiny sliver of bread. “I eat everything.”

“Good.” He leans his elbows on the table and gives me a frank look. “Tell me more about yourself.”
 

I blink at him, caught off guard. “Like what?”
 

“Whatever. Where did you grow up? What were your parents like? Who inspired you? What do you think made you who you are today?”
 

I pat my lips with a napkin and take a long sip of wine. The cold feels good on my throat and the alcohol floats happily in my brain. “Nothing interesting, really,” I lie, wondering how to avoid pretty much the entire story of my childhood. “I grew up in a little tiny town in the New Mexico desert. Gilbert, it’s called. I don’t know. My parents were just regular parents. In high school I had an awesome teacher who got me interested in architecture. I wanted to get out of Gilbert and got myself into CU Boulder. I love Colorado.”

He listens attentively, running his thumb up and down the surface of his bourbon glass. It’s a lame story, I know, full of evasion and ambiguity. But he doesn’t press any further. Instead he leans forward again, his voice hushed.
 

“Listen, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. I’d like you to be more than just my assistant…”
 

I freeze, holding his amber eyes, wondering if I’m about to discover this mysterious dark side. It’s like he wants to see into me; to really know me. Like he sees something special there. But why would an Adonis like Jude Lazarus want anything more from a slob like me? What about Celestina?
 

“What…” I stammer. “What do you mean?”
 

He puts his hand on mine. It’s warm and big, and seems to swallow mine up completely. “I’ve never done it before. Not really. But Michaela…” he practically whispers. “I’d like to be your mentor.”
 

I stare at him, waiting for my brain to catch up. “Excuse me?”
 

“I’ve seen your résumé. I mean, magna cum laude, and what sounds like an excellent thesis on the eccentric work of Gaudí in Barcelona. Even though it doesn’t resemble my own work today, Gaudí was a huge influence on me. I’d be honored to be an influence on a person like you. And I think you have a lot of potential to grow into an excellent architect. Just tell me you have the ambition.”
 

Disappointment floods through me but I refuse to let it show. Having a famous architect be my professional mentor is a dream come true. It’s beyond anything I could’ve hoped for when applying for this job. Just because the guy is a total hottie doesn’t mean you have to have the hots for him. It’s pathetic. Yet even as I chastise my degenerate, lust-addled brain, I revel in the fact that this special position will allow me to spend even more time near him.
 

I give Lazarus a broad smile. “Ambition?” I practically sing. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Chapter Nine

I park the car at the curb just down the street from Travis’s house and check to make sure nothing valuable is visible. Not that I own anything valuable, but some assholes will break your window for practically anything. The neighborhood is nice enough and I probably have a week or so before the dog walkers, joggers, and nosy Parkers start complaining.
 

I’ve been working at Lazarus & Smith for nearly a month, and am due to get my very first paycheck. Not having an actual address myself, I’ve given them Travis’s, something I’ve been doing for years. I find Liz and Travis sitting on the porch drinking gin and tonics. I’ve never seen Travis stick with one girl for so long, and I’m glad. I think Liz is the best one yet. If fact, we’ve even become friends. She lives just a few houses down but doesn’t like her roommates, so she spends as much time as she can at Travis’s place. Just like me.
 

“Want a drink?” Liz asks. “We’re out of lime but Travis found a lemon and it’s actually pretty good.”
 

“No thanks,” I say. “I don’t want to be hung over in the morning. Jude has an early Skype call with some earl in London. I’m supposed to take notes.”

“Oh yes,” Travis exclaims teasingly. “Good show, what what? Must be sharp for that old sock Jude!”
 

Liz crinkles her brow and looks at him. “What’s that even supposed to be?”
 

“British…?” Travis gives her a faux-sheepish look. “No good?”
 

“No good.”
 

They both crack up and clink their glasses together. There’s nothing worse than being the only sober person in a group. I climb the steps of the porch and collapse into one of the wicker chairs.
 

“Did my check arrive?” I ask Travis.
 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” He playfully cups his hand over his ear. “You say you’re taking us out to Pizza King for dinner?”

“Don’t be a douche,” I mumble, giving him a playful swat. I’m wiped out. I’ve never worked so much in my life. “So, is that a yes?”
 

“It’s on the coffee table,” Travis grumbles. “So, are you staying, Crankypants?”
 

I make a face at him. “I can’t. Thanks, anyway.”
 

“I haven’t seen you home this early in ages,” Liz says. “The hours for that job are mental!” She looks over at me with genuine, if slightly drunken, concern. “Seriously, Mickey. Is he still treating you right? There’s nothing weird happening? You’d tell us if there was, right?”

I roll my eyes. Why is she so stuck on this? “Not only is he the perfect gentleman,” I explain, “he’s teaching me loads. I feel like the luckiest architecture grad in the world.”
 

The truth was, having Lazarus as a mentor *was* amazing. Though I spent most of the time in the office doing the mundane clerical jobs of an assistant, he would sometimes take me with him to meetings or have me take notes on Skype calls with clients around the world. One afternoon he even drove me into the mountains past Boulder to show me the futuristic-looking house they used in the movie *Sleeper*.
 

The good part was that he seemed to genuinely like me. We have a similar irreverent sense of humor and I’m well-read enough to keep up with the many literary references he sprinkles into conversations. He even mentioned at the end of one long conversation about the work of Frank Lloyd Wright that I was one of his favorite people to talk about architecture with. He says I have passion.
 

The problem is this: Lazarus respects me. He sees me as a talented young woman brimming with potential. But he doesn’t see anything beyond that. Meanwhile I have flipped so far over the moon for him, it’s making my life hell. He’s not only gorgeous—he’s kind, brilliant, funny, and insanely generous. He’s my dream guy. My soul mate.
 

To desire is to suffer. And God knows I suffer every day.
 

I’ve spent countless hours in my little office just watching him. I’ve memorized him completely—the upward wave of his hair, the laugh lines, the way he works his jaw when he’s tense. And all the while he sits at his desk or hunches over his drafting board, completely indifferent to me.