Taming Mr. Robinson

5. Mr. Robinson

"Well?" He asks and I realize I haven't answered his first question.

'How bad do you want this job?'

How bad do I want it?

More than he knows that's for sure, but I can't bring myself to form a single sentence.
Here I was in the presence of this man whom I'd spent less than an hour with and yet I couldn't stand him then.

And now I was applying for a full-time job to be living with him, cooking and cleaning.

I can't do this.
I can't do this.

I'm not going to spend months and maybe years with a man that would probably make me regret my existence.

I want to run out of here, I have to. I take a deep breath, ready to tell him that I'm no longer interested, but when I look back up at him, he just had a brow raised impatiently at me and I realize one thing.

He doesn't know.
He doesn't know I'm the stripper.

And for the moment, to him, I'm just some random middle-aged lady applying.
I don't have to be scared, or frightened or nervous, or naive.
Even I am, if I don't show it, he'll never see me as a person he can take advantage of.

This is a whole new opportunity, and I can be stubborn, confident, and defiant.
I clear my throat and say,

"I just don't want it, I need this job." I say, chin high and he maintains his cold stare before he reaches to the stack of papers on the table and pulls out one, then pulls a pen from his suit jacket and stares at me.

"And your name is?"

"Marcy." I say and his gaze just gets colder if possible.
Uh-oh.

"Sorry. Marcella Anne Jensen." I say and he scribbles while I walk forward, tired of standing. The minute I drop on a soft cushion chair, his cold voice stops me.

"I didn't say you should sit." He says and I get up immediately like a reflex action.

"Sorry." I mutter and inwardly curse myself.
So much for being stubborn and confident.

"Sit." He says when he is done scribbling and I cautiously sit back on the chair.

"So, Anne--"

"Actually, I go by Marcy--"

"I'll call you what I want if you're going to work for me." He says, shutting me up immediately and I nod as I drop my gaze to the plush scarlet rug.

"So, Anne. Do you have any past experiences in housekeeping?"

"Yes, I do. I used to watch over the house and be responsible for everything when my dad was sick. I'm the only girl and I've been looking after my brother for quite some time, so I can--"

"I asked about housekeeping, not a family history. Do you have past experiences?" He repeats in a low cold voice and I just nod.

"Respond." He demands.

"Yes." I say and he scribbles down more stuff.

"How do you take care of certain things?" He asks and I frown.
Certain things?
Is that a trick question?

I clear my throat then say the first reasonable thing that comes to mind.

"Depends on the quality of these certain things." I say and frown at the memory accompanying my answer.
How dad would take extra care in doing the laundry of mother's clothes that she left behind.