by Zoey Derrick
“It’s not gonna come out,” I tell her, more as a distraction to where my thoughts are threatening to wander to.
“Thanks.” The sarcasm that drips off her statement is potent enough to make me shake my head. “Are you gonna stand there all day?”
I smile at the tiger behind the door and walk out of the bathroom, giving her some much needed privacy.
There’s a new security guard standing around, supervising the other idiots trying to clean up the coffee mess on the floor. I snap my fingers. “You.” I point to the newcomer. “Your fucking security guards are idiots.” The guy looks at me with a petrified expression, good. “When someone spills something, it’s a good idea to pay attention to the lady instead of me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Cole. I assure you it won’t happen again,” the supervisor states. “Is there anything we can do?” He takes in my coffee speckled suit.
I glare at him. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” He nods. The security guard who handed me the towel looks at me then. “Send her up to my office when she’s done in there.”
“Yes, Mr. Cole.”
I go to the elevator, thinking about the blazing, tear-filled green eyes of the tiger in the restroom. I fucking made her cry. Jesus, I’m an asshole. I shake my head and swipe my card, calling the elevator to me quickly and I step in. Once inside I insert the card again and I’m whisked to my floor at the top of the building.
In the hallway, I call over to my receptionist, Andy, “Cancel my meeting.”
“Yes, sir.” His response is quick and I’m not met with the usual argument I’ve come to expect from him. This meeting was important and he knows it, but I will never make it. I have to deal with the tigress from downstairs.
Why in the hell did I tell him to send her up?
So you can get one more look at her to satisfy your fucking ego, maybe make her feel more like shit than she obviously already does? Or is it because you’re hoping against hope that she just might be the woman you’ve been pining after for more than a decade?
I step into my office and close the door, running my hand through my hair in frustration before throwing the switch that turns the clear glass of my office opaque. I walk toward the bathroom, shedding my jacket and shirt along the way. It’s nearly impossible to ignore the raging hard-on between my legs. The moment I looked into her eyes, I was a complete and total mess. There is something electrifying about those bright green eyes of hers and it made me hard the moment our eyes met. I was so thrown off by the fact that simply gazing into someone’s eyes could get me hard that I acted like an asshole.
I shed my pants, reluctantly pulling on a new pair. It wouldn’t take but a second to relieve myself of the strain in my pants, but I don’t have time. Not if she’s coming up here.
Thank god I keep a couple spare suits in the office. This, however, is the first time I’ve ever had to change because of having coffee spilled on me. The thought makes me smile a little.
I get myself straight once again and as soon as I come out of the bathroom, my desk phone beeps as Andy is trying to reach me. I walk over quickly and I’m suddenly nervous. She’s here. Shit, I never told Andy she was coming up. You’re an idiot.
“Yeah,” I snap when I press the button.
“Mr. Wellington needs to see you, right away.”
Fuck. “Did he say what for?”
“No, sir, and it sounded urgent so I didn’t press him too much.”
“I have someone coming to my office. Security should be bringing her up shortly. I’ll see Mr. Wellington after.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hired Andy more than a year ago. After a string of god-awful assistants, I realized the women from the agency were nothing more than useless bimbos who couldn’t handle my mood swings. They either ended up in tears and getting fired or they quit on their own. I needed someone with a tougher skin and Andy fit that bill. He’s done a damn good job since he started and he’s not afraid to stand up to me when I’m being a douche.
My phone chimes again. Good, she’s finally here.
“Send her in,” I say into the phone.
Andy hesitates briefly. I notice he does that from time to time when he thinks he’s delivering bad news. “Uh, she’s not here. Security called up to let you know that she refused to come up.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Apparently she has an appointment at Wellington.”
I sit up straighter in my chair. “Thanks, let Mr. Wellington know I’m on my way down.”
What in the world was she doing at Wellington’s office? Shelly finished up the interviews last week and I highly doubt she’s a client. Yeah, because that wasn’t asshole-ish.
I let the thought evaporate as I don yet another jacket. This one is more charcoal grey compared to the lighter one I had on earlier. Had I worn this one in the first place it wouldn’t have been an issue and I could have still made my damn meeting. Irritation flares briefly. Not only have I missed my meeting and had a three-thousand dollar suit splattered with coffee, I’ve spent the last twenty minutes doing nothing but drumming my fingers on my desk waiting for her to come up here and now I’m running down to Wellington’s office on the off-chance that I see her again.
The desire to see her again is nearly overwhelming as I flip the switch on my office glass once again, brightening the room so people know I’m not here.
I stop at Andy’s desk before I go to the elevator, confirming the rescheduled meeting. For some reason I’m stalling and I don’t understand why.
I rap my knuckles on the top of his desk and head to the elevator. The longer I have to wait, the more impatient I become. I want to see her, but there is a part of me that hopes I don’t. I don’t need these ridiculous distractions.
My cock throbs again at the idea of seeing her again. Fuck.
Finally, the elevator arrives and I step inside, press for Wellington’s floor. I fidget with my tie, run a hand through my hair using the brass covered walls as a mirror until the doors open.
I suck in a deep breath and step out.
Turning, I see her standing at the receptionist’s desk. She hasn’t made it very far. Her fiery red hair is on full display. Her perfectly bubbly, little ass is on display in the black pencil skirt she’s wearing. I notice then that she has something around her ankle. I smirk, tigress has a tattoo.
Chapter 3
Ireland
“Titanium” - David Guetta w/ Sia
I look like complete and total shit. Despite every effort I made in the bathroom downstairs, I still couldn’t get out all the coffee spots. If I’m honest with myself, the asshole-suit was looking much worse for wear than I was when it was all said and done with, but I still look like hell.
The more fucked up this day gets, the more I wish I would have cancelled this fucking interview when I had the chance. It was completely ridiculous of me to think that I would be in any shape to do this so soon after getting back from Missouri yesterday. But they’d been insistent that despite what happened last week, I deserved a chance to come in and sit down with them. I know that in order to land this job I am going to have to be spot-on, but just looking at my clothes says that I’m a complete and total mess already.
I somehow managed to get rid of all the spots on my legs and shoes and I was able to wash out the spots on my skirt, at least the ones I could see. But my shirt is a total mess. This is what I get for wearing white and drinking tan colored coffee. If it had been black, I may have had better luck, but no, I have to have all the sugary sweet shit in there too. Thank god for detergent pens that remove stains from clothing, and a hand dryer that I could use to at least attempt drying off the wet spots, otherwise I would be in worse shape than I am right at this moment.
My irritation is at an all-time high when I walk into the reception area of Wellington Ad Management. Despite all my efforts and the counting exercises I did, nothing is working. It doesn’t help that every time I close my ey
es all I see are those eyes, those deep blue-violet eyes that seemed to look right through me. And the perfectly sculpted jaw, the stubble that lined it. I suppress a sigh as I approach the receptionist’s desk. She greets me with a smile and I somehow find the courage and my voice.
I give her my name and tell her I have an appointment with Michelle Iverson and she promptly calls back to her as she holds her finger up, indicating for me to wait.
My early arrival proved pivotal in what happened downstairs. It gave me the time I needed to truly do the best I could with what I had to work with. By the time I was satisfied, I got upstairs with just a few minutes to spare. Still early enough to look punctual, but late enough to not look overly desperate.
Maybe there’s a reason I ran into the dickwad downstairs. Spare me from sitting here for far longer than I should have to. I smile a little at that idea. Finding some good in the crazy that has been my day so far.
I start to hope, just a little, that this might actually pan out better than I thought. Giving me a small morsel of hope that I might land my dream job?
A week ago when I arrived at Wellington, I was sitting in this very waiting room when my phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out and looked at the unknown Missouri number. I get calls from all over all the time, so I did my best to ignore it. But something was nagging me in the back of my head that I needed to answer it. I nearly missed the call because I stared at it for so long before glancing down the hallway to make sure no one was coming before I hit the green button. Within a few beats, my world started tilting on an axis I didn’t need. It was the local Joplin area hospital telling me that my mother had been in an accident and that she had been brought into the emergency room via ambulance. The woman on the phone said that I should come to the hospital quickly. I still have a Missouri number, but I let her know that I was in Phoenix and I wouldn’t be able to arrive for a few hours. When we hung up, I took a deep breath, trying to refocus. I could do my interview and then head straight to the airport, right?
Wrong. Less than five minutes later, my phone buzzed again and it was my brother. Again glancing down the hall to make sure I had some time to answer and seeing no one, I answered it. I’d told my brother that the hospital had already called. He told me there was more. My world went into free fall at that point because I don’t remember what happened after that. I just know that it was all kinds of awful and somehow I was let out of my interview with a promise to reschedule.
I shiver, banishing the thoughts from my mind as best I can when the elevator behind me dings and I know, though I have no clue how, that it’s him. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention and my body starts to hum the closer he gets to me. At the same time, the receptionist hangs up the phone and turns to the new visitor.
“Hello Mr. Cole, Mr. Wellington is expecting you.”
Cole?
Violet eyes?
There’s no way.
It’s impossible.
His last name was Richards. But his middle name started with…what was it? A C. That’s it, but what was his middle name and why would he use his middle name as a last name?
I turn, my conscious wins out over better judgment in an attempt to get a better look at the man I’d dumped my coffee all over. To find something about him that isn’t the man from my past. But before I can get a look at him, he manages to turn down the hall before I see his face again.
He changed his suit. Fucker.
He’s gone from a light grey to a dark grey one and he walks with a cocky confidence that belongs in a three thousand dollar suit, but the hair, the eyes, neither one of them matches the façade he is trying like hell to pull off. Then again, if you can afford that kind of a suit, it doesn’t much matter what the man inside him looks like. The suit alone screams money and power. And sex. What the hell is wrong with me? His hair is longer than one would expect from a businessman, falling past his ears and he reminds me of someone in a surfing video or at a skate park – if he were seventeen – and nowhere near a corporate office. The light brown locks are straight yet disheveled in a way that makes him sexier than he should be.
“Ms. McKidd?” I turn toward the voice to see a well-dressed, statuesque blonde standing to the right of the reception desk. She’s wearing a pantsuit that makes me jealous. I wish I could pull off something like that as well as she does.
I’m not short by any means, but I certainly don’t have the slender body to pull off the look.
I push back, hoping to find some confidence between here and the inevitable handshake that’s about to happen. “Ms. Iverson?” I ask.
She smiles. “Call me Shelly.” She extends her hand to me and I take it. I do my best to ignore the pain her grip causes me. While I was in the bathroom, I did what I could to inspect my hand in the awful light of the handicap stall and it didn’t look horrible and I didn’t see any blisters, but it still hurts.
Somewhere in the middle of our handshake I pull together my confidence. I’d trained for this, over and over again with Kerrigan and my friend Reese, hoping like hell I could master an interview as important as this one. I breathe in deep and put a smile on my face. “Okay, Shelly.” My smile grows a little wider. “I cannot thank you enough for allowing me to reschedule,” I tell her, my comfort level rising slightly as I do.
“It was my pleasure. Did everything turn out all right?” she asks as she ushers me down the hallway.
I don’t really know how to answer that. I gently shake my head and say, “Under the circumstances, it was...” I don’t bother to finish. The look in her eyes portrays her understanding and I let it go.
“Then I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”
The line has been said to me a thousand times over the last week, but for some reason this one feels different. There is a quiet apology in her voice that I respect. She was here when I’d gotten that second phone call. I swallow. “Thank you,” I manage to choke out while keeping my tears in check as I follow her toward the conference room. “I also need to apologize.”
“For?” She turns to me and her eyes roam up and down. Great.
“Someone ran into me downstairs. I was carrying a cup of coffee and-”
“No apology necessary,” She gives me a sad smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and I’m not entirely convinced it’s not needed, but I let it go. No use in pointing it out again.
She leads me into a conference room where there are two other people sitting at the massive, cherry wood table. Shelly introduces me and I shake both their hands. Again, ignoring the pain as best I can. It doesn’t hurt so much as long as someone isn’t touching it.
The next hour flies by in a daze and a flurry of questions coming at me from all three people sitting across from me. I do my best to answer them all and I think I impress them in some areas and maybe not so much in others.
Shelly was kind enough to point out that I’d previously applied for their internship program, three times, but what that had to do with anything was beyond me. I simply explained it had been my desire to come to work for Wellington and I thought the internship would be a great place to start. I’ll never admit it to them, but I’m glad I was able to intern at Stauffer because it turned out to be a better choice and fit for me. Especially if I get the job here today.
The interview is winding down. They’re discussing among themselves whether or not they have any further questions for me when the door behind me opens. Curiosity burns but I realize we’re probably taking up someone else’s room time. However, my interviewers don’t seem too surprised and they all stand, I follow them in a show of respect.
“Mr. Wellington, Mr. Cole, what a surprise,” Shelly says and the name I hoped I wouldn’t be hearing again jolts me into looking up and I freeze.
He works for Wellington. He’d come off the elevator before, he could have worked anywhere in the building but why would he be in this room during my interview if he didn’t work for them.
My heart sinks.
I’ve official
ly succeeded in making myself look like a complete and total ass in front of someone I’m going to be working with. What are the odds?
“This is quite possibly the longest interview I’ve ever seen you conduct, Michelle.” The voice isn’t the one from downstairs and I turn to acknowledge Mr. Wellington, doing my damnedest to ignore the suit behind him but he is a force in the room. You simply cannot ignore him.
I take a cue I should show some initiative by introducing myself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wellington, I’m Ireland McKidd.” I extend my hand to him and he takes it gently. I’d almost wager a guess he knows about what happened downstairs; either that or he has a weak handshake. I’ll stick with the latter of the two.
The man who came into the conference room with Mr. Wellington takes a step back, putting him closer to the wall and farther from me. His eyes flare as if someone has a chokehold on him. I find some courage somewhere inside of me to show him some level of professional respect, despite our meeting downstairs, by extending my hand. His eyes move down to it and I know he sees the redness when his eyes soften briefly, but then the man in the dark grey suit starts glaring at me.
Trying my best to ignore the dark grey suit in the corner, I turn my focus toward Mr. Wellington. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out why he’d be freaked out by my name.
“The pleasure is mine,” Mr. Wellington says with an appraising look and a warm smile. Oh god, the coffee. Fuck! He makes no mention of it when he asks me his own form of an interview question. “Would you mind filling me in on why you want to work for me?” I smile at the middle-aged man. He’s not unattractive by any means, but definitely been rode hard and hung up wet.
