9. Scarlett
Scarlett
Bale Resorts headquarters isn’t what I expected.
I would have thought it would look similar to their hotels. A tropical building with palm trees around it. Inviting and classy with Paris Hilton doppelg?ngers going in and out rotating round doors. But this is no Hilton, and there isn’t a Paris clone in sight.
It’s tall, gray, and very lackluster. But as I sprint towards the doors, I know I’m in the right place because right above my head is a sign that reads Bale Resorts Inc.
Hmm.
It’s clearly not a cheap building, boring as it may be.
A sign on the inside of the doorway reads EST. 2006.
So it’s a new building. A building that the original founders of Bale Resorts did not build.
That would track considering the small amount of info I know about Bale.
It was originally a husband and wife who started the company. If I had to guess, Morgan’s parents.
“Can I help you?” the woman at the desk asks as she drags her eyes away from the computer screen in front of her. She’s young with large glasses and a small, heart-shaped face.
“Yes. I have an interview?” I state, still trying to catch my breath.
“An interview?” she echoes.
“Yes. With Morgan Bale?” I ask.
“An interview with Morgan Bale…” she repeats.
“Yes. I got an email today. Just a couple of hours ago,” I tell her, and she blinks.
I’m not entirely certain anyone is home. So I pull my phone out. “Here,” I tell her. “I can show you. It’s from–”
“Scarlett,” I hear my name, and I look up. A midsize man in a plum-colored suit is walking towards us. He has thick, black-rimmed glasses, and his head is shaved, though he does have a neat goatee. “Scarlett Moore? MooreToExplore?” he asks as he stops in front of me.
“That’s me.” I smile, and his eyes rake over me, noticeably catching on my outfit.
As I look around at the people moving about the room, I suddenly feel underdressed.
Everyone else is in suits and tailored dresses, and I am wearing a red-and-white polka-dot dress.
Honestly, it’s one of the fanciest things I own.
Not because of money, but because of my job.
I usually pick up clothes in the places I travel to.
I lean towards a beachy look a lot of the time. That or clothes I can hike or fly in.
“Mm,” the man says, and I hold out a hand.
“It’s so good to meet you, Mr. Bale,” I rattle off, and the girl at the desk gasps. The man chuckles too.
“Oh, I’m not Morgan Bale. Trust me, you’ll know him when you see him.”
“Oh!” I say, and my cheeks flush to the same color as my apparently understated polka-dots.
“I’m Donovan. And we’re late. Come with me,” he says. Then he turns on his heel and takes off down a long hall. I pick up the pace, practically sprinting before falling into step with him.
“Thank you for asking me for an interview,” I say, winded. “I was literally just looking for my next job, and when you messaged me, it was a dream come true. I can’t believe Morgan Bale actually asked for me by na–”
“You talk too much,” Donovan says. “Don’t talk this much during the interview. Morgan is a man of few words. And he prefers to do most of the talking,” he says.
“During an interview?” I ask, not really seeing how he can conduct an interview without asking me questions. Am I not supposed to answer?
“During life in general.” He chuckles, and while he’s smiling, I can’t help but be a little nervous about this entire thing.
Not that bigwig dudes like this intimidate me.
I’ve never been one to believe in the separation of the classes.
I’m good at what I do and I know that. So do my one hundred and thirty-two thousand followers. And counting.
“Like I said, answering what he asks. Keep it simple,” Donovan says as we approach the office, and I look down at my feet.
“No. Keep your head up. He appreciates confidence. And I’ve seen your work, Miss Moore,” he says, looking back at me. “You have every reason to be confident.”
“Wait,” I say before he opens the door. “How many interviews is Mr. Bale doing? Just so I know what I’m up against.” I try to smile, but my nerves are like live wires in my chest right now.
Not just because this has been staged to be intimidating, but because I need this job.
Like, I really need this job. The idea of a consistent income and travel right now would be amazing.
Donovan pauses. Then he steps closer to me and further away from the door.
“You are the only candidate,” he says. “I found you. I knew you could do the job, and I recommended you to him. He trusts me enough to interview you and only you.”
My brow furrows at that. “He hasn’t seen me? He doesn’t know who I am?” I ask.
“He knows who you are…logistically. An influencer of sorts. And he’s read your writing, but that’s it.”
I nod. “Alright. A blind interview. That’s fine. It’s not a first,” I say, forcing a smile. A fake smile. Because I’m lying. I always know exactly what I am getting myself into. But with Bale Resorts, I’m starting to think it’s always going to be unpredictable.
Donovan opens the door, exchanges a few inaudible words, and then nods for me to go in.
I take a deep breath, hold my head high, walk through the door, and then stop.
It closes behind me, and my expression drops from my face. My lips are slack.
It’s the man from the Sapphire.
The man with the key to my suite.
The man I slept with…
Cheese and rice, I slept with Morgan Bale!?
I blink, realizing I haven’t done that since I walked into the room. And he stares back at me. Then, he blinks too.
“Please, Miss Moore, take a seat,” he gestures. And for a moment I still only stare. Then his eyes flash back over to mine. “I’m a busy man, Miss Moore,” he says, and I reboot my brain enough to answer.
“Of course,” I say, walking over to the chair seated opposite of him at his desk.
He doesn’t remember.
He hasn’t so much as flinched. Not a stutter. No dilation in his gunmetal eyes. Nothing.
He has no idea who I am.
After a night like that…
And while that feels a little like a knife turn, I am not here to remind him. I am here to land this job.
“You’re a travel blogger,” he says.
“I am,” I answer, my throat suddenly dry.
“What does that look like exactly?” he asks.
“I have social media,” I tell him. “MooreToExplore?”
Nothing.
“It’s on Instagram. Facebook. Tikt–”
“I know what social media is,” he cuts me off, clicking the mouse to his computer.
And yet you haven’t looked me up…
Donovan was right. Morgan really does trust him. And while I know Donovan told me to speak only when spoken to, he’s not speaking enough to me for my taste.
“Do you know who I am at all?” I ask. And I’m not even talking about the other night. That doesn’t matter right now. I’m talking about me as a writer. A journalist. A traveler.
His eyes slice over to me momentarily, locking onto mine. I don’t look away. As I said before, I am not easily intimidated.
“That’s a sassy attitude for someone sitting on that side of the interview,” he states with an arrogance that definitely wasn’t there when we were both naked.
He’s different now. Colder. All business. I study his face, trying to decide if he really doesn’t remember me or if he’s just pretending.
Fine. If he wants to pretend we’ve never met, I can play that game too.
“I’ve lived through too many challenges to be scared off by a stuffy, rich man who makes his personal assistant do his homework for him,” I state, and his brows actually flash up to his hairline momentarily.
“I see.” He nods.
“I’ve traveled the world, Mr. Bale,” I state.
“As you can see. And I’ve written about every step of my journeys.
My articles have allured many, many followers.
Ratings of the places I’ve reviewed skyrocket after I walk away.
Donovan knew what he was doing when he DM’d me.
And you would be wise to hire me if you want Bale to survive the recent hit to its ego. ”
I am aware that was a lot of words. But if I’m only going to be allowed to talk in spurts, I want those spurts to pack a punch. I don’t just need this job. I am perfect for this job. Period.
With that, he sits back and studies me. His impeccable jawline is hard as stone, and yet, I swear I can see a hint of a smirk. Of course, it dissipates.
“I am going to tell you what I am looking for, Miss Moore,” he starts in.
His voice is as gravelly as I remember it.
I can practically feel it scraping across my skin in a way that makes my nerves warm.
“Because I will accept nothing less than exactly what I am looking for. Considering you have done your homework, as you put it, it is detrimental that the writer I hire for this job follows the job description to the letter.”
He waits for a response. I simply meet his gaze, which seems to prompt him along.
“If we hire you, you would be representing Bale Resorts. Your face would become our face. Every photo, every post, would be a billboard of sorts for the world to see. Not just brochures and videos like people are used to seeing from companies the size of ours. But the inside. The guests’ point of view. Which is clearly the most important.
“I want people to see what sets us apart from other resort lines. Not just the amenities, but the lengths we go to for customer satisfaction. The details,” he says.
You mean like the lipstick on the glassware and the charming front desk clerks that answer your phones? Not to mention the housekeeping losing items left in the rooms…
“I agree.” I smile. “And as you can see from my resume,” I say as I gesture at my Instagram page, which is still open on his desktop, “I have made a name for myself doing just that.”
“You have,” he agrees. “Working for me, with me, you will be traveling to a handful of resorts, one right after the other, documenting the journey as a whole. Showing the world the standard of luxury that is upheld by Bale Resorts. In turn, you will be provided with suites to stay in and unlimited dining. All expenses paid, more or less.”
“Less?” I ask. Clearly, I am not good at this whole only when spoken to thing. In my defense, he is speaking to me. He has no flipping clue who I am, but he’s talking to me. “It was a joke,” I add to clarify.
“Mm,” he hums. “Do you have any questions about the assignment?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “But–”
“Great. Donovan will provide you with the employment screening, ID photos, background check, the usual.”
But I just stare at him, my lips in an open smirk.
“Yes?” he asks, as if the decision has been made and I am now just wasting his time.
I want this job. I really, really need this job.
But I also know my worth. And I don’t love the way he is treating me, especially for a man that remembers me less than the Prince remembered Cinderella.
I know I am not in a position to power play here, but at the same time, I have never been one to grovel.
I click my tongue as I stand up, patting down my arguably adorable polka-dot dress. “I’ll let you know.”
“Let me know?” he parrots.
“Yes.” I smile as I grab my things. “I will let you, or Donovan since that’s who you do most of your communication with, know if I decide to take the job.”
“You’re turning me down?” he asks, but it comes out more like a statement. A disappointed statement. A surprised statement.
“No.” I shake my head. “I just want to weigh all of my options. But don’t worry, I won’t make you wait too long. I know your situation is urgent.”
With that, I walk out.
Did I just bury myself? Maybe. But also, who the hell does he think he is?