A Tinder Date With The Alpha

Anonymous CEO

Olivia

“Good luck, sweetie,” Isabella yells as I hop out of her car and onto the curb. “Don’t be nervous, alright? The job is already yours.”

I roll my eyes, embarrassed because she just dragged the attention of some passersby.

“Thanks, Isa.” I force a smile as she drives away. With a sigh, I turn around and look up at the Barlowe edifice as it stands erect in its glory. I’ve seen it while walking down these streets, on the internet, and in magazines, but never this close.

I push my left hand into the pocket of my trench coat and hold my purse with the other as I walk into the building.

“How may I help you?” A female receptionist asks, a smile plastered across her face.

“I’m here to meet Mr. Barlowe,” I say.

She frowns, “do you have an appointment?”

“No…not really.” I hesitate, “he messaged me yesterday saying he had a job offer for me. So…”

The receptionists' laughter interrupts me and I watch as she laughs, her hand to her mouth.

“Mr. Barlowe doesn’t message anyone to offer them jobs. He has people to do that for him. That message could have been from anyone…any fake account,” she says.

Nervous, I open my purse and get my phone out, scrolling to Mr. Barlowe’s message.

“May you please have a look at the message,” I plead with her but she doesn’t take the phone.

“You have no valid invitation or appointment ma’am, sorry I can’t help you.” She says.

Disappointed, I walk to the waiting area and take a seat. Teardrops fall onto my phone’s screen and I wipe at them with the hem of my trench coat, the action only spreading the liquid all over the screen. Unable to stop the tears, I walk to the bathroom and cry some more. I don’t know what kind of job Mr. Barlowe was going to offer me but I know I need it. Not that I don’t have a job, I have one but it’s the low-paying kind. My salary as a community school teacher is too little to even support me and that’s why I depend on my sister for almost everything-food, shelter, and everything in between.

I open the tap in front of me and splash water across my face. I pull a paper towel from the dispenser next to me and wipe the water off my face, and then I take a deep breath before walking out of the bathroom.

“Ma’am.” The receptionist calls as I walk past her and I stop, “Mr. Barlowe will meet you in the next five minutes. Follow me.”

I frown in confusion and follow quietly behind her. The thing with desperation is that it makes you a puppet. You’d do anything for anyone just to get past it and that’s what I’m doing right now. If I were in a stable financial situation, I wouldn’t be following this lady into the elevator and up to the highest floor considering our earlier interaction.

The elevator stops and she exits, me still following behind her.

“You may sit there and wait for him,” she says, leading me into an office and leaving immediately. I take a seat opposite the desk I assume is Mr. Barlowe’s and look around the office. It’s not a surprise that I can’t find what I’m looking for-a picture of him. He’s famous but no one-except for the people that work for him and his family of course-has seen him. There are no pictures of him in magazines or on the Internet, nothing at all. Rumors are there though, that he’s old and ugly enough not to show his face to the world. Other rumors are that he doesn’t even exist and that Barlowe is just a uniform name representing a group of men running restaurants and most businesses in New Zealand.

Who cares anyway? No one, right?

I hope so.

I hear footsteps and I fidget in my seat, sliding my palms along my pants as if straightening them. My jaw drops when Dillon walks into the office and takes the seat just behind the desk. I look at the door and then at him, wondering what on earth is going on.

“I hear the receptionist did not welcome you politely, she’ll apologize after this meeting.” He says, linking his fingers together on the desk.

“Dillon, I’m not here to see you. I’m here for Mr. Barlowe,” I say, standing up to leave.

Dillon turns his desk tag and I lose my balance, falling back into my seat. He can’t be the CEO of all the Barlowe businesses here. This can’t be the anonymous yet famous Mr. Barlowe.

“I know you’re a poor community school teacher and I have a niece who needs to be homeschooled, do you want that job?” He asks nonchalantly.

My mouth can’t form any words, it’s as if I’ve lost my ability to speak so I just sit there and stare at him. His amber eyes hold my gaze as if joining an undeclared eye contest. When he frowns, my attention immediately shifts to his black bushy eyebrows and then to his pompadour hairstyle. Given a vintage suit, he’d be a character from an 80’s film. That thought makes me want to laugh. The tap of his fingers against the desk snaps me out of my thoughts.

“How old is your niece?” I ask.

He opens the drawer and withdraws a file, sliding it across the table towards me.

“Sign that if you want to get yourself out of that poverty state.”

I look down at myself, wondering what about me makes him think I’m in a state of poverty.

He clears his throat.

I pick the file off the desk and sign it without even reading it, that’s how desperate I am. Many people would kill to work for this man and here I am, signing a contract with him at his request.

I slide the file back to Dillon and he puts it back in his drawer.

“Your job starts now.” He says, standing up, “Let’s go.”

I stand up and follow him into an elevator. Standing next to him, I realize just how short I am despite wearing stilettos or maybe how tall he is. He’s so tall-approximately seven feet-and huge. I move a few steps to the side and away from him, leaning against the walls of the elevator as it goes down.

The elevator doors open and he thrusts his hands into his pockets, walking out. I scurry behind him, unable to match his pace.

He makes an abrupt stop and I bump into his back, dropping my phone to the floor. He groans as I squat to pick it up.

“I didn’t see you stop, sorry,” I say, pressing my hand against my nose where his back hit. “Ouch!”

“Ma’am,” the receptionist says behind her desk, “I’m sorry about earlier, I should have confirmed your appointment with Mr. Barlowe’s assistant.”

I nod, “it’s alright.”

Dillon proceeds and I continue scurrying behind him. He leads me to a black Chevrolet Pickup truck and gestures for me to hop in. Without giving it a single thought, I do. He begins to drive immediately and as he drives, I message my sister.

Me: I got the job.

Isa: Congratulations! Did you get to meet Mr. Barlowe?

Me: Turns out Mr. Barlowe is douchebag Dill…

My phone goes off and I didn’t bring my charger. f**k!