1. Job Title A Perfect Bride
1
JOB TITLE: A PERFECT brIDE
CHARLES
“Is Charles Hawthorne going to stay single forever?”
“Will the Hawthorne family line come to an end with him?”
“Is this the end of an era for the founding family of Cherrywood?”
Jimmy Garcia, the head of PR at Hawthorne Holdings slams his iPad onto the table with so much force that I’m shocked the screen is still intact. Spanish curses fly under his breath as he slides a plastic file across the surface. I don’t need to glance at its contents to know what it holds.
Until a few months back, I had my suspicions that Jimmy was just making up stuff to either get a rise out of me or, worse, to manipulate me into becoming a PR puppet for the cameras. But that man has a sharper nose than a K-9 recruit’s when it comes to sniffing out doubts. Now, every time he visits me, he’s carrying a barrage of newspaper gossip-column clippings, which is enough ammunition he needs to blow up my day.
There are bigger problems in this world, yet they are after my personal life?
“Are you still not going to say anything?” Jimmy’s face is flushed, his receding hairline growing every time we meet.
I feel for the man. I really do.
If I were him, working for me, I would have resigned already.
What can even the best PR team accomplish, when their client hates the limelight and media attention with a vengeance?
But this man is committed to the Hawthorne family. My family.
I head over to the minibar in my office and snag a water bottle. I’m about to turn around and hand it over to him, preferably before he explodes with all that suppressed tension, but my eyes catch sight of the unmissable pink paper napkins embossed with golden letters: Have a day that’s as magical as a unicorn!
They clash against the sleek black surface like a glaring anomaly.
Damn this woman.
After grabbing the stack, I shove them behind the whiskey decanters. There’s no point in tossing them out. It’s not like I haven’t tried that in the past. Within the hour, they’ll magically reappear, courtesy of her relentless determination to annoy me.
How does she do it?
Maybe she keeps a secret stash of items she knows will get under my skin, just for the sheer pleasure of getting a rise out of me.
“If you’re done admiring your posh bar, I’m eager to hear your thoughts, Charles.” Jimmy’s voice jolts me back to the present, away from my eccentric executive assistant, who occupies far too much of my mental real estate with her nonsensical behavior.
I hand him a bottle of water.
“What does the media think, I’m going on my deathbed tomorrow? I’m only twenty-nine, for Christ’s sake.”
“And in all these twenty-nine years, you’ve shown no interest in any woman. There haven’t been any sightings of you at parties with potential love interests.”
My teeth grind together. People pointing out my lack of a social life always hits a nerve. “That’s because I don’t go to those damn parties.”
“And we need to fix that.”
Completely undeterred by the murderous look on my face, Jimmy retrieves an envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket.
“This is an invitation to a social gala honoring your great-great-grandfather, the founder of the city hospital. As always, the Hawthorne family will match donations collected, but this year, you’ll be there to personally hand over the check.”
“If you think I’m even touching that thing, you’re sorely mistaken. Plus, who even follows gossip news these days?” I sink into my chair and recline back, refusing to take my eyes off Jimmy.
He meets my gaze for a few more moments before his shoulders slump. Just as I release a pent-up breath, thinking this torturous meeting is finally over, Jimmy fixes me with a penetrating gaze.
“You can ignore me all you like, Charles, but your efforts in this office mean nothing if the board members don’t trust you enough to vote you as the next head of family business.”
My fists clench as Jimmy exits my office, his words echoing in my mind.
All my life, everything I’ve done is to be the best and be worthy of heading the Hawthorne Empire, but once again, I fail to be enough. A knock interrupts the silence that’s slowly becoming unbearable.
Daisy Price waltzes in, dressed in a rose-gold circle skirt that grazes her knees, paired with a pastel blue top. She looks like she could be staff at an ice-cream parlor, or perhaps, like an ice-cream cone herself.
She glances straight to the minibar, undoubtedly catching sight of the crumpled stack of napkins peeking out from behind. She bites her lip, trying to stifle a smile and failing anyway. But I give her no satisfaction and don’t even mention the color pop she attempted in my office.
“Jimmy didn’t look very happy,” she starts, gliding behind my desk and arranging pink Post-its on the glass wall in their order of priority.
I swivel in my chair, following her movements as she methodically scribbles the tasks onto the tiny colorful paper squares before sticking them onto the glass wall. Her heels, which are just an inch shorter than would be declared hazardous, match her skirt with a blue bow on the back, complementing the one on her hair clip. If there were an award for color coordination, my assistant would win it every day.
“He’s not paid to look happy, but to do his job.”
“He can’t do anything unless you listen to him.” Her hands halt, and she glances over her shoulder at me. Disagreement shines in those brown eyes, which seem to always speak volumes.
“Are you here to persuade me on his behalf?” If she thinks she can convince me to attend any social gathering, she can try at her own risk.
“How could I dare to do something like that?” The way she arches her eyebrow suggests she would dare indeed.
I motion toward the untouched invitation Jimmy so conveniently left behind.
“Send a reply a day before the event stating that, unfortunately, I can’t make it due to an emergency. And for fuck’s sake, if you make up an emergency like my pet duck’s eggs are hatching and I have to be there to welcome them into the world, you’ll find yourself without a job.”
She spins around and doubles over, her laughter echoing throughout my office. I’m not sure what she finds funnier—my threat or the reminder of the feeble excuse she made last week for my absence at the town hall inauguration. Thanks to her, I’m still receiving congratulatory emails inquiring about my new chicks. But she knows all this since she’s the one sorting them into the “NEED IMMEDIATE ATTENTION” folder.
“Do you think I won’t fire you?” I ask a completely hypothetical question.
Despite all the nonsense I have to put up with, there’s never been a more perfect assistant. She’s not just the best, she’s the best for me .
People call me a workaholic, but compared to Daisy when she started four years ago, I’m practically a slacker. She arrived at the office before me and left after me, never batting an eye when I asked her to rewrite the first client report five times over. Her only request was to work longhand for the first drafts.
What I didn’t anticipate was how her love for paper and Post-its would one day devolve and become the bane of my existence.
She snaps her fingers in front of me. “Hey, you weren’t even listening. I was just saying how I’d never do anything to upset you.” She bats her eyelashes and pouts, which I find inconveniently attractive even when I tell her I don’t.
“Stop with the pouting. You think you look cute, but you just look like a grinning Chihuahua.”
Her response to my teasing is laughter.
As much as I wanted an assistant who wouldn’t turn my office into a paper craft shop, and who feared me a little, every moment with Daisy is refreshing.
“If you’re finished here, leave. And, Daisy…” I pause, waiting for her full attention. “Cancel my invitation. I’m not going.”
This time, she huffs in seriousness. I know she wants to protest, but she also knows some things are nonnegotiable, and me walking into a room full of strangers is one of them.
My driver-slash-bodyguard, Steve, expertly parks the McLaren in my designated spot at Elixir Inc. before Dave, my second bodyguard, opens the door for me.
Leading Hawthorne Holdings and on track to become CEO of Hawthorne Empire in the coming months, I already have my hands full with the family business. But Elixir is special. I’m proud to be on the board of directors in this company.
Years ago, my dad declared that he wasn’t interested in running Hawthorne Empire and left it to my grandma. Instead, he helped his friends establish the Elixir research office in Cherrywood, which now serves as the company headquarters.
It was here that he met my mom , the woman who valued me and my dad over the family wealth, unlike my birth mother. This is also where I bonded with my cousins, who are more like brothers and now either run the company or serve on the board alongside me.
Honestly, I attend these meetings more to see them than the actual work. Elixir is in good hands with Alex as the CEO. As I enter the boardroom, I’m greeted by the familiar faces of the Teager brothers—Alex, Raymond, Rowan, and his fraternal twin, Archer.
“I thought this was a work meeting?” I comment, observing the lack of other important staff and take a seat between Alex and Rowan.
“We’re all on the board and in a meeting room right now, so technically it is a board meeting.” Raymond chuckles, placing a whiskey decanter onto the table.
“Then why does it feel like an intervention?”
“Not an intervention, more like a Charlie-got-a-new-label-and-Jimmy-is-on-his-ass meeting.” Archer grins, waving his phone in the air.
“My ass is alright, brother. But tell me who I have to fire for this breach of information. Is it Jimmy, since sharing a PR manager clearly leaves me with no privacy? Or is this someone from my office?” I have my suspicions on my little secretary.
“Don’t worry, no termination letters are going out today. Mom read some gossip column, and we expected Jimmy to come running to you first thing in the morning,” Archer explains, passing me a glass of Scotch whiskey.
“So are you going to share some relationship wisdom with me?”
“You want relationship advice from us?” Raymond raises an eyebrow, flaunting a smirk the media has labeled a killer smile .
And he’s not wrong.
None of us have had serious relationships, and we can blame our dads for that. They set the relationship bar so high that we’d rather avoid it than suck miserably at it. Besides, I’m certain our moms would never let us hear the end of it if we didn’t meet their lofty expectations. So, we’ve gladly chosen to steer clear of serious commitments altogether.
But unlike me, my cousins don’t have the media constantly hounding them about their bachelor status, treating it like a criminal offense.
“Why don’t you hire someone?” Archer plays with the rim of his glass, the suggestion hanging in the air.
“What’s that supposed to mean? He isn’t hiring staff, Archie,” Rowan signs while raising an eyebrow at his twin.
The day Rowan became selectively mute, his mom arranged extensive sign language classes for all of us. Eventually, we all became well-versed, and there hasn’t been a day when Ro’s unspoken words haven’t been heard.
“But what’s the difference? Charlie has to fill an open position in his life—a wife for the cameras. Just imagine if there was a way he could find the perfect woman, and she’d get paid well like any other working person for a job well done. Am I the only one who sees no wrong in this?”
I must be really insane, because Archer’s idea doesn’t sound so horrible.
No fear of feelings. No stress of attachment.
Everything professional, just the way I like things in my life.
“And what would be the job description for such a position, smartass?” Ray flicks a salted cashew toward Archie.
“Specific to the job and the potential husband.” Archer grins, tapping away on his iPad. “So, for Charlie, we’d need a social butterfly, someone who not only tolerates people but thrives in the spotlight. She’ll have to compensate for your lack of social skills, after all.”
He’s in the middle of typing when Rowan jumps in, apparently forgetting his initial opposition.
“She’ll also need to have a thick skin. How else will she survive the shitstorm and scrutiny the media is going to throw her way? Everyone is itching to see Charlie tied down.”
Yes, it’s certified. I’ve gone crazy, because I start to feel bad for my fictional, fake wife.
“And don’t forget about Grandma Irene Hawthorne’s seal of approval.” Ray grins.
“Not you too,” I groan, shaking my head.
“I’m shocked that you still don’t see the benefit of this process. Just imagine, you can find the perfect girl who fits all the bills.” Archer gives me a look like I’m missing the obvious.
But what if I want the most imperfect girl and to watch her trying to fit all the bills not because I’m Charles Hawthorne but because I’m enough?
“Still not convinced?”
When I don’t reply to his remark, Ray drawls, “Maybe Charlie is worried that she won’t be pretty?”
“Enough about me, what about you? What would be on your list for a potential fake wife?” I volley his smirk right back at him. The thought of this perfect girl on paper is giving me a headache and false hope.
“Long legs, for sure. And a killer sense of humor. I can’t deal with a girl who’s too uptight.”
The evening progresses until four printed papers grace the table, each listing the characteristics of the perfect fake wife for everyone except Alex. None of us would dare make such a list for him.
For one, we all know who’s perfect for him. And secondly, if anyone can convince him of that, it’s her. But she’s chosen to move miles away to France.
I hate him for the pain he’s causing her.
But at the same time, I admire him for standing up for what he believes is right, especially for her.
“So, when is the job offer going out for the new Mrs. Hawthorne?” Alex tilts his head toward the pages, flashing a dimpled grin.
“And here I thought at least you would behave like a grown-up and give some real advice.”
“You’re better off without my advice in this department, brother.”