Art crosses the office to shake Jean-Baptiste’s hand; he shivers at the touch. “Thank you for letting me come for an interview. I appreciate it more than you know.”
Jean-Baptiste’s smile fixes in place. His pupils dart down Art’s body, back up. Art’s palms sweat anew when his host finally releases his hand and motions to the armchair opposing his own. “Please, sit.”
Jean-Baptiste wears wool slacks, a matching blue lounge jacket hanging from the back of his chair. On top he sports a white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, no tie in sight. Only a small sliver is visible where the bottom of the desk doesn’t touch the floor, and Art sees a flash of shined shoes as he sits. His outfit alone could pay for a few months of Kinsey’s rent.
Art tries not to think about his astronomically shittier shirt.
“Let’s see,” Jean-Baptiste begins, crossing one long leg over the other. He holds up a single, sparsely lined sheet of printer paper. Art jolts. It’s his resume. “I hope you don’t mind if we jump right into it. I’ve interviewed quite a few people and am anxious to return to grading my students’ essays.”
“Not at all, sir,” Art assures.
“You needn’t call me sir—I treat all my employees as family, and if this afternoon goes well, that’ll include you.”
Art scratches the back of his neck. “Then I’ll call you…?”
“Doctor Dubois is fine,” he supplies. “Or Jean.”
Art nods.
“Art—may I call you Art?—I must confess I wasn’t sure if I should expect you. You seemed hesitant when we met outside the gas station. I thought you might not come.”
“Oh, I mean… I had to think about it. I told my roommate about it and she talked me into coming.”
Shit, that’s not the right thing to say at all. How does he make it seem he’s eager and excited and never doubted the opportunity?
Jean smiles, light dancing in his eyes. “I’m glad to hear you have friends that keep your best interests in mind. They’re important. You can rely on friends when the rest of the world has turned its back on you.” Jean scribbles something down on a yellow legal pad, and Art resists the urge to check it. “According to your resume, you don’t have experience in household staffing positions. You told me as much yourself. What makes you interested in working as my butler?”
The money. “I, uh, I’d like to try it,” Art says, and quickly adds, “it seems like a rewarding profession. I like to help people.”
Jean hums, writes.
Art’s tanking this interview.
“Where do you see yourself in five years, Art?”
“I see myself with a stable job,” Art admits, because it’s all he can think of. “Maybe giving school another shot. I’d like to earn enough to pay my roommate back for all the rent I owe her.”
“It’s nice to be debt-free, isn’t it? Especially with loved ones. You mentioned school. Are you taking classes?”
“I—no, I’m not. I was, but that was a long time ago.”
“Ah. What were you studying, when you were a student?”
“Meteorology. I wanted to be on the evening news.”
“Are you disappointed you didn’t finish your education?”
Is it just him or are these questions getting increasingly personal? He licks his lips. “I’m just focusing on the future, Doctor Dubois.”
Jean leans into his high-backed chair. He hasn’t taken his gaze off of Art, something predatory in the way he lifts his chin, like he’s smelling the air. “If I may ask, I see you’ve had only one job in the last six years. Would you be so kind as to explain the gap in your employment?”
His fingers are numb. Toes, too. He expected this. Jean’s not the first person to ask. “There was a family emergency. I’ve only recently been able to look for work again.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
Art’s no fool.
Six years is a long damn time. He has no credentials, barely has a high school diploma, no experience, no references, and his shirt is a fucking calamity all of its own. This will no doubt be the shortest interview of his entire life, and he gulps as Jean glances over his resume again.
Art should have known the moment he saw Caite this job was doomed before it began, that there was no way a nobody like him could work for one of the richest men in North America. Jean licks his lips, and Art prepares for the worst.
“Your living quarters will be in the basement with the rest of the staff. If you’re missing anything, be sure to let me know and I’ll do my best to get it for you. Can you please send me the measurements for your uniform?”
Art blinks. “What?”
“Your uniform. I’ll need to get the order in right away.”
Art says again, “What?”
To his utter surprise, Jean laughs. It’s a warm sound, full and light and carefree. Art stares, and Jean leans an elbow on the desk, tilts his chin into his open palm. “You’re hired, Art.”
“I’m. Hired.”
“Do you accept?”
“Yes,” Art half-shouts, gripping the armrests to keep from leaping from his seat. “Yes, I accept! I’ll do my best, thank you so much!”
“Of course,” Jean chuckles, and his eyes gleam, somehow hungry, in the light. Briefly, Art thinks of what Kinsey said about a collection of bloody handkerchiefs. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be brilliant. I look forward to having you in the house, Art. If we’re lucky, you’ll be here a very long time.”
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