“Lainey.”
He waved his hand dismissively, and the fluorescent lights glinted off his manicured nails. “Whatever.” And then he muttered something that sounded a lot like “not that I’ll need to get to know your name, anyway.”
Um, that was not comforting. Whatsoever. Even though asking about previous employees was decidedly a bad idea, I just couldn’t sign another confidentiality waiver until I knew what exactly I was up against. “How long was the last person in my position employed here?”
“Two weeks.”
I swallowed hard. Okay, no big deal. Maybe they were a total dud and lacked the skills to be a second assistant. “And the person before that?”
“A week.”
Well, crap. “Oh.” I kept a smile plastered on my face all the way back to my desk, not wanting him to see me sweat. Seriously, was this how other companies in Seattle worked? Revolving door positions, everyone as disposable as a to-go cup?
This position was not dispensable to me. I had to make this work, so I had to show Mr. Starr just how invaluable I could be.
I plopped down in my swivel chair, and after signing my life away with the paperwork, I pulled up Craig Willington’s media account. Jackson had shown me how to gain access to the Cloud drive with all pre-approved photos from each celebrity. As part of my job description, I was in charge of posting on their social media sites and building their fan base.
Craig had sent over three pictures this morning—selfies on his boat, taken with his girlfriend, country music star Miranda Rivers. He had a blocky chin with a smattering of stubble, and the gap between his two front teeth was ten shades of charming. Miranda was in her typical peach-colored eye shadow and ruby red lips that glistened in the sunlight. I let out a sigh and stared wistfully at the photo. If I were reposting to my own page, I’d tag it #lifegoals. But this wasn’t my personal account—made apparent by my lack of arm candy and dismal bank account. Ah, the glamorous life of a postgrad student. Once I paid off Mom’s expenses, I’d be in the clear to make poor life choices with my newly acquired cash flow. In the meantime, “getting crazy” was code for Netflix and frozen pizza.
My legs bounced as I hunched over the desk and stared at the images, deciding what to say. This was my first account, my first post, and I really wanted to get it right. Craig had fifty thousand followers—a smaller following than other clients in the firm, but I planned to change that. They deserved to be as entertained by him as much offstage as at a country music concert. After Jackson gave me his account yesterday, I went home and looked up all his music and live performances. This guy was heading straight for platinum records. It was only a matter of time.
Mulling it over for a few minutes, I decided on:
Craig_Willington: Sailing into the sunset with my lemon drop, @MirandaRivers.
I smiled, satisfied with my idea. Fans would totally eat that up since “Lemon Drop” was his latest chart-topper. Within minutes of hitting send the post already had two thousand likes and shares.
Jackson strode over to my desk a few moments later and plopped his perfectly pressed khakis on top of my notes I’d taken from the manual and our whirlwind office tour. When I didn’t acknowledge him in the amount of time he deemed appropriate, he cleared his throat loudly and shifted on the desk, crinkling my notes. Asshat.
I looked up at him, pressing my lips into a smile. “Yes?” My mother always told me to kill ’em with kindness, and I wasn’t about to get sassy on my second day with someone who smelled of arrogance and a few too many spritzes of Dolce and Gabbana cologne.
“As much as I love babysitting, I take my lunch at eleven thirty, which means you take yours at twelve. During that time, if there is an emergency, text me. Do not go to Starr—he doesn’t like to be bothered by anyone when he’s working on a new project, especially by a newbie like you.” He scribbled down his number on a sticky note, tore it off the pad, and plastered it to the bottom of my computer screen.
“Don’t screw anything up, capisce?”
“Okay.” I mean, really, was there anything else to say? Jackson wasn’t rolling out the welcome mat. Not that I expected him to—I had to earn it here and was determined to show him I was more than capable. I wouldn’t have minded a little polite chit chat, though.
“Good. Wouldn’t want to get canned your first week,” he singsonged as he pressed the button to the elevator.
No pressure or anything.