Chapter 2
“They were already down one person, before this one left, since they have someone on maternity leave.”
“So this is a job to do the work of two people? Lovely.”
“It will keep you too busy to say anything stupid to anybody. Go and put the kettle on, and I’ll call Owen. The senior partners asked him to find someone, and, incidentally, he’s got a say in whether or not I’m taken on after my training contract. So if I happen to drop the perfect office junior into his lap…”
“Got it. Okay. Okay, call him then.”
“You won’t regret it—though I might. Go make a cup of tea while I call. Then we’d better make sure your suit is pressed.”
“I have more than one suit, you know.”
“I’m not counting the purple one.”
“Probably for the best.”
* * * *
Max had never been to Noah’s office before, but he managed to get off at the right bus stop outside a town centre office building and found the door to the place on the third floor. Noah came to meet him in the tiny reception area.
“Do I look okay?” Max stood up. “Conservative enough?”
Noah snorted. “You, conservative? Not likely.” He brushed some strands of Max’s long hair off his shoulder and straightened his tie. “But you look fine. Did you polish your shoes?” He inspected them critically.
“Of course.”
Noah looked him over and nodded with approval. “You’ll do. Owen’s looked over your CV.” Noah had brought it in with him that morning. “He’s happy enough with it. All you have to do now is not massively screw up the interview, and you’re in.”
“No pressure then.”
“Just stay cool. You know how you tend to babble. And listen. I swear half your screw-ups come from not listening properly to what people say.”
“That’s not fair. You know I have a dodgy ear. Sometimes I…miss things.”
“Remember, take a breath, and think before you speak. That’s all I ask.”
“I will.”
“Okay, let’s go introduce you to Owen.”
Max had to take several deep breaths before he could speak because there was something Noah had neglected to mention in all this.
Owen was gorgeous
Max’s jaw nearly dropped open when Noah took him into the office and a man rose from behind the desk and came around it to shake hands. He was mid-thirties, tall, broad-shouldered, with a nice tan, and beautifully cut dark brown hair, glossy as teak. Of course, he wore a good suit—he was a lawyer—but he filled it out better than most men. His white shirt looked like it had been made from the same material as the gowns of angels.
“Good to meet you, Mr Sagan,” Owen said, holding out his hand for a shake. Max took it. A big strong hand. It made him gulp when it gripped his. “Owen Hart.”
“I know,” Max said. “Ah, I mean, I, yes, Noah told me…um, hello.”
Owen looked slightly amused. Noah frowned.
“Thanks, Noah,” Owen said, “Could you please ask Mrs Barstow to bring coffee for two. Please, sit down, Mr Sagan.” He gestured at a leather armchair that faced another across a coffee table.
“Will do,” Noah said. He gave Max a final look—a cross between stern admonition and mute appeal to not mess this up—and left.
“So you and Noah are roommates?” Owen said, sitting down opposite Max.
“Yes,” Max said. “We’re old friends. Since we were kids.”
“He passed me your CV,” Owen said. “You’ve had a number of short-term jobs.”
“I…I know, it looks bad. I haven’t found anywhere I quite fit into yet.”
“And do you think you’ll fit in here?” Owen asked, giving him the penetrating, lie-detecting stare only a lawyer could manage. His eyes were grey-green.
Oh, God, Max was so doomed. His heart was pounding and his mouth dry, and it was nothing to do with job interview nerves.
“Probably not,” he found himself saying. “But I need a job and you need an office junior, and we’re both desperate.”
Oh God, shut the hell up.
Owen stared at him for a moment and then laughed. “Noah said you had a tendency to be overly frank. I don’t think I mind that, Mr Sagan. I’m a lawyer. I hear so many lies in a day, I nearly suffer internal injuries swallowing them all. A bit of truth is refreshing.”
“Some of my previous employers have said the same,” Max said. “And, um, then sacked me when I took them at their word.”
Owen nodded, serious. “I’ll try not to do the same. But, in return, you should try to learn a thing or two about discretion. Let’s talk about issues of confidentiality.”
The coffee arrived as they got into that. Mrs Barstow, who brought it, was in her fifties and the sort who still insisted on being called a secretary, not any kind of new-fangled nonsense about personal assistants. She was also the office manager and would be Max’s boss if he worked here. He gave her his best smile when Owen introduced them. She looked back at him as if she didn’t approve of his hair. Or his suit. Or his face.