Hot Coffee (The Hollens)

Chapter 7 (Layers)

Ethan Hollen's POV

Who puts salt in coffee? Should I regret ever hiring Miss Cole?

My heart had felt her pain when she came to my office for the interview. For a young woman she had

already experienced a very difficult life. My grandmother had taught me when someone is down in life it

is not wise to throw more bricks at them, but, instead, it would be wise to help them up. Growing up, I

rarely saw both of my parents. They were usually busy traveling on business deals, vacations, and

having holiday celebrations without me. I'd been forlorn, but my grandmother took me under her wing

and grew me up as the man she felt I ought to be.

I had been looking at Emma in the kitchen while she made my coffee. She was very slim and all she

wore were big clothes that looked like rags. Her face was always the same, no makeup or lipstick to

pop her facial features. Yesterday she'd spilled the coffee all over the floor in my bedroom. I noticed

she had remade it, but I wasn't in the mood anymore. That was the start of a crappy day-- I was angry

with everyone in the office.

Today she delivered my coffee, again, and it tasted of pure salt. Salt! Was she doing this to me on

purpose because I yelled at her yesterday? Who cared, I was the damn boss and she startled Sharon.

My beautiful fiancee was wondering what kind of fool I had hired.

I continued dressing while looking at her on the CCTV. Was she remaking a coffee for herself? I

laughed as I saw her spit it out in the sink and rinse out her mouth with water. She stared at a bottle of Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

milk then emptied the contents into the sink and disposed of the container.

What was wrong with that milk? I wondered, but I was already running a bit behind. I finished getting

ready, took my briefcase and headed out. I called Jermery, one of my personal drivers, since I wasn't in

the mood for driving. I hadn't had my caffeine and my brain was swirling.

I arrived at my tower twenty five minutes later. I had two more people coming in for interviews. I sat at

my desk and remembered the lie I told Emma about the position already being filled, and the episode I

had with her and the coffee.

A knock came on the door, erasing my thoughts of crazy Emma. A tall blonde woman walked in with a

skirt above her knees that hugged her a bit too tight. The shirt she wore wanted to be set free from

those engineered boobs bursting out of it. The heavy red lipstick was starting to hurt my eyes, and her

long nails made my skin crawl. It was all just too much but, nevertheless, I allowed her to take a seat.

"Have you had any experience in this role before or a role similar to this?" I asked after I told her what I

expected from my personal assistants.

"Well," a smile came over her red velvet caked lips, "I don't have the experience, but I'm willing to

learn."

She was holding the tip of her pen to her lips, and I got the distinct impression that she was flirting with

me. I was not one of those guys who would mess around with some bimbo just because she wanted a

job. Women like that could put you in a very dangerous position, and not in a good way. They could

ruin your image, tarnish the name of your company, and drag you down with them.

"You have exactly thirty seconds to get out of my office."

Her eyes, covered by thick false eyelashes, opened wide with disbelief before she stood and exited.

What is wrong with these women? I thought to myself, shaking my head.

I called for the next person, hoping it was someone better, but this one was worse. She had to about

eighty percent plastic: her boobs, butt, facial features. She was dark in complexion but had on a blonde

weave or a wig, or whatever that long straw-thing was, blue lips, blue nails, and a blue dress to

complete her already clownish look.

I didn't like demeaning women, but they did it to themselves. For Pete's sake, you're coming to an

interview, not going to a strip club. One is supposed to look professional and to be professional. I had

standards, and I was not dropping them for anyone, especially those type of women. They got under

my skin. And my fiancee was becoming one of them.

Why can't they just look like Emma? No makeup, no tight clothing, no expensive clothes that

scream hooker. Suddenly, I caught myself. What are you doing, Ethan? Why are you thinking about

your maid? You hired her out of pity and nothing more.

I gathered my thoughts as I dismissed the second woman before she had a change to take a seat. I

had seen enough. I didn't care if they had more education than the president, I just wanted them out of

my sight.

____

At lunch Sharon came to see me. She had her hair done and was wearing my favorite perfume. I

immediately claimed her lips and pulled her onto me on the chair. She let out a moan as I trailed kisses

along her neck; I stopped when I saw a red mark. Was that a fucking hickey?

"Why you'd stop?" she asked and began to kiss me.

"What's this?" I asked as I dug my finger into the spot with intentions of causing pain.

"Ouch, Ethan! What the hell! It was a mosquito bite."

Mosquito my ass. That's what she calls them these days.

I didn't trust her; ask me why I was marrying her, I had no idea. Maybe it was because my grandmother

was always asking me when I was going to settle down and claimed she wanted to have great

grandchildren before she died.

I met Sharon at a fund raiser the company hosted the previous year in Miami. She had been talking to

my best friend, Martin, then he introduced us and she was hinged to me ever since. I bedded her that

very night so I always asked myself if she was that easy. She said it was the alcohol, and how she

wouldn't sleep with a man unless he wines and dines her twenty times, and there had to be a

connection.

"Baby, we're getting married. What do you really think of me?"

I gently but firmly took her off of me, grabbed my jacket and started to the door. "Lets go get lunch, I'm

hungry," I said and turned back to her.

She shook her head and followed suit.