Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 38306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
“In a nutshell.”
Maria sighs. “I want you to enjoy working for Mr. Rochester, Mary Jane, but I don’t see that becoming a possibility until I correct these misassumptions of yours.”
“It’s not—-”
The H.R. manager waves a hand, and I fall silent, knowing a ‘shut up’ sign when I see one.
“Just this once, I shall be coarse and indiscreet, quite unprofessionally so, to deliver the point across.”
I gape at her. What did that even mean? Is she saying in too many words she’s going to be...honest?
“All those women who worked as Mr. Rochester’s PA have two things in common, Ms. Reed.” She gives me a humorless smile. “One: they wanted his cock.”
Oh my God, that was coarse!
“Two, they wanted his money even more.”
And that was way harsh!
“Now, Mr. Rochester can only be so obliging—-”
I choke. Obliging? Really?
“And unfortunately all of them ended up being greedy, which warranted their complete eradication in Mr. Rochester’s life.”
“You mean he got rid of them,” I say bluntly.
“Legally and permanently so,” Maria says pleasantly, “and with absolutely no chance of even getting within a ten-mile radius of Mr. Rochester unless they wish to be slapped with several indefensible charges.”
A moment of silence follows, and I find myself subject to Maria’s contemplative look.
“I’m not going to follow in their footsteps,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not. But what I am worried about is...” Maria pauses.
I frown. “What?”
“Never mind,” the older woman says finally. “Just please heed my advice if you wish to keep this new job – be quiet as a mouse, work hard, don’t give Mr. Rochester any sass, and you’ll be fine.”
Mary Jane and Mr. Rochester
Two weeks later
I twist and turn my neck while reaching over my shoulder to knead the aching muscles on my back. God, I’m tired. I stretch in my seat, wincing slightly at the way my body protests in reaction. I’ve been working since eight am, and it’s—-
I glance at the digital clock display on the phone’s dock, and my eyes widen.
Nine pm? Sheesh. I’ve been working for over twelve hours, and I haven’t even noticed. Shaking my head, I stand up and shut my laptop close. Time to call it a night, I decide silently. But when I’m halfway to the reception counter, I hear the most awful sound.
Rrrriiiiiiiiing.
My footsteps stall as I debate what to do. Should I pretend I’m already gone?
Rrrriiiiiiiiing.
I gnaw on my lip. It’s already way past my working hours. I’m under no obligation to answer it. Right?
Rrrriiiiiiiiing.
But then a memory drifts back in my mind, and I remember the blistering earful I received the last time I made my boss wait for more than five rings before answering his call.
Rrrriiiiiiiiing.
Shit. That’s number four already, and before I know it, I’ve already dropped my stuff on the floor and I’m running back to my work area. As I make a dive for the phone, its display starts to flash.
Rr—-
“Good evening, Mr. Rochester.” I struggle to keep my voice level even as I work hard to catch my breath.
“You sound out of breath.”
The words are spoken briskly, almost brusquely, in a strongly accented British voice. I’m ashamed to admit this, but my toes had curled involuntarily the first time I had heard Mr. Rochester’s voice. Right now, however, I have more pressing concerns—-
“Were you about to leave when I called?”
—-such as the fact that my boss is too perceptive by half.
Jabbing the loudspeaker button on the screen, I glare at my phone even as I manage to say sweetly, “Not at all, sir.” The gall, to make it sound like it’s my fault I’m leaving. Hasn’t he noticed what time it is?
“You’re lying.”
“No, Mr. Rochester.” I glare harder at my phone.
“Yes.” Mr. Rochester’s pleasant tone comes with a cultured edge. “You are.”
Received pronunciation is what it’s called, an accent so prestigious it’s estimated only 2% of the British population has it.
And most likely than not, I think grumpily, all of them are assholes like Mr. Rochester.
I take a deep breath, but Mr. Rochester beats me to speak, saying curtly, “Enough with this. You’re wasting too much of my time.”
ASSHOLE!
“I need you to send the Marconi report to our Japanese affiliate,” Mr. Rochester goes on briskly. “You know who I’m talking it about?”
“Yes, sir. The report will be in your inbox in two minutes—-”
“Make it one.” And the line goes dead.
My teeth grind against each other, and it’s all I can do not to throw my phone against the wall. Gaah! I never knew that another person in this world can make me so mad, but Mr. Rochester simply takes the cake.
“Make it in one,” I mimic sarcastically to myself, and my teeth start gnashing again. But even as I continue cursing him in my mind, I’m also moving towards my seat because asshole or not, it’s Mr. Rochester who pays my bills—-