by JA Huss
Why don’t we have a concourse where guests can walk down a jetway into a nice climate-controlled building?
Breathe, Ellie. Focus on your job. Just get through today, put in your two weeks’ notice, and think about the future. I won’t be teaching Zumba, I was kidding and Ming knows it. I’m terrible at Zumba. No. I have big plans.
“Mr. Brutus.” I beam as the summer heat washes over me. Yup, I have a pool of sweat in my bra. When I quit I’m not going to wear a push-up bra ever again. “Mr. Brutus,” I say again as I get closer. “I’m thrilled to finally meet you!” He’s almost down the stairs when he sees me. My smile is so big. So big. And it should be. I’ve been practicing this smile for seven years.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I am?” Wait. He’s baiting you, Ellie. Ignore, ignore, ignore. “I’ve got the golf cart right over there for you. The covered one, so the sun won’t freckle your skin.” I keep a straight face for that remark because that’s the kind of professional I am.
He shoots me a disgusted look anyway.
Right. I walk over to the waiting cart, pull back the plastic cover that surrounds the little vehicle like a hospital oxygen tent and resign myself to sweaty tits.
No one uses the golf carts because we actually have a train that goes to the main building. Like, our own subway system. The campus here at Stonewall is so damn big—one hundred and fifty acres, to be accurate—we need a train to get around.
But Brutus refuses to use the train. I roll my eyes just thinking about it. Germs, he said. It’s not New York City, for Pete’s sake. It’s a private train on a private billion-dollar corporate campus.
Ming thinks he’s obsessive-compulsive and the germs are part of it. She read that online.
Whatever his excuse, it’s not enough to make me happy about being inside a rolling plastic tent in the middle of summer. I sigh loudly.
“Well,” Brutus says. “You’re cuter than I expected.”
“Excuse me?” Ignore, ignore, ignore, Ellie.
“You sounded so wound up on the phone. I thought you’d be some thirty-something matron. It’s a nice surprise,” he says, like that will dull the sting of the insult.
All he talks about when we get inside the mobile tent is the heat. Apparently he loves the heat and this plastic-covered golf cart is his idea of bliss.
“I’m very excited to hear you sing,” I say, pushing the start button on the cart. It hums to life and I press my designer shoe down on the power pedal, eager to get this over with.
“People usually are,” he says.
I nod, doing my best to smile and ignore. “I’ve got you all set up in the green room. There are plenty of snacks and drinks for you as you wait. And everything you asked for is waiting.”
“It better be,” Brutus huffs. “That’s why I came.”
I nod. Sure. That and the paycheck, which is outrageous, and the jet, which is nicer than his own, because I checked. And the fact that Daily E! is the highest-rated nighttime entertainment show for six years running. But sure, we can all pretend he came for the M&M’s and wool socks.
He starts coughing and breathing heavy like he’s suffocating. Maybe it’s this plastic sauna we’re rolling around in when it’s the middle of summer? “I hope you’re not getting sick, Mr. Brutus?”
But he’s too busy hacking and gasping to answer. “Brutus? Are you OK? Do you need some water?” I flip the little console box open between our seats and take out the bottled water I stashed there earlier. It’s a little warm, so there’s one more thing for him to bitch about.
The rock star waves the water off. “I hope,” he croaks out, “there are no peanuts in the green room today.”
“Oh, no, I took note of your peanut allergy. We had it professionally cleaned just for—” I stop short. Oh, fuck.
“I don’t think”—he coughs again, clutching his throat—“you’re telling—”
Oh, my God. He’s turning red. “Brutus?” I ask, my little two-inch pump pressing down on the power pedal as I try to make it over to the health building. “Brutus?”
“—me the truth.” And then his eyes bug out and he makes another mad grasp for his throat with one hand and my arm with the other.
Oh, shit. How the hell, Ellie? That’s all I keep asking as I race my way over to the medical building. How the hell could you forget to take your peanut butter sandwich out of your purse?
“Hang on!”
“You’re trying to—”
“No, sir!” I say.
“—kill me.”
“No, sir! I’m so sorry—”
But my words are cut off as his head flops back against the seat and he gasps for breath.
Chapter Two - Ellie
“What the hell happened?” Ming asks.
I flop down in my desk chair and pick up the landline phone. “Hello? Miranda? Yeah, can you let Shawna and Greg know Brutus won’t be able to make the song at nine?”
I shake my head at Ming while Miranda rips me a new one on the phone.
“Well, he went into anaphylactic shock on the ride over to the studio and I took him to health services for—” I hold the phone away from my ear as Miranda screams at me.
“What the hell?” Ming asks again.
I mouth, Peanut butter, while fishing out my lunch from my clutch and waving my baggie of peanut butter sandwich. “Yes, thanks, Miranda. And sorr—”
She hangs up, so I just put the phone back on the cradle.
“I really do quit,” I say, looking up into Ming’s smiling face. “What? Why are you smiling? I almost killed a rock star!”
Ming makes a big deal of straightening her smile. “Will he live?”
“Yes, but he’s mad as hell. He actually accused me of doing it on purpose!”
“Oh,” Ming says, rolling her eyes. “That jerk can just get over himself.”
I pull out my cell phone and start texting.
“Ellie, stop texting that man. You guys never even dated.”
I glare at my friend. “He got sent off to China by his father. He didn’t even get to say goodbye. We were about to date. We had lunch plans the next day. And then poof, disappeared off to China. One day he’ll get his phone back and then he’ll call and we’ll pick up where we left off.”
Ming gives me a slow blink. “Really?”
“Really.” I get up and walk over to the bathroom she and I share. We are the only two girls down here in the hangar, so it’s a single room. I shut the door behind me and lean against it as my fingers fly across the keyboard.
Ellie: Man, my day sucks. I hope yours is better. I almost killed a celebrity with my peanut butter sandwich. I know, I know. That is inexcusable. But I’m so distracted. I’m putting my notice in today. When you get home there will be no conflict of interest at all. We’ll have the best time, right?
That makes me feel better. I open up Pinterest and click through my boards until I find the one called Dream Home. God, it’s perfect. It’s nothing like my condo here in the Tech Center, which is ultra-modern—everything here is ultra-modern—and stackable. Because while land might’ve been cheap back when Stonewall Senior purchased his hundred and fifty acres twenty years ago, today it runs at a premium. It’s high-rise condos all the way. I’ve been living in mine for almost six years now. Ever since I got out of college and took the job as celebrity babysitter full time.
No, the dream house is nothing like the condos in the Tech Center. It’s soft and flirty, like the blouse I’m wearing today. It’s got a white kitchen and stainless-steel appliances, the most gorgeous crown molding you can imagine, and fluttery sheer white curtains that cover floor-to-ceiling windows. The floors are hand-scraped hardwood, dark, to contrast with the light walls and kitchen. The couches are comfy, and the kids’ rooms are perfect. I paste the link to Dream House Board into my phone and type:
Ellie: Look, did you see this house? It’s only fifteen minutes from the Tech Center. And no traffic. We could take side roads all the w
ay into work each day. It’s perfect, right?
I don’t get an answer. I never get an answer.
Heathcliff Stonewall—yes, youngest male progeny of Stonewall Senior, owner of this campus—was sent to China two months ago to do… something. I have no clue. They never tell me anything. The internal messaging system on the company phones hasn’t worked since. So he never sees my texts. But how long can his father exile him to China? A few more weeks, maybe? Months? Surely he’ll be back as soon as the project is done. And then we can pick up where we left off.
It’s stupid to text him since he’s not even seeing them, but I don’t care. It makes me feel better. It gets me through the day. And even though we’d barely started getting more personal when he was relocated, I have waited for a real date for seven years. Seven. Years. I’m not letting a little thing like China get in the way of hitching myself to Mr. Perfect.
I find another board, this one titled Our Pets. I’m going to get a sheepdog first, then a whole bunch of kittens, and some fish. Saltwater tank, I think. The house is big and has acres of land that begs for big dogs to roam it. I might even get horses. It has a barn and pretty white post-and-rail fences that surround the whole property.
I sigh as I paste a link into the phone. The picture that loads is for a local breeder and it’s their newest litter of puppies. I’d get one now if my condo allowed pets, but they don’t.
A knock on the door breaks me out of my perfect daydream. “Ellie! Are you expecting another big shot? A plane just landed.”
I open the door. “What? Who? We’re not expecting anyone for an hour.”
“I don’t know,” Ming says. “But there’s a great big jet with the Stonewall logo on the side taxiing up to the hangar. It’s so big, Bill says it won’t even fit inside.”
“Jesus Christ,” I say, walking over to my desk and pulling my company tablet out of my clutch. I find the schedule on my calendar, scanning for a secret guest. “Nothing,” I say. “No one’s supposed to be here yet.”
I walk over to the window that looks out onto the hangar and see a massive jet slowly approaching. The logo means nothing. We send Stonewall jets to pick up all kinds of people. We have a whole fleet of them coming and going most days.
The hatch opens and the mechanical staff wheels the metal airstairs over to the opening.
“Be right back,” I tell Ming as I push through the office doors and start running across the hangar. I do my best in my Jimmy Choos, anyway. A man in a dark suit appears in the entrance at the top of the stairs. He’s got blond hair, a small bit of scruff on his chin, and flashing eyes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of sunglasses, placing them on his face as he descends.
“Excuse me!” I yell. “Excuse me!”
No one hears me. The hangar is loud.
The man is at the bottom of the stairs now, and he turns his back to me as I run, still screaming, “Excuse me!”
No one appears with him, and he doesn’t wait around for anyone, either. Just takes off walking towards the campus.
“Excuse me!” I scream it as loud as I can. I’m still running, but the heel of my left shoe gets stuck in a crack on the tarmac, and I keep going while my shoe stays planted in the concrete. “Shit!”
And wouldn’t you know it, somehow that gets his attention. Because he stops walking, turns around, and then lowers his sunglasses down his nose to look at me. I’m still about twenty feet from him, and the roar of the plane is so loud there’s not a chance in hell he will hear me, but I give it my best go. “Excuse—”
The jet engines shut down.
“—me!”
Everyone stops what they are doing to look at me. At least fifteen employees, plus the beautiful stranger in the suit.
I close my eyes for a second, then hobble over towards the man, my lost shoe still stuck in the crack of concrete. “Excuse me,” I say again. “I’m Ellie—”
“Ellie?” the man says in a deep voice. His eyes have a little twinkle of mischief in them.
What the hell is up with that look? “Yes,” I say, smoothing down my pink skirt to avoid feeling self-conscious. “I’m the celebrity concierge for Stonewall Entertainment. I handle all the comings and goings around here and I’m afraid you weren’t on my guest list.”
The handsome stranger looks past me and then starts walking in my direction, passing right by me. “Where are you going?” I ask.
But he says nothing, just bends down, pries my shoe from the crack in the concrete, and then turns back to me, my shoe in his outstretched hand like he’s offering me a gift.
“You lost your slipper.” He chuckles, walking back towards me.
I take the shoe and slip it on my foot just as a golf cart pulls up. If you could screech the tires on those things, it would’ve screeched. My boss, Mr. Sowards, jumps out and positions himself between me and the man.
Mr. Sowards extends his hand, and I have to sidestep to see the stranger’s face. His eyes are still on me for some reason, even as he returns my boss’ gesture and shakes his hand. “I’m sorry I was late, Mr. Stonewall.”
“Stonewall?” I say.
The new Stonewall smiles at me.
“That’s right,” Mr. Sowards says. “McAllister Stonewall. We’re so happy you’re here, Mac…”
I lose track of the conversation for a few seconds as I put the pieces together. This is Heath’s brother.
Wow. I study him. My future brother-in-law. They do kind of look alike, now that I know who he is.
“Don’t mind Ellie,” my boss says with a chuckle. “She’s just the concierge for the guests.”
Just the concierge?
I open my mouth to say something about that remark, but they have turned and are already getting into the golf cart, not even glancing back at me.
Chapter Three - Ellie
“He has a brother?” Ming says. “Why didn’t we know that?”
Good question. Ming and I have worked here for seven years. I’ve never even heard of McAllister Stonewall. “Sowards called him Mac but his name is McAllister.”
“Sexy,” Ming says. “He’s sorta dreamy, right? I saw that shoe move. Wow.”
“Yeah, I guess. I wonder if Heath knows his brother is here?” I pull out my phone and start texting.
Ellie: Just met my future brother-in-law. Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother? I can totally picture him with us in the dream house at Christmas. Six bedrooms means we can have a ton of guests for the holidays. I bet his girlfriend is some uptight model, right? :)
Ming is still talking when I press send on that message. I wonder how one family can stand to have two beautiful sons? Stonewall Senior is also very handsome, even for an older man. And Mrs. Stonewall is stunning. They come from money. It’s very obvious she’s had the best of everything her whole life.
Ellie: Do you have any more brothers? I can’t even imagine how perfect your family photos are. Your brother is almost as hot as you.
Actually, I think the new brother is hotter than Heath. Maybe even way hotter. He’s taller for one. And his hair is lighter. I think his eyes were blue, too. Heath has dark eyes. McAllister Stonewall has a chiseled square jaw, while Heath has a more rounded one. And McAllister has perfectly groomed facial hair while Heath’s looks like he just forgot to shave.
I think both can be hot, but… yeah. Wow. I might be lusting over my future brother-in-law.
“Are you daydreaming about Mr. Perfect again?” Ming asks.
Before I can answer I get an inter-office message on my phone from my boss, Mr. Sowards.
Boss: Executive conference room. Immediately.
“What’s he say?” Ming asks, leaning into my space to see my phone.
“Meeting in the executive conference room? That wasn’t on the schedule.”
“Neither was Mr. Fancy Jet. Maybe it’s got something to do with him?”
“Maybe,” I mutter. “Or maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that I almost killed Brutus the ro
ck star this morning.”
I think the second one is far more likely.
I make my way over to the train depot, which is through the back of the office and down an escalator about a hundred feet. Over here at the hangar the station is pretty small. There’s two long benches made out of stone, a vending machine filled with water and soda, and the digital company announcement board. You have to tell the train to stop here if you need a ride, so I push the call button and stand in front of the announcement board to wait.
Hmmm. There’s a big write-up about the Asian office on the board. No mention of Heath though. Strange. When he disappeared two months ago I took it a little personally. After all, we’ve known each other for seven years. He was a junior executive back when I first started. We became good friends that year and have been close ever since.
We just never dated. Never got around to it. But I know he’s the perfect one for me. It just sucks that he got sent away so suddenly.
Which is how the texting started. He doesn’t get the inter-office messages. I knew that right away because every time I sent one, the notification said undeliverable. But I missed him. I was used to texting at least once a day, even if it was just for work-related updates. Now I text him my Pinterest boards. Little things that catch my eye in the news. Pictures I find on social media.
Ming thinks I’m obsessed, but I’m not. It’s sorta like a diary.
The low hum of the electric train brings me out of my thoughts and when it stops and the door slides open, I step in, smiling at about half a dozen other passengers on their way to the Atrium.
