Developments with Miss Wright and Miss Thompson

“Mr. Wilson?”

The middle-aged man looked up from his computer, his eyes falling on the pleasant-looking young woman who had walked in on the earlier HR meeting.

“Miss Wright,” he nodded, admiring her professional appearance. The intern wore a three-piece suit, her blazer, waistcoat and pencil skirt a striped sharp navy blue, her button-down blouse white and fastened at the collar. A little much, actually, the corporate accountant thought. Not even the female corporate officers wear three-piece suits all that often. It’s pretty rare. Maybe she’s kissing up to someone or… Francis shook off the thought.

“I – wanted to meet with you today,” she said, her voice a trifle nervous. “I would have been by earlier, but my supervisor, Mr. Jones of Marketing, has kept me busy today. I did mention him to you and, ah, he thought it a good idea for me to present myself and offer some of my time to learn from you.”

Mr. Jones? Francis arched an eyebrow. Which one? Robert or – the Mr. Jones? The CMO? Could Miss Wright be related to one of the corporate officers?

“If he doesn’t mind, I can find some work for you,” the middle-aged man said. “They may not seem relevant, but you would be helping me out greatly.”

“Of course!” the young woman beamed. “Anything I can do to help!”

“Thank you,” he turned his attention back to his computer. “I’ll be working pretty late tonight. I’m still playing catch up since my vacation a month ago and the termination of my colleagues. I’m the only Staff Accountant remaining.” Francis left unsaid how little help he was receiving from his supervisor, the company’s Controller. Not that it’s really his fault, the middle-aged man thought. Douglas has been dealing with the overflow from the loss of the CFO, who still has not been replaced after two weeks. There hasn’t even been a word in the rumor mill who might take on the job.

“Can you work late tonight?” the Staff Accountant continued. “I’ll understand if you already have plans, it being Friday, but I could really use an assistant.”

Her green eyes turned thoughtful. After a moment, she said, “I can work late as necessary. Even tomorrow if you need me to.”

“Excellent,” Francis nodded. “For starters then, I’ll need you to go out and pick us up something for dinner. I don’t have too much interest in anything specific so long as it is filling.”

“Of course, Mr. Wilson,” the brunette agreed, lifting her left arm and glancing at her stylish watch. “What time would you like to have dinner? It’s almost five now.”

“Six should be fine. And – Miss Wright?”

“Yes, Mr. Wilson?”

“I prefer to be addressed as ‘sir.’ ‘Master’ if you’re feeling a little – puckish.” He glanced at the young woman. “I know it seems a little formal, but, from you, ‘Mr. Wilson’ makes me feel old.”

“Of – of course, sir,” the intern grinned at him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ll go through the menus tacked to the board in the break room and order dinner.”

“Thank you,” Francis said before turning his attention back to the reports and datasheets spread across the trio of monitors sitting atop his desk. With a pleased smile, the young woman turned away and began to briskly walk to the break room.

Striding towards his desk, Miss Thompson eyebrow’s rose seeing the young intern stride away. Exhaling slowly, she paused beside him. The redhead took a moment to study the older man, feeling nervous about addressing him. Swallowing nervously, she spoke up. “Mr. Wilson? Can I – can I talk to you? Please?”

He glanced at the younger woman out of the corner of his eye. “You may.”

She licked her lips. “I – I want to apologize again for my behavior. It was inappropriate of me to – to disregard the chain of command as I did and not discuss my – impressions – with you first. Al – Mrs. Mitchell chewed me out pretty terribly after – after the meeting.”

“As I said earlier,” Francis said, picking up a red pen and notating the paperwork resting on the side of his L-shaped desk, “I accept your apology.”

“I – I get that,” Rhiannon said. “It’s just that – um, I – I don’t think you’ve forgiven me.”

“I haven’t.”

She lowered her gaze to the toes of her pumps and closed her eyes momentarily. “Mr. Wilson, I – I want to earn your forgiveness. I – won’t feel right until I do.”

“You honestly want to earn it?” he asked without turning away from his work.

“Yes.”

“After taking me to HR,” the middle-aged man said slowly, “That could be – difficult.”

“I – I know. I’ll – I’ll do what’s necessary, though.”

“That’s – awfully open ended,” Francis remarked.

“Yes,” the redhead admitted in a soft voice. “I – I’m hoping you’ll be a gentleman about it.”

Doubtful, the accountant thought. No matter what, you are going to pay through the nose.

“You don’t received overtime, do you?” the middle-aged man asked.

“No,” she shook her head. “Wha – why do ask?”

“Because I’m going to expect you to work the same hours I do.”

Her light brown eyes widened, her gaze lifting up from her toes. “But – I – I work for Mr. Hampton!”

“So? He rarely works past four. You can spend the others working with me as my personal assistant. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, the company would approve, getting more effort from you.”

“Well,” the redhead swallowed, “I suppose I could so long as I can prioritize Mr. Hampton during normal hours.

“Excellent, Rhiannon,” Francis said.

Her light brown eyes briefly flared at his familiarity. Push it aside, she thought. I need to get through this and get over my feelings of guilt. “Will – will you need me to stay tonight?”

Francis looked up from his efforts, lifting his eyes to the drop-down ceiling and thinking.

“Tonight? No,” he shook his head. “Miss Wright will be helping me out. But tomorrow I’ll be in. I would appreciate it if you joined me.”

“I’ll – I’ll be here,” Miss Thompson agreed, her voice catching. I’ll need to call Steve and cancel. I hope he’ll understand. She frowned. Doubtful. He’s never been happy with the hours I work. Let alone the fact I work.

“And Rhiannon?”

“Y-yes?”

“I’ll expect an appropriate presentation from you tomorrow.”

Her brow furrowed. “What – what do you mean?”

“You should dress to my professional standards,” Mr. Wilson said, knowing that his opinion of her appearance was one of the reasons she had taken him to HR. She glanced down at her full-length dress, the slightly flared hem resting around her ankles, the high waist slightly taken in, the long sleeve single-hued cotton garment incorporating a short crew neck. The woman winced. Shoot. How – how does he want me to dress? I don’t want to come in looking like a slut.

“Could – could you please tell me how th-that should be?”

“Button-down blouse, blazer or jacket, miniskirt – the specifics and the rest I’ll leave up to you, but, if you’re really interested in earning my pardon, I advise an open gusset style of hose or tights underneath your skirt.”

The redhead stared at the accountant. That’s – not too bad. I can still dress relatively plainly.

“I – can do that, Mr. Wilson,” the woman exhaled slowly.

“Good,” Francis nodded, continuing to work on the materials on the computer and the desk as appropriate. “Also, don’t call me ‘Mr. Wilson’ again. You will refer to me as ‘sir’ or ‘Master.’ I’ll leave which up to you.”

Master? The redhead swallowed fearfully. What all will he want from me? “Yes – sir.”

“One other item, Rhiannon,” the middle-aged man said. “Should you fail to me any standard I have, I reserve the right to punish you however I see fit.”

The woman winced. Darn it! I am so – so – done for! “Of – of course, sir. Can I – will there be anything else before I leave?”

His gaze flickered to towards the orange-red-haired woman. “No. Not tonight. I will see you here at my desk no later than six sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir,” she nodded, ducking her head. “I’ll – I’ll be here.”

Turning, Miss Thompson fled from his desk as fast as she could walk.

Francis shook his head, fighting back a grin. It’ll be fun to play with the prudish bitch tomorrow.