I don’t know if this was a power play on his part, inviting me to his home, surrounding me by his wealth, but I’m trying to keep an open mind. Plus, I dressed down today, hoping looking casual would make him feel more comfortable around me. Like jeans and Birkenstocks would somehow make him forget that his boss’s boss’s boss sent me. Plus, I can think much better when I’m comfortable and my feet aren’t screaming in stilettos.
I’m climbing up the steps leading to his front door, admiring the simple landscaping that really enhances the entire house, when I hear the door open. I look up, a smile and a compliment on my lips, when instead of seeing Quinton, I see a woman who is so gorgeous and put together that I want to turn and run and not return until I’m fully armored in heels and a pencil skirt.
“I’ll give you a call later.” She leans in to give him a hug. “Thanks for this morning, it was really helpful.” Her blonde hair is cascading down her back in perfect waves and her tan skin glows against the emerald green of her shift dress. She’s basically a goddess.
And the polar opposite of everything I am.
Exactly what I pictured when he said I wasn’t his type.
She turns to leave and finally notices me standing there . . . in fucking Birkenstocks.
“Oh!” She jumps back. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
Clearly.
“Oh no, you’re fine. I’m sorry I startled you.”
“Elliot.” Quinton steps out from behind her and I get my first glance at him, barefoot and in gray sweatpants. “You’re early.”
And I mean, honestly! Gray sweatpants? How fucking dare he? Gray sweatpants are like my kryptonite!
But once I move past the sweatpants, I see his face.
And he looks pissed.
“Oh.” I look down at my watch. I am early, but only by ten minutes. “I’m sorry. Do you need me to wait in my car?”
“It’s fine. You’re here already, just come in.” He steps back and waves me inside without even saying goodbye to the blonde beauty.
She gives me a small, encouraging smile before slipping past me and making her getaway, unlocking the doors to the white sedan I parked behind.
I walk inside and all of the hope I had leading up to this meeting drifts away. Instead, I’m left feeling unwelcome, uncomfortable, and confused.
“Sorry I got here early.” Even though I’m not exactly sure what I’m apologizing for. Professionalism? Punctuality? Both? “I was expecting more traffic and when I got here, I didn’t know how long I could sit in my beat-up Camry with Mustangs stickers before one of your neighbors called the cops thinking I was a stalker fan.”
This is not a lie. Once I saw blinds starting to crack open, I got out of my car immediately.
I stand inside the entryway, unsure of what I should do. Between the stark white walls, the cement floors, and the industrial beams scattered across the room, it’s like the tension is vibrating throughout the space, bouncing from one cold surface to the next, intent on latching onto me.
“I said it’s fine.” Quinton throws over his shoulder as his bare feet pad across the cement floor.
It’s all so awkward that I have to wonder if working with him for the next four months is actually worth it. If I’ve learned anything over the last couple of years, it’s that life is too short to be miserable.
“Are you just going to stand there or come in? I’m guessing since you got here early, it’s because there’s a lot to do.” It’s a good thing he’s a better quarterback than he is host.
He’s standing behind an island in the kitchen that—like the rest of the house—has no personality. He leans forward, cracking his knuckles against the white stone covering the island, the black pendant light dangling above his head only highlights the shadows crossing his face that make him seem even less approachable than he did in HERS yesterday.
But since I can’t quit today—bills can’t be paid with happiness—I pull up my grown-up panties and get to work . . . still wishing I wasn’t wearing Birkenstocks.
“Yes, as I told you yesterday, while this won’t be hard, it will be time-consuming.” I cross the room and place my bag on the counter across from him, pulling out my sleek and shiny laptop. After years of buying secondhand computers that were usually covered with half-peeled-off stickers, seeing it still sends a thrill through my system. “So, first things first. Why do you want a foundation?”
“You’re the one who wants the foundation.”
I not so successfully fight the urge to roll my eyes. But, because he’s acting like a petulant teenager, he’s not looking at me to see it anyways.
“Well, we both know that’s not true since you applied for your 501(c)(3) before I was even a blip on your radar.” Which, by the way, I still can’t believe he got approved for without having anything else in place. Ahhh, to be rich and famous. Must be so freaking nice. “Did you at least have an idea in place before life got in the way?”
“Let’s move this to my office.” He lets out a deep breath before pushing off the countertop. “I didn’t have much for it, but what I do have is in there.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond before he starts to walk away. I slam my computer shut and hurry to follow him. The last thing my nosy ass needs is to be left alone anywhere in this man’s house. Even though, from what I can see, he lacks anything that could possibly have any personal or emotional meaning.
And, when he pushes open the door, his office is more of the same.
Not one picture to be seen; his desk—which I’m sure cost as much as my mortgage—has nothing on it besides his computer. It’s actually sad. I may be broke compared to him, but at least the things I do have mean something to me.
“Take a seat.” He motions to the very attractive, very uncomfortable chair across from his desk as he rounds it and plops into the rolling leather chair opposite me. “You were asking if I had anything ready when I submitted papers to the IRS, right?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I cringe at the noise the chair makes as I try to scoot closer to his desk. “There are certain things we have to have in place before we start asking for money, which is part of the goal for the launch event we want to throw.”
“That makes sense.” He leans back in his chair, some of the irritation finally fleeing from his expression. “Nobody wants to give money if they don’t know what it’s for.”
“Exactly.” I flip open my computer again and quickly type in my password before pulling up the checklist I created last night. “Which is why we want the mission statement to be as clear as possible. You’ve made quite a stir. ESPN has been hounding me and I already scheduled a couple interviews with local channels. Getting publicity isn’t going to be the problem. The hard part is going to be getting your message across in a way that can’t be misinterpreted. It will just be guiding the conversation to the place you want it to go. And you can only do that by precise, strategic planning.”