Calhoun's POV
So far, the interviews have all been duds.
Jordan and Mike are looking for a stand-in, someone who can take instructions and is not completely clueless. I think their standards are non-existent. They think I need to give the candidates a break.
The last candidate, Owen Foster, has just left the room. He was better than the rest but still a flicker of heat when I'm looking for a raging inferno.
I've been called a perfectionist a few times, but this round of candidates has just made me feel like I'm wasting precious time that I would much rather be investing in something else.
"Not bad, actually," Mike says as he scratches his stubbled jaw.
I suppress a snort, careful to keep my expression neutral. I see Jordan's head bob from the corner of my eye, meaning he agrees with Mike's assessment.
Today is the final day of interviews. In Mike's words, we either shit or get off the pot. Someone is getting shortlisted today, whether I like it or not.
The first round of interviews was two weeks ago, and our deliberations afterward almost ended in a brawl because I wouldn't budge.
None of the candidates made the cut in my opinion. Even though each of us had a vote and I was outvoted by both of them, I threw such a hissy fit that they had to give in.
They resented my blatant disregard for their majority vote but were also aware that carrying two-thirds of the company's workload means that I call the shots, and once in a while, I get to throw my weight around.
I know they're just waiting for me to act up today.
"Calhoun?" Jordan prompts, daring me to contradict them.
On paper, we are recruiting mid-level executives, but the job description is uniquely Jordan's, and whomever we end up hiring would be directly under his supervision, able to take over his duties over time.
We'd decided not to let HR handle the interviews since we were looking to fill an unusual role, but maybe we should have just left this to HR because I don't see this process not ending in another argument.
"Well, I suppose it wasn't a complete disaster," I allow. "He did figure out the bug in the end and worked it out."
"But?" Jordan prompts.
"His confidence and delivery could be better. We don't want to be losing deals to competitors because he's not selling his point hard enough."
"Calhoun," Mike explains patiently, "Jordan is the one going part-time. I'm still here, and the last time I checked, I handled those high-level negotiations. It's Jordan's shoes we need to be filling, not mine."
I grudgingly accept that he has a point. Owen Foster could maybe fit into the role.
If we beat him into shape hard enough.
"Sajid, what do you think?" I ask. Before inviting candidates up to stand before the panel, Sajid thoroughly vetted each to ensure that their program writing, web and software development and ethical hacking skills were up to par.
"You know, I like him. He's smart and teachable. I think the nerves got to him a little bit, but he is more confident than he appeared today, Calhoun. I would give him a chance."
"Can't argue with that assessment. Fine. Owen it is," I concede.
I expect to see Jordan's sigh of relief at my compliance, but instead, he asks, "How many more to go, Sajid?
"Three."
I shrug. "As far as I'm concerned, let's just conclude here. Owen is the best of the twenty-two people we've seen in the past two interviews combined. I doubt we'll find anyone else as promising."
"Hey, we've waited this long, we might as well finish. We may yet find gold dust in these muddy waters," Jordan says cryptically.
I narrow my eyes at him, but he keeps a stupidly straight face. Jordan has an annoying tendency to always have something up his sleeve. For some reason, he never keeps secrets from me, even going as far as telling me things that I'd blissfully live the rest of my life not knowing.
But I'm sensing this is one of those moments when he has an agenda and this time, he's left me in the dark.
I'm about to find out very quickly what it is.
As Sajid leaves to bring in the next candidate, I check my email for updates. I'm in the middle of replying to an email when I suddenly look up and suck in a deep breath in shock.
Is that…? It's her.
The fuck is she doing here?
I remember our very first conversation in Cancun.
I'm a freelance tech and security expert…
…if you piss me off, you might wake up to find your precious Acercraft all pwned up.
It's Madison. She must indeed have those skills if she's somehow found her way into this room.
I check the document in front of me to see a M. Russo. How blind could I be not to recognize that name? You'd think that name would stand out to me considering how much she's lived rent-free in my head for the last four months.
And here she is now. Black glossy curls shot through with purple piled on top of her head and falling over one side of her temple. That face that Aphrodite herself carved and finished off with full, pillowy lips.
She has a delicate frame, almost skinny. Her silk shirt is tucked into the tiny waistband of a ridiculously short leather skirt, which highlights shapely thighs and calves, and her feet are encased in heels. My fist curls.
Those fucking legs.
My gaze swings back up, and I meet eyes that remind me of dark chocolate. She smirks.
Yeah, it's her, alright. Smirking, sassy, little thing. Even though Madison is a dream to look at, she's too damn prickly.
I notice Jordan has a triumphant smile on his lips.
I'm going to kill him. He knows there's no way in hell that I'd let this woman in here. He saw what happened in Cancun and admitted he'd never seen anyone annoy me like she did.
In as much as I don't do well with chaos and lack of control, I'm particularly less tolerant of it happening where I work, and Jordan knows this.
I clear my parched throat. "Well, Ms. Russo. You have the floor."
"Thank you, Calhoun."
I look up sharply at her casual use of my first name. It's Mr. Kennedy to you. I bite my tongue and grind my teeth.
If Sajid or Mike are surprised by her lack of formality, they don't show it.
"Gentlemen," she begins, looking around the room like we're her minions, "I know you've seen this code debugged repeatedly by other candidates, and I have also done the same. But I thought to make things a bit interesting by introducing to you a program I've just now created that will redefine the way we approach debugging."
Hey, hang on, a program? She's only meant to provide a corrected code!
"Imagine if we had a tool that not only automates the process but also continuously learns from the code itself. This prototype," she says and makes a sweeping motion towards the screen, "is BUG-fix."
As she continues, I look around to see their reactions to what Madison is saying. They're hanging on to the edges of their seats.Cocking my head, I look back at her.
Good God. This is what you call a fucking presence.
The moment she opened her mouth, she had the room by the throat. The only other person I know who holds that kind of command over an audience is Mike Waldrow, and he doesn't wear a belt for a skirt, have killer legs, or possess lips made for sin, which happen to be encased in red lipstick at the moment.
I watch her with grudging admiration. There's something lethal about Madison. Strong, seductive. I look at Mike, Sajid, and Jordan halfway through her presentation, and I know the gig's over.
Do they even hear what she's saying?
Not that it matters. Even if she were talking gibberish, they're goners. But she's not. She's brilliant.
She solved the problem and even created a version control system so that it never becomes a problem again. By the end of her fifteen minutes, Jordan looks like he's discovered a treasure. Mike and Sajid may as well have had an eargasm.