by Julia London
Had everyone bailed because of the snow? Chelsea wondered if maybe she should head home too.
In her cubicle, Chelsea gathered her things, taking care to include everything she would need to prepare for tomorrow. Attention to detail, in her mind, was what had made her successful in this business. By the end of next week, maybe she would be in the empty corner office that overlooked Gramercy Park. Well. Not overlooked it, exactly, but if you stood in the corner and leaned right, you could see the edge of the park. And you didn’t see the CVS on the corner at all.
Okay, maybe the vacant corner office didn’t have much of a view, but it was an office. It had a door, and the door could be closed, and quiet could reign. She could talk on the phone without Farrah overhearing everything she said. She could think. The raise Chelsea would get was great, but that office…that was the best part of the whole thing.
Chelsea pulled on her old tennis shoes and stuffed her Manolos into her tote bag in the allotted shoe spots. She donned a jacket, a car coat over that, and then a raincoat over that. Next came her earmuffs and the hat with the orange fluff ball on top—not exactly the chicest thing Chelsea owned, but definitely the warmest. Last, but certainly not least, she had her mittens in hand. She managed to wedge her tote over her arm and onto her shoulder and started for the elevator.
She stopped by to say good night to Sarah, but Sarah was gone. She’d forgotten to turn off her light. Chelsea did it for her. Now, the only light was Ian’s. She made a slight detour to go around to his cubicle.
“Oh,” she said, mildly surprised to see he was still in the office when she stuck her head around the wall.
Ian started. “Hi.” He took in her outerwear, tapping a pen against a blank legal notepad. He looked up at her hat and the orange ball and said something. Chelsea was fairly certain he said nice hat, but with her hat and earmuffs, it was a little hard to tell.
She pushed back her earmuffs. “So, everyone took off a little early, huh?”
“Looks like it,” he said. “The snow’s gotten pretty bad.”
“Aren’t you going home?”
“Not yet.” He tossed the pen down and stretched his arms high before folding them over his chest. “I’ve got a few things I want to do first.”
Chelsea couldn’t resist. “You look a little anxious. Maybe I can help you punch it up. Your pitch, I mean. You’re worried about your pitch, right?”
A slow smile of amusement moved across Ian’s face. “Thanks…but I’m not sure you can offer anything that could improve what I’ve got. It’s solid.”
“Wow. No improvement possible. That must be some pitch.”
“I didn’t say it was impossible to improve it. I said it was impossible for you to improve it.”
Chelsea laughed. She tried to fold her arms. But given the number of pieces of outerwear she was wearing, her arms bounced back to her side. “Just for clarification, which pitch is it that doesn’t need improvement? I mean, out of the three.”
Ian’s smile broadened, and when it did, his blue eyes sparked, putting Chelsea back on her heels a bit. The man had a very nice smile, which, if she were being honest, she would admit that she had noticed before today. Many times, actually. But up close and directed at her, it made him look…super hot. Hot enough to maybe torch a few things. Build a fire. Flambé a decadent dessert. Scorch an entire forest.
“If you’d like, I could teach you how to come up with three complementing ads after I land this account.”
“Oh…you wish,” Chelsea said, and she snorted. When she did, her tote bag slid right off her arm and hit the floor.
Ian instantly moved to pick it up. He stood up, straightening to his full height, all six feet two of him. He was so close to her that she could see that the spark in his eye went much deeper than she’d ever noticed before this very moment. “You know what I wish, Chelsea?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, his eyes mesmerizing.
Chelsea could not help her gaze sliding to his mouth, and she dumbly shook her head.
He leaned closer still and took her hand in his. “I wish you the best of luck tomorrow.” He slipped the handles of her tote over her hand and then up her arm to her shoulder, wedging it on there, and then leaned closer—so close that for one mad, heart-fluttering moment, Chelsea thought he was actually going to kiss her. “Because you’re going to need it.”
He faded back. Chelsea was momentarily speechless. He had just used his über sex appeal to zing her. Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Oh, I won’t need it. But you will, buster.” Ha.
Ian grinned a little lopsidedly, and his eyes, good Lord, his eyes radiated sex. “You sure about that?”
Something warm and fluid snaked down Chelsea’s spine. She could feel the pull of his orbit, and she could imagine how many times he had used that sloe-eyed look to lure women to him. She stepped back, out of the gravitational force field around him. “I’m very sure. This is some of my best work. And I didn’t need three ads to nail it.”
One of his brows arched higher than the other. “You know, that can be a turnoff for some guys. But for me? That cocky overconfidence is a definite turn-on. Want to come over to my place?”
“I am not overcon—” She suddenly realized what he was doing. “That,” she said, twirling a finger at him, “will not work on me.”
Ian propped his arm on top of his cubicle wall. “Seriously, Crawford, your smack talk could use some work. I’d be happy to help you with it.”
She took another step back. “News flash—in about eighteen hours from now, I won’t need to work on anything but this account. Play your cards right, and maybe I’ll bring you along to work on it with me.” She smiled, pleased with herself for that one.
And then she bumped into his cubicle wall. Again.
Ian chuckled.
Chelsea straightened herself, readjusted her tote bag, and with a jaunty two-fingered wave, she went out of the office, rolling her eyes at her inability to successfully engage in a bit of baiting.
Or make a powerful exit.
She had no trouble getting an elevator and, in fact, was the only one aboard for the thirty-one-story plunge. When the doors opened on to the lobby, she was surprised to see only the security guard. He was at his desk, a small TV blaring just beneath the counter. He was buttoning up a down jacket. “Hope you can get to where you’re going. The mayor is advising everyone to shelter in place.”
“What? You’re kidding,” Chelsea said. On the security guard’s little TV, she could see a swath of blue across the entire East Coast. She hurried to the front of the building to peer down the street toward the subway. The snow was so thick she couldn’t see it. The coming and going from the building had created a path, and the mounds of snow on either side looked a foot high.
“How is that possible?” she said to the security guard. “It was hardly even snowing at lunch.”
“Big storm,” he said. “Snowpocalypse they’re calling it. Supposed to dump another foot tonight.” He shut off his television and turned the collar of his coat up. “It’s climate change, you know. When I was a kid, we never had snow like this, not this late in the season.”
Chelsea didn’t care about climate change in that moment—she cared about how cold her feet were going to be by the time she got home. She wondered how quickly one contracted frostbite.
The security guard walked with her to the door. “Have a good one,” he said, and he went out, walking in the opposite direction of the subway and quickly disappearing into the blizzard.
Chelsea adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder, pulled her hat low over her eyes, and went out, trudging in the direction of the subway.
That train was going to be stuffed like a burrito.
Chapter 4
Ian had been playing phone tag with Brad. He’d made the crucial mistake of stepping into the men’s room, and in those few minutes, Brad had pac
ked up and left with the mad exodus of staff. But Brad had left a message on Ian’s cell phone asking him to call. Of course Ian had called him immediately—but it rolled to voice mail.
Whatever it was that Brad wanted would wait, Ian decided. He was the only one left in the office, and judging by the snow he could see coming down outside Jason’s windows, he ought to get out of here too.
Ian shoved his last-minute notes into his bag, wordlessly chiding himself for allowing Chelsea to ruffle him this afternoon. That wasn’t like him—Ian loved a good challenge, loved being the underdog. He thrived on competition, and in fact, he’d started it with her. But he’d left a partner track to come to this job, lured away by good money and a promise of quick, upward mobility. He’d left everything he’d worked hard to achieve at Huntson-Jones, because Grabber-Paulson was offering him the same thing, only faster. But it all hinged on getting the plum accounts, like this one. And he realized, too late, that he wasn’t as sure of his decision as he had thought.
The truth was that Ian had liked Huntson-Jones. But in the end, he thought taking the leap was what he was supposed to do after all the years spent building a reputation.
His friends had told him to leap too. “They don’t offer that salary because they want to test you out,” Ben had said. “What are you waiting for?” Devin had asked him, and both had good-naturedly shoved him out the door.
Frankly, Ian didn’t know what he was waiting for, but it felt like he was always waiting. Maybe he’d been waiting for this very opportunity. Maybe he needed to give it more than a few months before he came to any conclusions. He only knew that since he’d done the thing he thought he ought to do, the thing that seemed to make the most sense, he’d had a few second thoughts.
Today, he’d let those second thoughts turn into doubts and get the best of him.
“Too late for doubts, man,” he muttered. He was all in, ready to rock and roll. He reverted back to his standard pep talk: first the Tesla account and then, who knew? The sky was the limit, right?
Right.
But why did he sometimes feel as if maybe the sky was the wrong thing to aim for? Maybe he ought to be aiming for the horizon or a totally new challenge—
His phone rang. Ian almost killed himself getting it out of his pocket. “Hello,” he said, trying not to sound antsy.
“Ian, are you believing this weather?” Brad shouted into the phone, the wind carrying his words away from the receiver.
“I haven’t made it out yet.” Ian realized he was shouting too.
“You should get out of there! It’s crazy out here—I’ve never seen so much snow! It’s hell, only white. White hell. So look, I’ve got some good news for you, Ian. Me, all the partners—we like you. We like the way you think and the way you present. Jason’s had a chance to look at the work you and Chelsea have done, the partners have done some talking, and we’re giving you the account.”
Ian was shocked. Of all the things he thought Brad might say, this was not it. It was great news, great news. It confirmed everything he’d believed about himself. So why should an image of the woman bundled up like an Arctic ice fisherman who’d just left the office pop into his head? Why should he be concerned with how hard Chelsea had worked for this?
“Hello? Are you there?” Brad shouted.
“Yes, yes, I’m here!” Ian said, shaking it off.
“I thought you’d be happy!”
“I am!” Ian said, recovering quickly. “Thank you! I won’t let you down, Brad. I’m just…” He ran his hand over his head. “Surprised. What about the pitches?”
“Right, right, the timing is no good on that. We made the decision just this afternoon, because we’ve only got a week to get ready for the final presentations to Tesla. We’re going to go ahead with the pitch tomorrow,” Brad said. “We know how hard Chelsea has worked and it’s only fair that she get her chance to present.”
It seemed patently un-fair to Ian for them to hear her pitch, knowing they would not give her the account.
“It’s good for the office to do these things,” Brad said, sounding as if he had prepared himself for an argument. “Good practice for partnerships. In your case, it will be great practice for the pitch to Tesla next week. Be ready to go; present like you don’t have the account. And congratulations, Ian! Great work!”
“Thanks,” Ian said. “Thanks for the opportunity.”
“We’re expecting big things from you, you know—big things! This is your chance to wow us. Now get out of the office! It’s too nasty to be holed up there!”
“I will,” Ian said. “I’m leaving now.” He wished Brad an easy trip home, then clicked off.
He didn’t move, just stood rooted to the floor. He was thrilled. Of course he was thrilled. This was exactly what he’d come to Grabber-Paulson to do. This is what he’d worried about all afternoon, that he wouldn’t get the account. So why wasn’t he doing his happy dance?
Ian tossed his phone onto his desk, put his hands on his hips, and looked to his left, to where the Director of Media—the fancy title this account carried—would be housed. A corner office with actual sunlight filtering into it. Ian didn’t like the way the firm had handled this, but hey, he would have won the account anyway. And he felt great about his work.
Still—what had just happened to Chelsea sucked. She didn’t get a chance. That she didn’t even know left a very bad taste in his mouth. He thought about her walking around that conference room, honing her pitch. He knew how hard she’d worked—everyone on the floor knew how hard she’d worked.
He picked up his bag.
Chelsea would bounce back. This business was cutthroat, and if you couldn’t bounce back, you had no business being here. Chelsea would accept it and move on to the next account.
Ian checked his watch, wondering if he could rouse Ben and Devin for a celebratory beer. He donned his coat and wound his scarf around his neck. He picked up his bag and shoved his hands in his coat pockets, looking for his gloves and his knit hat as he strolled around the cubicles toward the entrance. The lights flickered; he glanced up, wondering what was going on. He heard the slam of the stairwell door and figured it was the security guard. But just as he rounded the corner and stepped into the reception area, the office doors suddenly banged open, and Chelsea waddled in, collapsed against the door, and then doubled over, dragging air into her lungs.
“Chelsea! What’s wrong?” he exclaimed and rushed to her side, putting his hand on her back and leaning over her.
“Snow. Pocalypse,” she said through drags of air, and she slid down the door to her bottom. “The trains aren’t running because of some massive power outage. The elevators aren’t working, either. We are on the thirty-first floor,” she said through a wheeze.
“You walked up thirty-one floors?”
She shook her head. “I took the elevator to twenty. I stopped to hit the vending machines and they stopped working then. I could have been stuck in the elevator. Ohmigod, I would have been stuck in the elevator.” She started pulling candy bars out of her coat pocket and throwing them on the floor. She suddenly stopped and looked up at him with big green eyes. “Oh no. No, no, no! I can’t be stuck in here with you!”
“With me!” he said, surprised. “Why not? Maybe I can’t be stuck in here with you!”
She groaned and closed her eyes. Ian looked at Chelsea, the small mound of candy, and the door as reality began to seep into that reception area. No. No, hell no, he couldn’t be stuck in here with her, not knowing what he knew now. He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t stand the thought of her trying to one-up him. He suddenly darted out the office suite doors to the elevator banks and banged the down button. There was no light, nothing.
“You know, if the power goes off, these doors lock,” Chelsea said. Ian glanced over his shoulder. She was still on the floor but had leaned over to push the door open. “It’s a security t
hing.” She removed her hand, and the glass door closed.
Ian hit the elevator button again. But as he did, her words penetrated his thoughts. Ian turned back to look at her. Chelsea was on her back now, her arms spread wide, still sucking wind. He had never seen her like that, and he meant to say so, but the lights flickered overhead. Ian had a vision of being locked outside the office and in the elevator bank. He dove for the office door, crashing into it in his haste to open it before it locked. He tripped, falling just beside Chelsea as the door slid to a close and the locks clicked shut.
The lights went out.
He shifted, wanting to stand, but his hand hit something gooshy.
“Hey!” Chelsea said.
“Sorry.” Apparently the gooshy thing was her.
“Surely there is a gen—”
Lights along the wall sputtered to life, casting a dull gray light. Ian looked down; he’d landed on a package of peanut butter and chocolate, and it had smeared his trouser leg.
Chelsea was sitting up. He hopped to his feet and walked to the glass doors, pulling hard against them. They would not budge. He held his ID card up to the card reader.
“You have to have a key.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have a key.”
Chelsea rolled over and pushed herself up onto her feet. She unzipped her coat and removed it. Then she removed a coat under that and then the jacket under that. She unwrapped her scarf and let it drop, pulled off her hat and ear muffs, pushed her hair out of her face, and bent over, stiff legged, to rummage through her bag. When she stood again, she proudly held out a key. “Ta-da! You get one of these when you become an account manager.” She gave him a pert little smile and handed him the key.
Ian looked at the key and then at her. “You knew you had a key and yet you let me think I would be locked out?”
She smiled and shrugged a little.
“I almost killed myself,” he said, pointing to the chocolate stain on his trousers.
