"Yes, what?"
The elevator moves up, "Let me go, the doors will be opening soon."
"Not until you complete your sentence."
"But."
"You have less than thirty seconds."
"Wait…"
"Twenty-eight"
"Fuck."
"Told ya already, that’s not on the table."
"Asshole."
"Fifteen seconds."
My heart rate ratchets up, heat flares between my thighs. OMG, I can’t be turned on. Surely not. The thought of the elevator doors opening and my being discovered, has a sick kind of appeal. The hell is wrong with me? Apparently, I enjoy being the object of his single-minded attention, something I haven’t been at the receiving end of with anyone, definitely not with my jerk of an ex either.
"Five…"
"No, of course not, you asshole."
"See, that wasn’t so difficult, huh?"
The elevator doors slide open. He peels himself off of me, steps back.
I break away, step out of the doors, which begin to close. I angle my body toward him, "Aren’t you coming?"
He yawns, leans a shoulder against the elevator walls, "This floor is for plebs."
I open and shut my mouth. Did he actually say that? The doors close.
I watch the floors scroll up on the elevator’s panel. It stops at the floor marked 'A.' Does that mean only assholes are allowed there? I snicker, then turn and march toward the reception desk.
"I am here for-"
"The pitch?" The sleekly coiffured woman behind the reception desk looks me up and down. What? Do you have to audition with your superiority complex to be hired here?
"No, the fork."
She blinks.
I stab my tongue into my cheek, "It was a joke."
"Oh!" She purses her lips. Hell, she’d be the perfect companion for the man I left behind in the elevator. Speaking of, "Why are there two receptions in this building?"
"I am the administrator to the upper echelons."
Did she say echelons? Does anyone use that word in daily speech?
Her phone buzzes. She straightens and touches her earpiece, "Yes, Mr. Sterling." Her breath hitches. "Of course, Mr. Sterling, I’ll send her up."
She glances at me.
"I heard."
I pivot, then stop. Holdonabloodysecond. I swivel around. "How many offices did you say are up there?"
"I didn’t." She huffs.
"How many?" I frown. Alphahole had gone up; he’d hinted he is the boss. Is he the person I came to meet? No, it’s not possible. My heart begins to race. "Tell me."
She frowns, scans her nails, "I can’t give out private information—"
I grit my teeth, force my lips to curve in the semblance of a smile, "Please, this could change the outcome of the meeting I am about to go into. I really need to be better prepared for whatever is coming."
She frowns, then jerks her chin, "One, just one, Mr. Sterling’s."
6
Summer
I walk out of the elevator. This time, the trip had been accomplished mercifully alone, thank you very much. I get off on the ‘Asshole’ floor then move forward to the conference room at the very end, as directed by the second receptionist.
She'd cautioned me that Mr. Sterling hates to be kept waiting.
What a surprise, huh?
I glance past the doors that open off the corridor. The entire floor is hushed. The faint scent of leather and cigar smoke clings to the walls. The place smells like the inside of an old boy’s club.
Figures. Of course, alpha asshole is a chauvinist.
Probably went to boarding school with other rich toffs, all of whom are now top politicians and captains of industry. Bet he could call up anyone to get a favor done for his company. That’s how he’d established his company so quickly. Okay, maybe that was uncharitable. By all accounts, 7A had been set up by him and his partners and they’d built it up from scratch.
Though Sterling is in charge of the marketing, which is why I am meeting him. Just my luck. My shoulders droop as I approach the massive double doors of the conference room. Ornate woodwork laces the frame. There’s a knocker with a lion’s head on it in place of the handle. I blink. My fingers twitch. Before I can stop myself, I’ve grabbed the knocker. Slam it down, do it. Not as if you’re going to get the account so why keep the pretense up, eh?
For Karma, yeah. Okay. Do it for Karma. She deserves you giving this your best shot. I push open the door and enter.
A rectangular glass table stretches the length of the room. There are at least ten chairs clustered around it. One wall is taken up by a white projection screen.
I walk around, until I am facing the table. I have a PowerPoint on my laptop. Which means I have to plug in my computer, or plug in my usb fob with the deck. Should have taken a print-out, but there hadn't been enough time. Okay, don’t panic. Deep breath. You can do this.
I drop my tote bag onto the table, pull out my fob, and pivot to face the screen. I spot the console to the side, and walk up to it… How the hell does it open? I press down on the surface. Nothing. To the right… left… What the—? The hair on the nape of my neck rises.
"You won't need that."
A shiver runs down my back. I’d known it was him seconds before he had spoken.
"Of course, I will." I continue to flutter my fingers over the console, and it slides back. Whew!
I shove my fob into position, then straighten. His scent envelops me. Bergamot and fresh cut grass, saturated with testosterone. I gulp, walk toward the table.
He clicks his tongue. "You’re going in the wrong direction."
I whip around, and he drums his fingers on his massive chest.
"I don’t have much time."
I swallow. Of course. He is the client; this is his office. He knows where everything is.
"Fine." I round the table, drop into a chair.
"Didn’t give you permission to sit."
I stiffen. "Controlling much?"
He drums his fingers on his chest, "I can't tolerate childish tantrums. Clearly, you don’t have what it takes to manage our account." He pivots on his heels, heads for the door.
In that moment, I have never hated anyone more. Superior jackass with a God complex. If I didn’t need his business desperately, I’d have told him that to his face, too.
"Wait."
He keeps going.
"Hold on, please."
He opens the door.
"Look, I'm sorry. I apologize. I shouldn't have said that."
"Too little, too late." He glares at me, "You should have thought of that before you directly contradicted me."
The blood fades from my cheeks. What am I doing here trying to negotiate with a man who has clearly lost touch with reality so much that he doesn’t see anything except the tip of his own nose? His strong patrician nose that hooks above a square jaw and hints at the strength of his obstinacy. A strong will that could crush me if I let it.
If you give in now, you are going to regret it.
I need his business, and if I show my desperation, I can kiss any hope of gaining his account goodbye. No, it is time to change course. To hold my own, to fight him at his own game, with his own tactics. Say something, anything, to keep him here. I gulp, then toss my head, "Fine, leave then."