Yes, Boss

one.

Flora 

They truly were the most beautiful shoes ever, a pair of black patent Louboutins, slightly pointed at the toe, perilously high but I have been practicing all week. A gift from all my friends for my 18th last month, and a good luck in the interview for Burberry. 

I tug my black pencil skirt over my hips, zipping so it fits snugly over my bum, smoothing my figure as I do the last few buttons up on my tucked in chiffon blouse. After applying one last layer of lipstick and letting my hair loose from the rollers I slip my feet into the Louboutins with a satisfied sigh, I had to get it right today. With one last spritz of Tom Ford I grab my bag and take the stairs carefully, not wanting to be late nor break my ankle. 

-

I walk in the entrance, a promotional video is playing on a large projection behind the desk, the interior is burberry signature colours. It's awfully quiet and the smattering noise of my heels on the floor is enough to make the pretty brunette receptionist look up. She must be about 25 and has sharp cheekbones and long thick eyelashes, her smile broadening as I walk upto the round desk.

"Hey are you here for the internship?" She asks, her manner perfect, as she tucks a stand of hair behind her ear, I notice her flawless french manicure and bring my own slightly chipped red nails out of sight. Fuck how did I forget? 

"Yeah" I nod, looking around the foyer further. 

"Can I take a name?" She asks, still smiling sweetly, tapping at her desktop mac. 

"Sure, Um Flora" I say, nervous already. 

"Flora.. Flora.. Flora.." She mumbles scanning down the list, and for a second I'm worried that I've made a mistake. 

"Ah! There you are, sorry, I'm on the nicotine patches and serious withdrawl, like I'm so scatty" She rolls her eyes with a good natured grin, handing me a laminated lanyard labeled visitor and gesturing to take a seat in the waiting area behind me. I turn, a row of brown leather armchairs containing gorgeous girls, mostly with impeccable outfits, hair and make-up. Most of them looking pretty hostile. 

"Hey I love your shoes!" The girl from the desk calls as I walk away, echoing in the spacious area causing all attention to draw to my already aching feet. 

"Oh, thank you" I smile, going crimson, probably, I've always been a blusher. I focus on walking gracefully to the last spare arm chair, not daring to look up. 

-

The girls filter one by one, lead by the pretty receptionist who's tanned legs go on forever may I add, each returning 20 minutes or so later handing in her visitor pass with a flick of her glossy hair. They seem so much more.. professional than me. Sure I was lucky to land this interview straight out of college with only my A-levels and a little work experience but I didn't expect this to be so intimidating.

"Flora?" My turn finally rolls around, I'm the last, as she beckons me forward and I gather my stuff feeling like this moment was never going to come, we head into the lift.

"Hey, our head of wardrobe had to dash, she's seriously sorry but it means you're getting an interview with the Co-Director aka the big man here, the C.E.O's son. Mr.Styles." She says, my stomach drops back to the first floor, is she serious.

"I.. I.. okay.. is he erm.. okay?" I stutter, stunned with the revelation.

"Sure, honey you'll be fine, he just.. loves manners" She finishes, oddly.

"Okay.." I squeak.

"Good luck" She says, patting me on the shoulder and entering the office.

"Mr.Styles, Flora is here to see you" She exchanges a few words and bows out leaving me space to enter. My knee's are practically knocking as I enter, looking at the guy behind the desk. He isn't what I expected, not at all. 

Clothed in a crisp black suit and navy tie, a few tattoos I notice litter his hands, he's tanned, with a lot of brown hair, I'd even go as far to say curls, sculpted messily, a sharp jaw line and green eyes, or are they blue, I notice I'm making an idiot of myself as he sits as his desk, that jaw set into a deep set half smirk. 

"Hi, Mr.Styles.. I..I'm Flora, nice to meet you" I manage to squeak, holding out my hand.