2| Profession

☼Willow☼

My hand picked at the fabric of my pants for the umpteenth time making me want to rip the whole thing off my body.

My nerves were racking. My whole body was being consumed by nervousness and it started to make me feel insecure. It made me feel like I was overdressed for this interview. I wore a navy-blue button-up shirt that had long sleeves with ruffles and paired it with black, high-waist palazzo pants that flare from the waist and were wide throughout the leg. I chose to wear black flats and to complete everything my ginger hair was slicked back and secured into a neat low ponytail.

How does it make me feel? It makes me feel like I travelled 40 minutes from my apartment to come interview for the spot of a personal assistant in some big company, that's how it made me feel. I'm having serious second thoughts about my outfit. I should've just worn my summer dress with a loose cardigan over it.

I released the hold that I had on the file that was sitting on my lap so that I could run my sweaty palms down my knees. My legs bobbed back and forth methodically, and I didn't understand why my back was trickling with sweat even though the office I was contained in had a blasting AC in it.

Oh yes, maybe it's because I'm about to be interviewed by Lorenzo fucking Moretti, the richest businessman I've ever known to exist and the fact that several rumors are going on about him being a part of the mafia chain doesn't help.

I let out a shaky breath and tried to force a smile on my face. My eyes skimmed the office that the maid brought me to. It was almost as big as my living room; the wooden floors were covered by a thick grey carpet, but I could see from the corners that weren't covered how polished the floors were. I sat in front of a large mahogany table that was inhabited by neatly stacked papers, paper clips, sticky notes, a jar of pens,  and a laptop.

There were two shelves in the room, each occupied by neatly arranged books and a few figurines. The walls of the house seem to be in a unique uniform colour, some walls were painted white with splotches of red and black while others were painted black with splotches of white and red. The design was intricate, whoever painted this house deserves an award of patience because each of the splotches were delicately traced with gold accents making the walls look expensive.

The sound of the large door behind me opening sent me springing out of my seat. I felt like I was going to shit myself from how my stomach keeps churning from anxiety.

It felt like fucking hours before the door closed and all this while I was trying to keep my smile to the minimum and show no teeth because I cannot look like a creep when I'm about to get interviewed as a nanny.

Oh my God, I want to die!

I didn't even look back, even though I could hear the heavy footsteps approaching.

Is it rude not to look? Is it rude to look? Well, I don't fucking know!

However, my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth when a body came into view. I refused to blink for the life of me when a face I could easily recognize took a seat behind the desk. Lorenzo Moretti looks the same, only a bit mature. 

Compared to 8 years ago when I saw him on TV his hair was short, and his dark brown hair was longer now. He was wearing it in a deep side part, it was swooped to the right side and the rest of his hair rested a few centimetres below his jaw.

"Good morning, sir," I greeted, bowing my head a little.

When I looked back up there was a smile on my face and I knew he could tell it was a nervous one from the way his sea-green eyes blinked curiously at me.

I want nothing right now other than the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

He scanned my face for a minute before gesturing me to take a seat which I did without managing to embarrass myself. Mr. Moretti dropped his suit blazer which he had been holding on to on the desk and fixed the neck of his turtleneck shirt slightly before dropping his elbows on his desk, and his chin slowly propped on his intertwined fingers.

My toes pushed further into my shoes as I tried to concentrate on looking at the bridge of his nose rather than his eyes.

Should I look away? Is eye contact too much? Why am I so inexperienced!?

"Age?" His voice broke the silence.

He spoke calmly but his voice was deep, it made shivers run down my spine.

"25, sir," I answered, trying to sound as calm as he was.

He nodded absentmindedly, keeping his eye on me as he asked another question.

"Name?"

"Willow Bardot, sir,"

"Student?"

"A graduate, sir,"

"Major?"

"Childcare Education, sir,"

"Relationship status?" His accent was there when he spoke more than one word.

"Single, sir,"

"Height?"

"5 foot 6 inches, sir?" I answered but the end sounded more like a question because I was confused why he was asking me all of this when I brought all my papers with me. What does he even need my height for?

"Tell me what you know about me." He demanded making me blink twice at him.

He scrutinised my confused face when I didn't start right away, his head tilting to the side as if to ask me what was stopping me, some of his hair falling and covering his eyes in the process.

"Your name is Lorenzo Mor–"

"Lorenzo Dante Moretti." He corrected calmly, making me almost bite my tongue.

Well, excuse you, sir, I've never seen any 'Dante' appear next to your name online.

"I now know that your name is Lorenzo Dante Moretti, and you are a single father of two kids, Lucas and Isabella Moretti. 

Their ages 8 and 4–"

"I asked what you know about me, not my children." He corrected again, making me grip the file on my lap hard.

"I know that you are a successful businessman, and you don't like to appear in public eyes often. You travel mostly at dawn or late at night." I finished with the fakest smile you could ever imagine. "That's all I know, sir."

Mr. Moretti made sure to scrutinise my face for an extra second before taking a deep breath and leaning away from his desk. I mentally whacked myself for watching how his muscles flexed under that tight shirt.

Get it together, Willow.

He rested his back on the plush leather seat that he was seated on and rested his arms on the armrest.

"I'm Italian," He reminded me. "¿Comé hai potuto dimenticaré?"

(How could you forget?)

Huh?

After he observed my confused face, he added;

"Do your research better next time," he said standing up from the chair. "I'll ask someone to get a car that will take you home." He said walking around the desk and making his way out of the office.

I remained where I was, gobsmacked.

So? Did I get the job or not? Did my lack of research fail me? 

Was it because I got corrected twice?

Oh, I did my research alright. I know that his wife died two years ago from lung disease, and they were planning to get divorced before she died. I did know that he was Italian, I just didn't think I'd have to say it to him.

Fuck!

Great, I messed this one up too. I sighed dejectedly and held onto my papers before standing up. I made my way to the door and twisted it open. I quietly walked down the hall trying to remember the directions to go downstairs. When I read that he lived in a mansion, I thought they just meant that he had a big house. I didn't expect it to be this big. The house was so spacious, and it had turns everywhere.

My hands gently skimmed the walls as I walked, kindly appreciating how beautiful the walls were. While doing so, a door that was a few steps ahead of me opened and a little child walked out. The child wore a white short-sleeved shirt with blue dungarees over it. He had a mop of brown hair that fell curls down his face and his lips rested in a pout as he closed the door quietly behind him.

A smile formed on my lips the moment his sea-green eyes spotted me. I watched as his eyebrows rose in surprise and his tiny hands disappeared and folded behind his back.

"Hello," I said to him, my voice soft when I spoke, making him look away. I almost cooed when I saw the blush staining his cheeks.

"H-hello," He spoke back, making my smile widen at his cute voice. "Who are you?"

"Hi, my name is Willow," I introduced myself, my footsteps coming to a halt when I stood in front of him. "I came here for an interview," I told him, crouching down to his level.

I didn't miss the way he took a step back.

"My name is Lucas," he said looking down at his sock-clad feet. "This is my house."

He was so shy, and I could tell that he was fiddling with his fingers behind his back from how his arms were shaking.

"That's awesome, I needed some help. Could you point me the way downstairs?" I asked. "Your house is so big that I got lost."

Lucas looked up at me, a shy smile lighting up his face. He looked a lot like Mr. Moretti, he had the same eyes and hair as his father.

"I won't get lost here," He told me. "I can go anywhere even with my eyes closed." He added with a full-blown grin showing that he was proud of himself.

"Oh, I'm sure you can. But I'm not sure if you can quickly remember the way downstairs." I said in mock thought as I rubbed my chin with my hand.

"Of course, I can, c'mere." He said pulling one of my fingers that was under my chin making me stand up to follow him.

Once we reached the staircase, we met with the same lady who showed me to the office. I had my interview halfway through the stairs.

"Oh, Ms. Bardot," the lady said with a heavy breath of relief. "I was just coming to get you, we have a car ready to take you home."

"I was on my way down here and I got lost but I met Lucas, and he was kind enough to show me the way," I explained, slipping my finger away from Lucas' hold and ruffling his hair.

"I know everywhere in this house, Julia," Lucas said, making Julia laugh.

"Of course, you do, son. Now let's show our guest out, shall we?" Julia said, offering me a smile and making me return one to her naturally.

"See you later, Lucas," I said to the small boy before walking down the stairs.

"Later, Willow."