We both watch him walk away. In fact, the whole cafeteria watches him in hushed silence. Pierce Stanley doesn’t hang out in the cafeteria. Ever.
“You’re one lucky bitch,” Reece finally says when he disappears through the door.
“He just wants to talk.”
“Call it what you want. I’d do anything to get that man alone in his office.”
“Reece?”
“Yeah?”
“You need your pipes snaked.”
She scrunches her nose. “What?”
“Sex. You need sex.”
She blushes. “Some of us don’t have men falling at our feet like you.”
I laugh. “They don’t fall at my feet. They sit next to me on airplanes and invade my apartment.”
“Whatever.”
We spend the next ten minutes talking about Tuesday girls’ night. It sounds like I’m doomed for a sad love story on the big screen. It’s probably a good thing after what happened last week at the bar. I need controlled, safe, and drama free.
When we’re done, we climb in the elevator together. I can tell by the way Reece fiddles with her purse strap that she’s dying to ask me more. It’s probably better if she doesn’t; it wouldn’t be appropriate with the other occupants.
They’re still on when it comes to a stop on her floor. “I’ll call you this afternoon,” I say, reassuring her that she won’t be left in the dark. My life’s become just another romance novel to her.
“I’ll be waiting,” she replies, waving as she exits. I wait until she’s out of the elevator then rest my head back against the wall. I need to catch a break—from men . . . from life in general.
Before my mind carries me too far, the elevators dings at the twelfth floor—Pierce’s floor. I straighten up, smoothing out my skirt as I step off. The receptionist sees me right away, nodding down the hall toward Pierce’s office. I guess he really is expecting me.
I concentrate on the click of my heels on the marble floors. From the front desk to his office is exactly forty-three steps. Enough time to let all the possibilities of what he could want run at feverish speed through my mind. I felt comfortable around him the other night, but we’re back in the office. Expectations are different. Personalities shift. I’m not sure who I’ll get when I open the door.
I knock twice.
His mellifluous voice rings through the thick wooden door. “Come in.”
My trembling fingers grip the knob tightly, but I wait a couple seconds to turn it. Getting in is easy. Dealing with what awaits me inside isn’t so much.
He isn’t sitting behind his desk like he usually is. He’s every bit a masculine statue standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to me. “How was lunch?” he asks.
“Good,” I answer, not quite sure where to go since he’s not even looking at me.
“How was the rest of your weekend?”
“Uneventful,” I lie, weaving my fingers together, slowly bending my hands back and forth.
When he finally looks at me, the expression on his face hints of disappointment. The kind that makes me wish I hadn’t come up here at all. “You’re a woman of many words.”
“Sorry. I’m a little out of it today.”
In three strides he’s behind his desk, wrapping his long fingers around a tumbler half full of amber-colored liquor. He lifts one finger, signaling for me to take a seat. I do as he asks, watching him drain the last of his glass.
This Pierce is different than the relaxed one I enjoyed the company of the other night. This one intimidates me.
He sits back in his oversized leather chair, staring at me intently. “You don’t look so good, no offense.”
“Rough weekend.”
“I take it things didn’t go well after I dropped you off?”
“You could say that.” He’s crossing the line of professionalism again. The one I wish we’d never stepped over in the first place.
“Did you ask about her?” I wonder why he can’t just say her name, but I’m not as free with my line of questioning as he is.
“Not that it’s really any of your business, but we got in a fight before I had the chance.”
He sizes me, running his forefinger along the top of his empty glass. “That doesn’t surprise me. He tends to fuck things up.”
“Why don’t you just tell me?”
His skin pales. Pierce Stanley likely has very few sore spots, but I’ve hit one. “It would be better coming from him.”
Still, I push. “Will you at least tell me why you hate him so much?”
“Let’s just say we had a similar interest at one point,” he replies, narrowing his eyes.
I dig deeper. “Work related?”
He shakes his head. I’m young and naïve, but I’m not stupid. This all has to do with a woman . . . one likely named Alyssa. Whatever it is, I don’t want to get caught in the middle of it.
“That’s not why I called you up here anyway,” he says, changing the subject.
“Is there another benefit you’d like me to accompany you to on short notice?” I tease.
He smiles. “No, but I’ll make sure you get the invite first next time. By the way, I have some good news. Do you remember Wade who I introduced you to the other night?”
I nod, listening more intently.
“He wants me to bid a project in New York, and he requested a fresh eye—your eye, to be exact.”
I stare at him, dazed. There’s no way he asked for me. I’m as green as they come. “I don’t understand.”
Pierce leans forward, forearms resting on his desk. “He wants us to fly to New York on Wednesday. We’d arrive early, see the site and then fly home Thursday.”
“Do you really think I’m ready for this? I—”
“You’re ready, Ms. Fields,” he interrupts. “Your mentor showed me some of the stuff you’ve been working on. I like what I see.”
Successful businessmen. New York. First big project. It all spins like a wheel in my head. This is what I’ve always wanted—what I went to school for—but having it within my grasp scares the shit out of me. Failure is a feeling we get from not accomplishing something, but when it’s our dreams that go unrealized, it’s something far worse that burns us inside.
“It’s settled then. I’ll pick you up at seven Wednesday morning.”
He’s so sure of himself, leaving no room for argument. “Okay,” I say quietly.
“Good.” He relaxes back in his chair. “I want you to put together a mood board for a new boutique hotel. He likes modern and planet-friendly. Remember that.”
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I ALWAYS MAKE THE WORST decisions when I feel as if my life is unraveling. When I feel as if I have no control, I grasp for any thread of power I can get my fingers on. Most of the time, I end up regretting rash decisions. It’s impossible to anticipate the consequences when my mind is surrounded by dense fog.
What I’m about to do might end up being one of those decisions I’ll regret when I wake up in the morning.
I open the door to Charlie’s, hurriedly stepping inside to escape the cold December weather.
The bar isn’t anything like it is on the weekend—maybe it’s because it’s Monday or maybe it’s the snow. Charlie stops what he’s doing as soon as he notices me. I never come here when I’m not working; I don’t even want to be here when I’m getting paid.
“Did you get fired from your boring day job? Coming to beg me to give you more hours?” he teases. I had to tell him about my job at Stanley to get the night of the benefit off. He’s been waiting for me to quit ever since.
“What are you talking about, Charlie? They’d never get rid of me.” I slide onto one of the empty barstools away from the other patrons.
“Bad day at work?”
“More like bad week in life.”
He leans on the bar in front of me, watching me curiously. Charlie’s not a bad guy . . . just a little rough around the edges. “Can I get you something to drink? Alcohol solves all problems.”