Unwritten (11 page)

T
here was a limousine waiting for me when I exited the terminal at Dulles International Airport, just a little after daybreak. I’d only ridden in a limo once before and it had been with
him
. I never imagined a potential employer going to such extremes for an interviewee. First, I received first-class boarding passes and now a stretch Hummer with my very own driver. This was certainly a few hundred steps above my current, small-town, reporting gig.

Even while riding in the lap of luxury, I couldn’t shake the butterflies fighting in my stomach, or the incredibly sweaty palms that I kept wiping on my navy, pinstriped, pencil skirt. Thankfully, I decided to forgo breakfast before catching my red-eye out of Detroit. That would’ve made the butterfly situation a whole lot worse.

I could do this. I should have researched the editor, Davis, a bit more. Why didn’t I think of doing it two days earlier? Where was the brown paper bag when you needed it? They were always so readily available to the broken heroines in the kinky romance novels that I enjoyed reading.

After what seemed to be a short drive, the limo began to slow down in front of a large building with oversized, tinted glass windows. Both an American flag and the flag of Washington D.C. flanked the entrance of my destination, the home of the
Washington Post
. Before the car came to a stop, I wiped my sweaty palms one final time, pulled my compact from my purse, applied a light pink lip gloss and took a deep breath.
Showtime!

My driver came around and escorted me from the car. For that I was thankful, as I’m not sure my nervous, wobbly legs could have survived my new ankle-strap, cream leather Louboutins that I had purchased just for this interview. Sure, they may have cost me half an entire paycheck, but I wanted to look the part of an up-and-coming Washington reporter. My new shoes paired nicely with the vintage Valentino suit jacket that I found on clearance at my favorite consignment store and with my favorite go-to, pencil skirt.

I made my way up the front stairs, opened the heavy doors and headed toward the receptionist’s desk. There sat a young blonde with what appeared to be a fake rack and an even faker tan.

“Hi, I’m Brooke … Brooke Anderson. I’m here for an interview with Mr. Davis.”

The much-too-perky female handed me a visitor’s badge and directed me to the twelfth floor where I was to ask for Mr. Davis’s secretary, Caroline. I waited at the elevators for what seemed like an eternity before the doors opened and a group of people pressed forward.

A few suits exited the elevator on the sixth floor before the doors, pinging open on the twelfth floor, snapped me out of my nervous trance. I straightened my skirt and began to exit the elevator when I collided with all solid muscle and six feet three inches of him. And, that smell – why did this man smell so familiar? … I hadn’t smelled that perfect scent since … it’s then that I looked up and was greeted by those teal eyes. I’d never forget those eyes - those eyes that I never believed I would gaze into again. It was immediate déjà vu. I’d met him like this once before, only eleven years earlier. I had been a young and naïve student with so much to learn about life, love and heartache. I felt my heart begin to race and I feared that it might actually leap from my chest.

“Ms. Anderson. We need to stop bumping into each other this way.”

Oh. My. God. Mr. Davis is Rich effin’ Davis? How didn’t I put two and two together?

“Brooke … Are you all right?” he spoke again, stopping yet another potential panic attack from rising in my chest and throat.

“Yes. Fine. Thank You. … Hello … Ri—Um, Mr. Davis.”

“Really, Brooke? Mr. Davis was my father. It’s just me … Rich … Your Rich,” he said, as his lips turned upward into what could only be described as a smirk. Rich knew he was getting to me and he was enjoying every minute of it. “Come … with me.”

Oh, the sexual innuendos came thick and fast and we’d only been together for thirty seconds. This was going to be a long and uncomfortable interview.

Rich reached out to grab my hand before walking toward what, I assumed, was the newsroom. He let go of my recently manicured fingers and ushered me through the area stuffed with tiny cubicles. His hand never left the small of my back as he introduced me to several reporters who were frantically typing away, trying to meet what I believed to be their early morning deadline. None of them seemed to be paying enough attention to notice Rich’s hand on my back while we walked by, only muttering simple pleasantries.

We finally made it into a large office which overlooked the east side of the city. It wasn’t the typical editor’s cubicle that I had become accustomed to at my current job, this being far more than a cubicle. It was an expansive, corner office with a wall of windows looking out into the newsroom on one side and the city on the other. A chocolate suede couch with matching throw pillows sat against the wainscoting on one of the olive-colored walls, while a plush, cream chair sat in the opposite corner.

Near the outward-facing, floor-to-ceiling windows sat Rich’s impressive, cherry wood desk. After seeing that desk, I may have entertained a few improper thoughts. A large, matching, coffee table sat in the middle of the room. The walls were adorned with framed newspapers, several Associated Press awards and Rich’s diplomas. Rich was understandedly proud of his successful career without seeming overly conceited. Of course, I couldn’t prevent the smirk crossing my face, knowing the real truth.

His office was fairly tidy, much more so than anything I’d ever seen in a newsroom. The only things that sat on his desktop were his all-in-one computer, a picture of a much younger-looking Rich sitting on his father’s lap, and a digital voice recorder.

I was quite impressed because my own desk was cluttered with pens, notes and flyers from every event in town. The stacks of paper practically towered over the framed pictures I kept of my mom and dad on their wedding day and one of Cassidy, Kaitlyn and me taken on the day of Kaitlyn’s baptism.

I momentarily wondered if I should tell him about my hatred for voice recorders. I had to explain myself to practically every one of my peers that I had ever encountered in the field. “I had a bad experience once and lost my entire recording,” I always explained. “I was so embarrassed that instead of asking for a second interview, I simply stepped down from my internship position for a semester.” Luckily, in the end, it still worked out for me, but to this day I would not rely on a voice recorder during my interviews.

I would go into all of my interviews with an old-fashioned reporter’s notebook and pen. I may get strange looks, seeing as though it was now the twenty-first century, but it was what I felt comfortable with and most people understood. I was always accurate in my reporting and I think it actually made me listen and truly understand what my sources were saying. In spite of my messy desk and slightly dated reliance on pen and paper, I hoped that Rich would not question my competence. Of course, Rich would only know I was unorganized if he asked, and I would certainly not let that little detail slip.

“Your view … your entire office … it’s exquisite,” I said after soaking it all in.

“We haven’t spoken in over nine years, and you want to talk about my view? But now that you mention it … my view is quite exquisite and I’m not referring to the skyline, or this office” he said, while licking his bottom lip. “You’re just as beautiful as ever, Brooke.”

“… … … Rich, why am I here?”

Rich walked over to his side of the desk and placed his palms flat on its surface as if bracing himself before speaking, his intense, teal-blue eyes looking directly into my soul. “You’re here because when your application came across my desk, I knew it was a sign that I had to see you again … had to hear you laugh again … had to smell that sweet scent again. I’ve missed you, Brooke.”

He took a deep breath before continuing, “Every time an application came across my desk I hoped that one day it would be yours. You always said this was it for you – your end game and your dream job. I’d be lying to myself and to you, if I didn’t tell you that I came here and accepted this position, hoping that one day we’d find each other again.”

“So, you only scheduled an interview because you wanted to finish what we never started ten years ago?” I asked in my most accusatory tone.

“Pshh, you would get that from what I just said, wouldn’t you? No, of course not, Brooke. I wanted you to come for an interview, because I was impressed by what I read on your resume. You’ve had an impressive career and I think you would make an excellent addition to my editorial staff. Trust me, I’m not the only one who thinks that. Your resume made it through three layers of a selection process before it ended up on my desk.”

“Oh … OK. Well, thanks.”

He looked at me with the most devilish grin before adding … “It just doesn’t hurt that I want to get to know you again.”

I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks and expected that they had turned a bright shade of pink.

“Rich, I can’t do this. I really do want this job, but if I accept the position, assuming that you are offering me one, I … we can’t do this. You’d be my boss. I can’t and I won’t be my boss’s pet. No one would ever take me seriously. I wouldn’t take me seriously. I’ve worked too hard for my career.”

“I’m sorry, Brooke, I should have kept that to myself. I don’t want to scare you away. How about this … I don’t offer you the position – today? We talk – you know, catch up – conduct a real interview. Then I’ll send you on your way to your hotel. You will then eat at the restaurant where my secretary has already made dinner reservations for you. I’ll just happen to show up and we’ll meet once again. I’ll just be Rich and you’ll just be Brooke. We won’t be interviewer and interviewee. What do you say, Miss Anderson? Sound like a plan?”

I had to give him credit; he sure did make it sound so easy.

“Sounds more like a date than a plan, Mr. Davis. You’ve really given this some thought. That truly is some proposition,” I responded with a wink.

“I’ll take your feisty response as a yes then. And, yes, I’ve been thinking about this since I left you on your doorstep, wearing that ravishing, purple gown over nine years ago. Now, the quicker we begin your interview, the faster we can get to dinner, the earlier I can get you to my place so we can make up for lost time. What do you say, let’s begin your interview, shall we?”

“Ye-, Ye-s, sure … fire away.”

I looked down at my watch and realized that two hours had elapsed as Rich asked dozens of questions about what I’d been doing after graduating from Western. He seemed impressed that I had earned a master’s degree in journalism and had worked my way up to editor at my local newspaper. I was equally impressed to learn he had also earned a master’s in journalism from a very well-respected university on the East Coast.

It was depressing to think that we had such similar backgrounds, yet he had made it so much farther than me
. You’re here now, Brooke. That’s all that matters. Forget the past … look toward the future.

We talked a little bit about my family. Of course, he was devastated to learn about the passing of my mom. They had only met briefly once at a family picnic outing that the college had planned my junior year. He told me then that he had lost his dad about a year earlier.

So, he understood the pain that I still knew every day. It was in that moment when I think I felt a little closer to Rich. Sure, we had thick, sexual chemistry, but I was starting to notice an emotional attachment that I may have been missing when I first stepped into his office. It was then that I had to remind myself that this would never work, if I actually wanted to work at the
Washington Post
, my dream job. Of course, I wanted to work at the
Post
, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if I wanted Rich more. Was it possible to have both?

“Well, Brooke, I suppose I’ve taken up enough of your time for the day. Do you have any questions for me, or about the position?”

“No, I think we covered just about everything. Thank you for your time and thank you for considering me for the position. I’ll see myself out, if that’s everything.”

“Brooke, don’t forget about checking in with Ms. Murphy about your dinner reservations.”

“Yes, sir,” I said in my most seductive tone.

“Don’t tease me, sweetheart. It’s taking all my willpower not to rip that skirt off you and bend you over my desk right now.”

And with that statement, I felt my lady parts quiver in anticipation for what I’d been dreaming about for the better part of a decade.
Was this really going to happen – tonight?