‘Eleanor Cole.’
‘Yes, I have you on our system.’ She reaches for a clipboard and passes it over the high desk, and I relax a little, relieved that she hasn’t mentioned my lateness. ‘Sign in here, please.’
I take the pen and scribble down my name before pushing it back across the desk. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Take the lift to the seventh floor.’
Smiling my thanks, I make my way over to the lifts, press the call button, and take the time while I’m waiting to restore my equilibrium. When the doors open, I step inside, and I’m whisked up to the seventh floor where I discover that the minimal theme is uniform throughout the building. With the exception of a few plants, this space is just as sparse and cold. ‘Hello,’ I say as I reach the receptionist’s desk.
A lady looks up, not a hint of friendliness on her pointed features. ‘I assume you are Eleanor Cole,’ she snaps, tossing a file to the side of her desk.
I tense under her disdainful look and straighten my cheerful face. ‘Yes.’ I have a feeling that even if I told this woman I’d been run over and had dragged myself out of hospital to get here, it would be of no concern to her, never mind some rude arsehole stealing my cab. ‘I’m sorry for—’
‘Let’s not waste any more of each other’s time. Mr Timms is a very punctual man. You’re over twenty minutes late.’
‘It’s just—’
‘The dog was run over? Your train derailed?’
‘No, it’s—’
‘Mr Timms has moved on to the next candidate, who, by the way, has qualifications.’
‘But I believe I have working, practical knowledge to rival any other candidate,’ I argue. My CV was something to be proud of when I’d finished it, even if it was missing some important things . . . like qualifications. With a lack of those, I had to be creative. I wrote pages and pages of words, touching on everything I know. Which is a lot. It must have caught my potential employer’s attention, since I got this interview. Or did have it.
‘It’s irrelevant now,’ she mutters. ‘Thank you for your time. Goodbye.’ A well-manicured hand picks up the phone. ‘Good morning, Parsonson’s.’
I step away from the desk, well aware I’ll get nowhere challenging her. And, actually, I’m certain I wouldn’t want to work here even if I was destitute.
As I slowly walk to the lift, I ignore the cold hard fact that I am pretty much destitute, and this job could be the difference between keeping my new home and pursuing my dream, or returning to Helston a failure. My reality is suddenly all too real as I enter the lift and fall back down to earth with it. The cab-thieving bastard.
After offering the nicer receptionist a tight smile as I slip past her desk, I enter the revolving door and use my waning strength to push it around. I’m feeling a little lost and defeated, walking with no sense of where I’m heading.
What will I do now? I guess it’s back to square— the door jars and I crash straight into it, ricocheting off the glass with an almighty bang and dropping my bag. ‘Goddamn it.’ I blink my vision clear, taking my hand to my knee and rubbing away the stab of pain before I crouch and start gathering up the contents of my bag. Could this day get any worse?
I’m still crouching when I take a peek to the left, then the right, seeing I’m imprisoned on both sides by glass. It’s only when I stand and brush my red mane from my face that I notice him.
A man.
A man wearing a grey blazer, trapped on the other side of the revolving door. My eyes flip up to see an insanely handsome face as he reaches to his neck and pulls at something.
A scarf.
A navy scarf.
Realisation sucker-punches me in the face.
His grey blazer, the scarf, his ridiculously good looks, and those shining hazel eyes.
Where are the thick-rimmed glasses? As if he’s read my mind, they appear, lifting slowly to his face, but he doesn’t put them on. He puts one arm of his glasses to his mouth and slips it between his teeth, and my eyes follow it the whole way.
Cab thief.
And now job thief too.
My gasp of breath steams the glass in front of me, my eyes shooting to his. His mouth stretches into a grin, his lazy eyes sparkling. He remembers me. I want to give him a piece of my mind, but I find myself clamming up instead. He’s the reason I’m wandering out of here feeling dejected. Or was feeling dejected. Now I don’t know what I’m feeling. Awe? Attraction? He must be a wizard, or something equally magical, because I feel like I’m under a spell. My mind is reeling off plenty of instructions, but they’re fading to nothing before I can act on them. ‘You.’ My pathetic accusation tumbles from my lips on a mere whisper.
‘Me,’ he confirms, as he cocks his head, looking me up and down as he slips on his thick-rimmed Ray-Bans. ‘Okay there?’
‘Yes.’ My reply comes out on a breeze of air, and when I should probably be pushing my way out of the revolving door, I find my eyes feasting on his striking face instead.
‘You going to stay there all day?’ he asks, a hint of humour in his tone. He puts his hands in his pockets and gets comfortable in his standing position. He’s flawless, even if he’s a rude arsehole. ‘Well?’ he asks as I nibble on my bottom lip, my hand tentatively lifting to the glass of the door as I rummage through my mind for words.
And suddenly I have one.
‘Twat,’ I mumble, feeling my awe leave me and irritation find me. ‘Thanks to you, I missed—’ Something collides with my back, and I’m suddenly moving forwards. ‘Hey.’ I dig my heels in, leaning back, trying to stop him from turning the door. I’m no match for him. I narrow my eyes on him as he continues pushing. ‘Having fun?’ I ask.
He gives me a small but wolfish smirk. ‘The greatest.’
I’m spat out of the revolving door, but not on to the street. I’m back in the reception of the auction house again. Frowning, I pivot to look beyond the glass on to the street. He’s standing there, his smirk gone, his eyes low and dark. For the love of all things gorgeous, he belongs in an art gallery.
His hand comes up, reaching towards me, and my eyes finally give up their focus on his stunning face. He pulls at something that’s trapped in the door.
Something black with white polka dots.
I gasp and reach up to my neck to feel for my scarf. It’s not there. My eyes snap to his again, finding more sparkles of mischief as he slowly winds the material of my polka-dot scarf around his fist. Oh good God, he has something of mine, which means I need to talk my legs into moving so I can get it from him.