“Need to take a break from this?” he asks, stretching his legs out beside mine in the opposite direction. His dark skin makes mine look ridiculously pale, to the point of appearing sickly. Maybe I should hit a tanning bed or something, but I know that will just cause me to break out in a rash of freckles.
When I don’t answer, he pops to his feet and holds his hand out. I take it, letting him haul me up from the mat.
“I don’t need a break,” I finally say, tugging a glove off. “I just need to prioritize my time better.”
“Well, I miss training you, kiddo,” he says, bopping me lightly on the top of my head, which I barely feel because of the padded gear I’m wearing.
“And I miss training,” I reply earnestly. And more than the training, I miss Duane, who has felt a bit like a father figure to me, much the way Rich has. While neither can replace my dad, it’s nice to have strong, stable men as role models in my life.
I glance up at the clock on the wall, one of those old analogs that have a metal grate over it, which is bolted into a stud so no one will steal it. “I need to get going.”
I have to take a shower, get back to One Bean for a few hours, and then off to my late afternoon appointment at Olympic Dreams.
“Text me to let me know when you can come back in,” he says, holding his gloved hand out.
I bump it with mine. “I will.”
And I resolve to make more time for this, because it’s one of the few hobbies I have and it’s something I genuinely love doing.
* * *
Olympic Dreams is headquartered on the third floor of an office building several blocks west of One Bean. I decide to take the bus rather than drive because it’s raining, and I don’t want to walk to the garage for my car when one bus stop is right outside the coffee shop and the other is just one block down from Olympic Dreams. An umbrella is adequate protection for that brief walk, and it will keep my hair from frizzing.
I managed to get my hair halfway decent after my shower at the gym by pulling the riot of curls away from my face and securing them with a large barrette. Fallon always says wearing my hair back does wonders for my cheekbones, and I’ll just trust her on that. I also took a few extra minutes to put some makeup on, mostly concentrating on my eyes. I even put on a beautiful skirt and blouse Fallon loaned me that probably costs more than I make in a week. The only thing I wouldn’t compromise on was a pair of super high heels she tried to insist on. Instead, I’m wearing a pair of my own modestly low heels so I can walk more naturally.
The lobby of Olympic Dreams is quiet. There’s no one else in here besides the beautiful receptionist behind a glass-and-chrome desk. I choose a leather couch along the wall adjacent to the entrance doors. It lets me face the only other visible door from the lobby, which I assume leads back into the belly of the company. I imagine a maze of cubicles, or maybe even a collaborative, open-plan office design because Seattle is progressive in that way.
My position here is deliberate because I want to be able to see the man I’m meeting with as soon as that door opens. I have my brilliant smile and a firm handshake ready to unleash.
The receptionist has an earpiece, and she effortlessly handles answering a busy phone system. She doesn’t spare me another glance after telling me to take a seat. In between phone calls, she types away on a thin white laptop. It matches the white walls, the white tiled floor, and the white leather furniture. Even her outfit is white—a form-fitting sleeveless dress. The overall effect is disconcerting, but rather than feeling sterile because of the absence of color—much like the lobby of The Sapphire feels—the effect is like being in the middle of a cloud. I expect that might be because the furniture is comfortable and almost squishy, and there are beautiful arrangements of white lilies on a few of the tables dotted around. The artwork—also white but in various shades from bright white to vanilla—is actually graceful with soft lines. There’s a statue of a woman that looks as if she’s swaying to music with her hands over her head, eyes serenely closed, and in a dress that billows around her ankles. On one wall, there’s a painting of a snow-covered landscape with mountains so far in the distance, they’re more light gray bordering on eggshell. Altogether, it exudes peace and serenity, and again I marvel how it contrasts to the lobby of Fallon’s condo, which is also all done in white and chrome. I bet Fallon could lecture me for an hour on how texture, curves, and layout have everything to do with creating different atmospheres and feelings just with the color white.
I’ve been waiting on the couch for only about five minutes, but, then again, I was about ten minutes early and have resigned myself to sitting here a bit longer. My nerves are getting the best of me, so I decide to review my proposal one more time since I can only admire the decor for so long.
Opening the burgundy leather portfolio Fallon loaned me—you’ll look so professional, she’d said—I glance over the sheet of paper on top. It’s the bio of the man I’m going to be making my pitch for a business grant to which I’d printed off last night.
Mr. Marcus Valentine, Chief Executive Officer of Olympic Dreams, and the man who will make or break my ability to buy One Bean. It’s made me infinitely more nervous that I’m meeting with the head honcho. The only thing giving me some small measure of comfort is that he at least appears to be a friendly type in the headshot accompanying his bio.
The outer door to Olympic Dreams opens, and someone enters. I don’t lift my head because it’s not the door I care about, nor am I curious if this is perhaps another grant applicant. I don’t want to compare myself to any possible competition. Instead, I concentrate on re-reading Mr. Valentine’s bio to perhaps find an interesting tidbit to bring up, but I barely make it across the first line before my entire body jerks when I hear the receptionist say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Byrne.”
I snap my head up to see a man standing before the receptionist’s desk. “Good afternoon, Olivia.”
Shit. It’s freaking Carrick Byrne. His back is to me, but I recognize his bearing, that dark wavy hair, and that voice, which sounds cultured in an almost European way, but without any true ring as to what country it would be. His name sounds Irish, but it’s not a brogue I’m detecting. Just smooth, articulate tones that indicate wealth, good breeding, and most likely an expensive education.
The receptionist hands him a manila envelope. He opens it, glances inside, then closes the flap again. I hold my breath, not moving a muscle, hoping beyond all hope he doesn’t turn to see me sitting here. I’m even afraid to bow my head over the portfolio, worried any movement at all will catch his notice. While I’m fairly sure he doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head, I have the impression he’s a man who is intensely alert and sensitive to everything around him.
I have no clue why he’s here or what he is to Olympic Dreams, but I absolutely do not want to risk catching his attention.
Mr. Byrne nods to the receptionist. I assume a smile is attached to it because she smiles at him, and miraculously turns not toward me, but to the door that leads into the interior of the company.
I start to exhale ever so quietly in relief when Mr. Byrne pauses mid-stride, spine stiffening just a bit before turning all the way around. His gaze lands on me, and there’s a burst of shock within his golden orbs before they become cold and remote. It’s mystifying how such warm-colored eyes can emote such a chill.