I can tell immediately that she’s nervous, just by her bearing. She’s attempting for confident with her shoulders pushed back and chin slightly elevated, but the way her hands are clasped just a little too tightly reveals her discomfort.
Because I love everything about a beautiful woman, I tend to take in their appearance from head to toe, concentrating on the shapes, subtle lines, and curves. My eyes note with a critical awareness that Bailey’s wardrobe is cheap but certainly functional. She’s wearing a simple black suit that could pass as crepe but is probably a polyester blend. It consists of a knee-length skirt that hugs her hips, a black mid-length jacket, and a cream blouse. Her shoes are black faux leather with sturdy blocked heels, and the one thing I appreciate is her bare legs. I fucking hate pantyhose.
Yes, totally functional for this job if she were to sit in the office all day and work on a computer. Not apropos for the business lunch I intended to have her attend with me today. Or potentially the business dinner I thought about requiring her to attend. It’s something I’ll remedy soon.
“Miss Robbins.” My tone is crisp and professional. I push up out of my chair, buttoning my jacket.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwood,” she demurs politely, which does nothing to soothe my ire she didn’t anticipate the fact I would have liked her here earlier. “I am so sorry I’m late.”
That piques my attention, stopping me in mid-stride as I’d started to round my desk toward her.
“I know you said my start time was eight, but I always like to get to work early so I can get settled. A head start on the day, of sorts, but, unfortunately, I had a flat tire.”
And that immediately changes my opinion of her all over again. Her work ethic is as strong as I had suspected.
“Of course, it’s been a long time since I’ve changed a flat. Rusty skills and all, or I would have been in much earlier.”
I’m once again stunned into inaction.
She changed her own flat? I’m fascinated, and I want to know more. “Why didn’t you call a car service to change your tire?”
My question obviously confuses her. Her brow crinkles. But when comprehension dawns over her face, I understand. To her, my inherent privilege doesn’t make sense.
Her words are quietly assured, but they still have a bite. “Because I cannot afford to pay for someone to come fix my flat. Also, that would have taken more time than I could have afforded. I most assuredly did not want to be late to work.”
Damn. She really put me in my place. After giving her a second to gloat, I pull back on my mantle of superiority. “I thought we’d start by giving you a tour of the entire resort. As my assistant, you’ll need to understand and liaise with all of them on my behalf.”
I stride toward her and she moves backward through my doorway, intent on getting out of my way. I point to the cubicle that sits catty-corner to my office. “You’ll find an iPad at your desk you can use in addition to your computer. You can introduce yourself to the other staff when we return. I’ll have someone from HR show you how to log in to the system and give you some basic training later.”
“Okay,” she replies, then I hear her trotting to keep up with me.
Our executive suite is nothing more than a large square with the management offices on the perimeter and the secretarial services on the interior in cubicles and free-standing desks. I point out every office, not expecting her to remember the names of every important person who helps in running this resort, but giving her enough information so she’s familiar with them. I’ve learned enough to know Bailey is resourceful and has common sense. She can figure things out if she has an inkling as to where to start.
From there, I show her every part of the resort and explain how it functions. I denote the major departments such as operations, marketing, human resources, dining, spa services, housekeeping, maintenance, grounds, merchandising, retail, and concierge. I explain our bright-line rule on customer experience… that the customer gets whatever they want, whenever they want, and faster than they ever expected it in the first place.
More importantly, I bestow upon her the authority to make anything happen in my absence and reiterate my expectation that she use her brain to make good decisions. That part was probably unnecessary as she saw me fire my assistant yesterday for just such a failure, but it never hurts to make things doubly clear.
As we make our way back onto the main floor of the resort, I head toward our in-house boutique store that provides brand names such as Fendi, Prada, Hermès, Gucci, and Armani, as well as a dozen others.
As Bailey’s sturdy heels clop along the tiled floor, I say, “I have a business lunch today with a potential investor. You’ll accompany me to take notes. I also want you to be observant of his demeanor. I’ll be expecting your thoughts.”
“My thoughts?” she inquires. I stop, shifting to face her. Nearly running into me, she draws up short.
“Your thoughts,” I reiterate. “Tell me if you think he’s being genuine or trying to yank my chain. If he’s all in or holding back.”
“But… but… I don’t really know much about investing or hotels or what happens in business meetings.”
Fuck, she’s cute when she’s unsure of herself. For such a confident woman, the moments of vulnerability she lets slip through are attractive.
“Relax,” I assure her, turning on my heel and moving to the boutique named Blackwood Row. The retail store is all sleek hardwood floors and minimal amounts of racked clothing so customers feel both alone and exposed. The price tags alone help to ward off anyone except the serious shopper, but the fact that there’s very little to choose from ensures only the most discerning will walk in and plunk down the type of money it takes for high-end, editorial fashion.
A retail assistant approaches, a waif-thin woman who looks like she could walk the runway in Milan. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, a polka-dot high necked blouse that knots at the throat and four-inch Louboutins. Her hair is pulled back severely from her face into a tight bun at the base of her head, and her pale skin is embellished only with bright red lipstick.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she says in respectful greeting. “This is a pleasant surprise. What can we help you with?”
I don’t know this woman’s name. She’s not high enough on the ladder for me to care. I merely sweep my hand toward Bailey. “My assistant, Bailey Robbins. Since she’ll be attending important meetings with me, I want her dressed appropriately.”
“Excuse me?” Bailey exclaims, her offense evident.
When I turn, her eyes are blazing. She’s practically baring her teeth. In response, I make my tone bland when I say, “Consider it a clothing allowance.”
“I don’t need a clothing allowance,” she grits out, keeping her eyes locked on mine. “What I’m wearing is perfectly fine for a business lunch.”
Christ… but her temerity in daring to question my will turns me on as much as it pisses me off. I have a sudden and way too clear image of us wrestling in bed, her valiantly trying to get the upper hand with me, but me easily pinning her down into submission.
Not wanting to embarrass her in front of the retail assistant, but unwilling to budge an inch from my stance, I take Bailey by the elbow and lead her a few steps away.