“Point taken,” I say. Since he brought it up, I move on to the next question, which is related. “How did being abandoned by your parents affect your business career?” As soon as I read the question, I feel like an even bigger idiot than I usually do. Why can’t Kathleen be here doing this? Oh, yeah—she’s at home getting sick off NyQuil–Red Bull bombs. In other words, a typical Tuesday for her.
“I didn’t have a conventional upbringing. That’s public knowledge. How has it affected my business career? I honestly don’t know.” Yikes. He’s no longer smiling.
“Have you sacrificed having a wife and family for the sake of your career?”
“No, but I have sacrificed many the virgin,” he says, smirking again. His mood changes as often as my mom changes husbands.
“Are you gay?” Another stupid question that Kathleen has written down!
A smile spreads on Mr. Grey’s face. “Am I gay? No, Miss Steal. I’m not gay. I’m quite the opposite, in fact.”
“What’s the opposite of gay?”
“Sad,” he says. “ You meant ‛gay’ as in ‛happy,’ right?”
I take another look at the notebook. “It doesn’t say here, Mr. Grey. It just says, ‛gay.’”
“What kind of questions are these, exactly?”
“They’re Kathleen’s,” I say sheepishly.
“Do you work with her at this business magazine?”
I shake my head and blush. “No. I’m a senior at Washington State, but my major is English, not journalism. This is the first interview I’ve ever conducted.”
“I see,” he says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Oh, how I’d like him to rub my—
The intercom on his desk rings, and he answers it. “Supermodel Jezebel Luscious is on the line, Mr. Grey,” the receptionist says.
“Tell her to wait. I’m not finished with this meeting,” he says, putting the world’s most beautiful woman on hold—for me.
“Okay, Mr. Grey,” the receptionist says. “Can you ask Miss Steal if she would like her gravy brought into your office? She left her glass in the lobby.”
Earl cocks an eyebrow at me quizzically.
I shake my head.
“That won’t be necessary,” he says. “If she gets thirsty, I’m sure we can find something for her to drink in here.”
He smiles villainously and hangs up the speakerphone. “Pardon the interruption. Where were we?”
“I think I’ve asked you all the questions Kathleen had.”
“I see. Then perhaps you can answer some of my questions.”
“I’m not that interesting, Mr. Grey.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he says. “When do you graduate?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“And afterward, what are your plans?”
“I don’t have any. I was thinking something in publishing.” I haven’t put much thought into my future yet. I’ve only had four years to contemplate it.
“The Earl Grey Corporation owns several publishing houses. I can set you up with an interview at one of them,” he says.
“Um, thanks,” I say. “But I don’t know if I’m someone you want on your team.”
“Why not?”
“Nevermind,” I say. I’m nothing like the blonde Barbies he has working for him. Can’t he see that I’m the kind of girl who wears sweatpants to interview billionaires? I have to get out of his office before I make an even bigger fool of myself.
“Would you like a tour of the building? Perhaps a peek inside my secret sex dungeon?” he asks.
“Can’t,” I say, gathering up my things and turning the mini–disc recorder off. “I’ve got to work this evening. Thanks for the interview.”
He extends his right hand. “The pleasure was all on this end,” he says, smiling. I shake his hand, and feel the jolt of electricity again from him. He laughs and raises his hand to show me the joy-buzzer in his palm. What a prankster! “Good day, Miss Steal.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Grey,” I say, leaving.
Chapter Three
I SHARE A DUPLEX apartment in Portland with Kathleen. Her parents bought it for her when she started college over twenty years ago, and, as far as I know, they still think she’s going to school. Kathleen says she’s “taking a break.” Although I have to put up with her drunken antics, the duplex has at least saved me the indignity of living in cheap student housing. As I pull my bike into our driveway, I sigh inwardly. Kathleen is going to want the deets on this handsome young CEO. I’ll give her the mini–disc recording, but the stuff about him practically making love to me with his eyeballs for an hour? I’ll keep that to myself.
As I step through the door, she launches herself off the couch and bounds toward me, tackling me to the ground and licking my face. She’s like a 135-pound puppy sometimes, I swear. Maybe 140-pounds, since the SpaghettiOs and alcohol fad diet she’s been on for the past three weeks seems to be working in reverse. I shrug her off, and we both stand up.
“I was worried about you,” she says.
“Why?” I ask. Because you sent me to Grandma’s house when you knew the whole time there was a big bad wolf?
“I was worried you wouldn’t find Seattle. I know how you get lost on your way to the bathroom sometimes.” She’s talking about the time I squatted and peed in the kitchen. It was only that one time, and I was on shrooms.
“Well, I didn’t get lost,” I say, pulling the mini–disc recorder out and tossing it to her. We sit down on the couch. Kathleen turns the volume down on the 16 and Pregnant marathon she’s been caught up in. Isn’t there something better on, like Jersey Shore?
“So, spill the beans,” she says. “What was the infamous Mr. Earl Grey like?”
“You didn’t tell me he would be so young,” I say. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“He’s a nice guy. Like Mark Zuckerberg, only less autistic,” I say. “He wears a suit, but he also has a peculiar sense of humor.”
“Just tell me one thing: Is he straight? Did he flirt with you?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’m the kind of girl he’d be interested in,” I say. “Just going by
