A reporter hoping to get her big break gets more than she bargained for.
Celia shifts in her seat, alternating between making infinitesimal last minute adjustments to her appearance and watching the clock--despite the floor to ceiling windows comprising the back wall of the penthouse office that James Henneson's assistant had guided her to.
The windows afford her a stunning view of the city skyline, but still, Celia can't tear her eyes from the sleek chrome clock mocking her as it adds minute after minute to the tally of Mr. Henneson's lateness. How embarrassing it would be to have to return to the office after her first big interview, her first chance at a worthwhile assignment, and tell them that Henneson had never even shown up. She sighs and brushes a lock of golden hair out of her face with her pen. Oh, well. At least she'll get home at a reasonable time. Episodes of her favorite soap opera were burning a hole in her DVR, and with the chiseled jawlines, piercing eyes, and large, strong hands of the actors . . . well, she'd find some way to occupy her time.
At that moment, the glass door behind her swings open, and in steps Mr. Henneson himself.
As abashed as she feels getting caught off guard thinking about the hidden contents of her sock drawer, Celia can't help but notice that Mr. Henneson checks off the first two items she finds most attractive in the soap opera actors.
She rises from the cushy chair she had been sitting in, smoothing down her skirt, which she had realized far too late--as in the moment she sat down in the aforementioned chair--is just a smidge too small and as such rides up when she sits. Celia makes a mental note to keep her legs shut.
"Ms. Smith, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."
Mr. Henneson offers his hand, and Celia notes that the final item on her checklist has been fulfilled as well. His hand dwarfs hers, and she suppresses a school-girl giggle.
Get it together, Celia. You're on assignment.
Henneson smooths the lapels of his suit as he takes a seat on the couch opposite Celia, lounging back in a way that quite gives him an air of ownership over everything in the room. Perhaps even Celia herself.
"Please, call me Celia," she tells him as she sits, too, trying to make the crossing of her legs look graceful.
"Celia, then."
His voice is honey, making Celia's mouth water, and she swallows before beginning.
"First of all, Mr. Henneson--"
"James."
"Right, James," she smiles at the taste of his name dropping so casually from her tongue. "Thank you, James, for agreeing to meet with us.
Trend Magazine
is truly honored to have the opportunity to feature you as our Man of the Year, and to give us the chance to get inside the head of someone as impressive as yourself. A self-made billionaire by the age of thirty. It's quite a feat."
James inclines his head toward her, his hand, strong and sinewy, making a practiced gesture--this is not his first time feigning humbleness, while still acknowledging his own acclaim and power.
"Ask me anything," he tells her, pouring himself a glass of amber scotch from a crystal decanter on the table between them.
And so she does, finding it remarkably easy to talk to James, even as her stomach is filled with butterflies. After the first few questions, they are trading off like old friends reunited. They cover his best tips for aspiring entrepreneurs, his favorite suit designers, most frequented vacation spot. Celia struggles to jot it all down, her handwriting turning into a frantic scrawl as she tries to focus on James' words rather than the curve of his lip, the veins in his hands, the way he emanates an easy ownership of everything around him, a cool confidence that spins Celia's head.
"And so, along with running such a widespread business empire, I expect there must also come a fair amount of stress?" Celia asks, and James laughs.
"You could say that," he takes a sip of his scotch, adam's apple bobbing. "Of course, I have the luxury of being able to delegate tasks to any number of aides or advisors, which helps. But you can't exactly delegate someone to make you relax, now can you?"
"It might be a bit beyond their employee contracts," Celia quips, brushing aside the less than professional thoughts that had begun to enter her mind. "So if you don't mind me asking, how
do
you relax when you find the stress--erm, building up?"
