Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
As soon as I rounded the corner, I saw Mr. Cross sipping a coffee.
Looking as perfect as he did yesterday, he eyed me as I neared.
“You’re here thirty minutes early today,” he said. “Do you plan on making that a habit, Miss Stone?”
No…
“I just figured I’d use the extra time to study.”
“As in study the binders I gave you?”
For my CPA exam, so I can escape you.
“Sure.” I forced a smile.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’re showing some work ethic,” he said. “You can get back to the binders later… Something important has come up that you need to focus on instead.”
He motioned for me to follow him down the hall, and I made a mental note to go straight to the employee lounge next time.
Leading me past another renovated area I no longer recognized, he ushered me inside our newly painted auditorium.
On the big screen, Mr. Lewis was sitting on the Good Morning America couch, giving an interview.
My heart ached as he smiled, as he followed all the instructions I’d given him after all our rehearsals.
“Employees are the heart of my success,” he said with a wink. “It’s why I treat them like family.”
“Ugh…” I felt bile rising up my throat.
“Something wrong, Miss Stone?” Mr. Cross suddenly stopped walking.
“No, not at all.” I looked away from the screen. “I’m fine.”
“Looks like there’s something in your mouth…” He eyed me. “Do you need to spit it out?”
“I can just swallow it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”
“What?”
“I said, let’s keep walking then…” He smirked and walked me down to the front row, where a small table and a notebook were waiting in front of the center seat.
“My Mr. Manhattan interview is coming up in a few weeks,” he said. “I need to make sure I come off more likable than I did in the last issue since…”
He didn’t finish his sentence.
I took a seat. “So, you want to do some mock interviews?”
“Not quite.” He picked up a remote and turned off Mr. Lewis, clicking on something else.
“You’ll need to watch the last twenty interviews I gave—most of which turned into written ones—and take notes. Then watch interviews from businessmen who people claim are more likable than me, and bring your notes up with my nine o’clock breakfast. I’d like eggs from Emilio’s this time—with my usual latte.”
He walked away without another word.
The screen faded into view, showing a beautiful hotel suite with floor-to-ceiling windows. The camera panned to Harrison standing on a platform while a team of tailors adjusted his suit.
“Mr. Cross,” a soft voice said offscreen, “after acquiring so much wealth and success, are you fulfilled in life?”
“Fulfilled?” He arched a brow.
“Yes, fulfilled. As in happy or content.”
“I know what that word means,” he said. “I just don’t know why you’re asking me something emotional.”
“It’s a pretty soft question, sir.”
“It’s also a pointless question.” He sat up a bit straighter. “I run multiple businesses, and there’s no such thing as ever being ‘fulfilled.’”
“So, you’re not happy?”
He stared at her—not blinking, not moving.
If I didn’t see the vein swelling in his neck, I would’ve assumed he’d turned into stone.
“I’ll, uh—I’ll ask another question.”
“Don’t bother.” He shifted in his seat and stood up. “This interview is over.”
The screen went black, and another image of him appeared.
This time he was in front of a microphone.
“Before we get started, don’t ask me any hypotheticals,” he said, “or how I feel about anything.”
“Sir, this is literally The Businessmen Have Feelings, Too podcast.”
“I see.” He slid back in his chair. “This interview is over.”
It took six more clips to confirm that this man and in-person interviews were a disaster. Fifteen more to bet on whether he’d ever actually finished one, and twenty to realize he hadn’t.
By the time my alarm sounded for breakfast, I only had one note for him.
Pretend to be someone else.
I tucked it under his eggs and set it on his desk as he chatted on the phone.
Backing away before he could ask me to do anything else, I made it to his doorway before he said my name.
“Where are you going?” he asked, hanging up the phone.
“To take some more notes on your interviews,” I said. “I’ll rewatch a few.”
“Don’t bother.” He held up my note. “You can explain whatever this means to me.”
I looked down the hallway—at my potential freedom, then back at him.
“Come back in, Miss Stone,” he said. “Shut the door behind you.”
Resigning to my fate, I stepped in and obliged. Then I took a seat at his desk.
He pushed his breakfast to the side. “Moving forward, when I ask you to take notes, I mean plural, and I also mean that I expect you to put some actual effort into them.”
“I did put effort into my notes, sir.”
“Is this effort in the room with us right now?”