30 Days (Lost Love Trilogy #1) - Belle Brooks Page 0,10

it.

The doors open automatically. A petite lady looks up and smiles. “Good morning, and welcome to Sims, General, and Klein Lawyers.”

“Well, that’s a mouthful.” I snicker nervously.

“If you say it as many times as I have over the last four years, it’s not.” She exits behind the desk and makes her way into the lobby to greet me. Her name badge reads Asher. A pretty name for a pretty girl. She has long brown locks—very straight—flawless makeup, and a mesmerising smile. Yeah, she’s pretty. “Hi, I’m Asher.” Her voice is kind.

“Asher?” I reply in a curious tone.

She grins. “It’s Hebrew.”

I nod.

“I’m the receptionist.” She points to the high marble counter.

I look back at her name tag—it has an emblem of a gavel on it. I picture me wearing such a badge. I don’t like it.

“Are you Abigail by any chance?”

“Sure.”

“Well, are you, or aren’t you?”

“Um … you would be correct.”

“Good. Your interview is on level two with Jasmine, Mr Sims’s personal assistant. Jaz is lovely, but to the point. Honesty is her motto. Now there’s a tip for you,” she adds with a wink. “Good luck,” she says as the lift doors open.

“Thanks.”

Ting.

The doors part and open two floors higher. I’m greeted by a long corridor that has abstract art hung on display. I study each piece as I approach it. This is probably where Trish gets her love for it. From her dad. Looking left then right, I shrug. Which way?

Left is my decision. Of course, I’m wrong. Thanks to an older, neatly dressed woman I literally bump into, I’m turned around.

A clear door says Bernard Sims, Property Law, and it’s written in gold letters.

“Abigail McMillian?”

“Yes,” I reply to nobody, because I can’t see a single person.

“This way,” the voice comes from behind me. I turn, eyeing a pretty Asian woman.

“Are you Jasmine?” My voice cracks before her name has completely left my mouth.

“Yes.” She’s very professional in tone and appearance.

We walk into a conference room, not far from the door with the writing on it.

“Sit here. Pour a glass of water and get out your notebook and pen.”

Crap! I wonder if only having car keys counts. “So … yeah. I don’t have those with me.”

Her thin eyebrows lift, and her mouth forms an O. She’s not pleased. Yep, she hates me. No shock there. First impressions are not my thing.

“Here.” She slides a book and pen down the large conference table before sitting and silently reading through a document. “A moment, please.” She walks to the wall beside me and punches numbers into a phone. “Yes. No. Okay. I’ll check the schedule, and ETA in thirty minutes. I don’t think I’ll be long here.” She shakes her head, then places the phone back onto the wall.

No job for me. Instant relief. I wouldn’t fit in anyway. I don’t fit in anywhere anymore.

“Abigail,” she starts, returning to her seat, angled towards me. “Thank you for coming in today. I’m Mr Sims’s personal assistant. I’m sure you’re aware this is a very busy law practice with many offices located throughout Australia.” She doesn’t allow me to answer. “We will have to make our talk short.”

“Yes, of course.” I’m rattled. This woman is intimidating.

“The position we are looking to fill will require you to do the following duties: take dictation, answer calls, scheduling, copying, and filing. You will be in charge of mailing and banking. Also, you will chase up payments on accounts. A normal nine-to-five, Monday-to-Friday job as the assistant to the personal assistant. Do you think you can handle the role?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Mr Sims has already requested you to be given a three-month contract. You start tomorrow at nine. Don’t be late.”

I nod.

“Shocked?”

“Yes,” I blurt out, closing my mouth that has gaped open.

“This is a new one for me too. Never has an applicant been granted immediate employment. But I’m not the boss. This is his call. Asher will have uniforms for you. Please report to her now and get them. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Thank you.” Confusion has my head spinning. I offer my hand, which Jasmine shakes. “Um … how much does it pay?” I murmur, embarrassed to ask.

“Forty-nine thousand annual. Four weeks’ holiday and ten days’ paid sick leave. I’m sure you will be happy with this. It’s the customary starting rate. Now, I must attend to my duties. See you in the morning.”

“Okay.” I’m hesitant.

The door closes on her exit. Holy crap, what just happened? And why did she bother giving me a