Girlfriend By The Hour

Girlfriend By The Hour

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Summary

When Imogen accidentally interviews to be the social companion of Andre Lachlan, she never imagines what the job will entail.

Chapter2 (v.1) - The Interview

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 21, 2015

Reads: 2198

Comments: 4

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: February 21, 2015

A A A

A A A

It took Imogen nearly an hour to decide what to wear to the interview.

It shouldn’t have been so difficult. The position—junior marketing analyst—was barely more than an internship for her. It would be too many hours for too little pay, the work would be mind-numbingly dull, and Imogen had no great fantasies about how she’d be treated as a woman at a company most well known for its video games. She was also ridiculously overqualified for it. She had a Masters in Economics—her bosses’ boss only needed a Bachelors.

But this was Lachlan Electronics. Imogen would get in wherever she could and figure out how to score a position better fitting her education later.

She now sat in a confusingly designed but oddly comfortable chair in a fifth floor waiting room at the LE Central Office on the outskirts of Atlanta. The chair was molded from plastic the same shade of road cone orange as everything else in the room. The walls, the vertical blinds over the windows, even the vased daylilies were uniform in color, filling Imogen with unwanted, nervous energy.

As an outlet for this, she picked at the hem of her suit jacket. She knew the atmosphere at most electronics companies was casual, but she hadn’t wanted to seem lazy by showing up in her street clothes. She’d thought the black jacket would give her a professional air while the pink zig-zags showed she wasn’t afraid to have personality in the work place.

The other women—oddly enough, the other six candidates were all women—had dressed in preparation for a date night at an expensive restaurant. Three wore black dresses, one of which was so short and cut so low she risked a major wardrobe malfunction if she bent over to retrieve a pen. The fourth played up her Asian descent with a mandarin collared silk gown, woven with an elegant floral motif. The last two both wore pantsuits, but they were satin and flashy and one was desperately in need of a camisole. All six had perfect hair and flawless make-up and walked on heels of at least four inches.

And they were beautiful. Holy hell, were they beautiful. Imogen had no problem imagining any of them in the pages of a fashion magazine or portraying the hot best friend in a Valentine’s Day rom-com.

Imogen sunk down into the funky, neon orange chair, lamenting the fact she’d likely never sit in it again. She’d put on only enough make-up to give some life to her sallow complexion. She’d put nothing at all in her ash blonde hair except some cream to tame fly-aways. It hung well past her shoulders, a slightly frizzy mass of loose waves. As usual, it served no purpose except to hide her exceptionally large ears. By the time her name was called, any hope for scoring the junior analyst position was long gone. It shouldn’t have meant anything that the other girls were pretty and a little slutty, but of course it did when men were doing the hiring.

The office she entered was stark white and cavernous, bigger than the apartment she shared with Sal and their buddy, Gary. It may have even dwarfed the studio where Imogen taught self-defense, and it was far too large for the single, unimposing, glass topped desk at its center. The surface of the desk was tidy, with only three large computer monitors and a solitary, vased orchid. The walls were unadorned save for an organized bookshelf running the length of the wall to her left, a bank of windows overlooking the Chattahoochee in front of her, and a small service bar to her right.

Standing at the bar was a man in a pale blue dress shirt pulled tight across his muscular shoulders. He was bent over the bar, so all Imogen could see of him was a clean-shaven head, his skin a mellow caramel.

“Would you like something to drink?” the man offered in a rich baritone.

“No thank you,” Imogen replied politely as she nudged the door closed.

“I have champagne.”

“That’s quite alright.” Imogen studied the white chair in front of the desk. The color fit the room, but not the style. She imagined it must have been brought in for interviews. She considered sitting there now but didn’t want to come off as impatient.

“Are you sure? It’s already open. All the other girls had a glass.”

Imogen’s gray eyes narrowed. It seemed rude to decline, but the last thing she wanted was alcohol. “It’s, err, ten in the morning. I know they say it’s five o’ clock somewhere, but that would be Istanbul…and they’re mostly Muslim, so I doubt there’s much champagne there, either.”

The man chuckled. “I usually prefer my women to be less chatty, but I suppose I badgered you into that. But keep that in mind if you get the job. And if I offer you something, you take it.”

Imogen shifted awkwardly. She’d expected sexism in the workplace, but not before the interview even began. “Uhh, okay?”

“Ahh, there it is,” the man rumbled appreciatively as he snagged a bottle from the shelf. He finally faced Imogen as he displayed his find for her.

She swallowed hard as she took in the vibrant, piercing eyes that dwelled somewhere in the inbetween of jade and topaz, the long eyelashes, the wide, dark lips that hinted at his mixed heritage. An hour into the workday and already his slate tie was loose, his collar unbuttoned. Of course it was—every photo Imogen had seen of Andre Lachlan, founder and CEO of Lachlan Electronics, showed him slightly disheveled.

“Would you like a glass of Tasmanian Rain? It’s…ahh…” His words faltered as he studied her. His eyes roamed from the flat hair, across the bargain rack jacket and its modest, knee length skirt, down the black stockings to her conservative flats. His inspection was not flattering. “It’s actual Tasmanian rain water,” he continued finally. “Collected from, ahh…I’m sorry, I just don’t understand what you were going for with your, mmm, look here.”

“At this point, I don’t either.” Imogen laughed awkwardly. If nothing else, she’d have a funny story about how she met Andre Lachlan and he insulted her over a bottle of overpriced water.

Andre shrugged and turned back to the bar to snag two glasses. “Whatever, I have my morning cleared for this. We’ll give it a whirl. Go ahead and have a seat.”

Imogen did so gratefully, primly crossing her legs at the ankles and resting her pink, canvas briefcase on her lap. She knew she should put it down, but it was a lifeline. There was no way she would have any pride intact by the time this interview was over. She didn’t want to further humiliate herself by leaving with tail between her legs, only to have to return five minutes later because she’d forgotten her bag.

Andre was completely at ease as he handed her the glass and sat in his much nicer chair, a leather wingback mounted on caster wheels for the comfort of home and the convenience of office furniture. “Try it,” he urged of the water.

Imogen sipped it and nodded appreciatively. It tasted like water. Maybe not Atlanta water, but definitely comparable to the rural aquifer water she’d grown up on.

Andre leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “So tell me about yourself, Miss, err…” He leaned forward to read the computer screen then resumed his reclined position. “Miss Zelenka? Am I saying that right?”

Imogen nodded. She had an entire speech prepped for this question. She’d given it several times already and had two job offers she was holding off on in case things went well here. Her previous speeches had been given to middle management and HR employees, though. In the face of a CEO, she blanked. “I was…erm…born and raised in Atlanta,” she started, immediately realizing this was worthless information—and fallacious at that. He would never learn her true origin, not with even the most thorough background check, but it was a weird thing to share. “Oh, I received my Bachelors in Finance from UGA in 2008, after which I worked in securities. I just received my Masters in Economics in May, and now I’m—“

“Really?” Andre interrupted. “What on Earth brought you here then?”

Imogen glanced away nervously. She’d been hoping she wasn’t going to have to explain that so early, if at all. The last time she’d been so overqualified—when she’d spent the summer as a gas station attendant even though she’d just earned her under-graduate—her employer hadn’t even noticed her education. “Umm, I feel it’s important to start at the bottom, Mr. Lachlan, and work one’s way up.”

Andre’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You realize the opportunity for advancement in this…position…is next to zero, correct?”

Imogen’s fingers flew back to her hem. She thought she’d given the right answer. Why else would anyone want to be a junior analyst if not to one day be a senior analyst? Or something more glamourous within the company, anything. “I, erm, guess I just meant for the connections then,” she mumbled.

“Look at me and enunciate,” Andre growled, breaking his lazy façade. Imogen’s eyes shifted rapidly between her hem and the irritation radiating in Andre’s eyes. She didn’t know how brown could look so cold, but it sent a tremor down her spine. She closed her eyes, but she could still feel his intensity bearing down on her.

“Did you even read the non-disclosure agreement?” he asked. “There won’t be connections.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Imogen snapped back too quickly, cursing herself for her rude tone but hell, like anything was going to save this interview. “An NDA? Why would I have signed one?”

Andre huffed out an irritated breath as he reached into one of his drawers and pulled out a sheet of paper. He handed it to her. Sure enough, it was an NDA. Why the hell he kept them just lying around mystified Imogen. It was a common enough document but not one typically kept on hand.

She scanned the document quickly as she took Andre’s proffered pen. It was all legalese, a language at which Imogen was proficient. No discussing the nature of this interview, neither the position nor anything discussed. Should she take the position, she could not even state she was his employee except with a significant other, who would also have to sign an NDA. During her employment, she could not speak to the press on any matter at all. If coerced, her only comment was to say ‘No Comment.’

About anything.

This was the weirdest document she’d ever read, but it wasn’t like the press had any interest in her or she had all that many people who cared about her job. She’d need Sal to sign an NDA—in the unlikely event that she got the job—but that wouldn’t be a problem.

She signed it and handed it back over.

Andre accepted it with a cordial smile. “You read it. That’s…different.”

“I worked in securities for four years,” she reminded him. “I read all documents.”

“And having read it, are you still interested in the position? Even knowing you won’t have any connections from it?”

He spoke with complete confidence, but Imogen knew better. Simply existing at an office made connections, even if water cooler conversation was muzzled. She returned his smile. “Absolutely, Mr. Lachlan.”

He leaned back and tapped one graceful index finger on his lip. Again he was studying her face, but he didn’t seem so alarmed this time. He tilted his head to the side in consideration.

“Stand.”

Imogen blinked, at first unsure of what he said. When he made a small urging gesture, she stood up out of her chair.

“Come over here, to the side of the desk.”

Imogen again felt awkward at his examination, even more so when he told her to walk to the door and then back to him. Her eyes darted around the room on her return, desperate to look anywhere but Andre. He was a handsome man, to be sure, one she knew women to swoon over. He was also highly respected in his field, and all accounts of him described a professional, respectful man.

And yet, this felt an awful lot like sexual harassment.

“You may take your seat,” he said when he was satisfied with her lap around the office. He continued to stare at her for a moment before saying, “Fuck it. I don’t know what the agency was thinking when they sent you, but this could work.”

No agency had sent Imogen, and she had no idea how her walk proved she’d be any good at analyzing market trends. Andre’s words summed it up perfectly, though: Fuck it.

“You won’t regret it, Mr. Lachlan!”

He shrugged. “I probably will, but that’s the same for all of you.” He produced another document from the drawer. Imogen eagerly took it from him and read the title.

 

Employment Agreement

Companion to Mr. Andre Lachlan, CEO Lachlan Electronics

 

Imogen glanced up, confused. She turned the paper back enough so that he could see what she was reading. “Wait, I don’t understand this. What does this mean, companion?”

Andre casually slid the document from Imogen’s hands. “I’m…starting to understand what’s happened here. What position do you believe to be interviewing for, Miss Zelenka?”

“Junior Marketing Analyst.”

The corner of Andre’s lips quirked up. “Why on Earth would I be interviewing junior marketing analysts?”

Imogen shrugged. “I thought it was weird, but I didn’t want to say anything. Maybe, you know, you’re into that sort of thing or…” Her words trailed off, having nowhere to go. It wasn’t even irritating how poorly this interview was going, not anymore. It was downright laughable. She chuckled. “What were you actually interviewing me for?” she asked, then sipped her water.

“My girlfriend.”


© Copyright 2017 chloecomplains. All rights reserved.

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