The office is constructed like a horse shoe, with Karen’s and the partners’ offices lining the exterior arc. Inside the shoe, junior associates, assistants, and one intern all sit at small wooden desks, which are blocked off from the front lobby and reception area by the conference room in the middle of everything. Karen takes me on a brief tour to meet all of the lawyers, and then we circle back to the lobby, where Sarah, the morning receptionist is answering phones.
“Sarah will continue training you for your first shift today,” Karen informs me, tapping her long, manicured nails on the lacquered wood bar rimming the receptionist desk. “After that, you’re on your own. Think you can handle it?”
I blink and smile. “Got it.”
I don’t care for the condescension, but I’m not about to tell Karen that. She seems like the type who, when it really comes down to it, wouldn’t mind breaking a few of those pretty nails on someone’s face if they cross her the wrong way. I doubt I’m going to love this job, but I definitely don’t plan for that person to be me.
~
The training is simple enough—after all, answering phones isn’t exactly rocket science. I learn quickly the politics of sending clients to the partners. Steven Fox, for instance, is hardly ever in the office, and I’m never, ever to forward calls directly to his cell phone unless it’s Katie Derek, the pop superstar and the firm’s number one client. Everyone else is to be directed through Fox’s assistant, Jed, who always seems to be on the phone and yet can somehow accept multiple calls at the same time. I learn quickly where the paper is kept and how to send an outgoing fax. Like I said, not rocket science. If I have nothing to do in between phone calls, I’m allowed to study or read. It becomes increasingly clear as the afternoon draws into the evening that I’m going to have plenty of time for that. No problem here; who doesn’t want to get paid to study?
Sometime around six o’clock, Sarah and I is catching me up on office gossip when the elevator doors open. Although several clients and couriers have already arrived during my shift, this is the only one that causes Sarah to tense in her chair and start blushing. It's odd, considering how many famous people come by here on a regular basis. I watch curiously as she flushes, the stolidly pale demeanor she assumed throughout the afternoon replaced by a girlish pink. Who gets this kind of treatment?
“Oh, ah, hi, Nico,” Sarah stammers almost a little too loudly.
I suppress a chuckle, and shuffle my training notes before I look up to greet this Nico person, whoever he is. A client, I'm guessing, but I've never heard of anyone famous by that name. It’s then that I feel as if the air is completely gone from my chest and I’ve been hit hard by a large sack of bricks. Literally, that’s what it’s like. As if someone slapped me hard across the face. Or submerged my body in a bucket of numbing ice water. My vision actually blurs, and I can’t feel my legs.
He is so unbelievably beautiful. I say that instead of sexy or handsome or good-looking because these words don’t cover it. They’re too external, too superficial for the kind of draw I feel from this man right now. His appeal could obviously make a nun toss out her habit, and I’m no nun.
On paper, he would probably come across as average at best. A blue collar kid with not much to his name. Obviously no big success career-wise—just a twenty-something FedEx courier. He’s not terribly tall, maybe five-ten in boots, if that. I estimate that in heels I’d probably be eye to eye with him. But money and height don’t equal charisma, and he’s got that in spades.
His lack of height is tempered by a pair of broad, toss-a-girl-over-them shoulders and biceps that ripple clearly, even under the thick, dark fabric of his uniform. His FedEx shirt is rolled up at the cuffs to reveal a set of muscular forearms that are dappled by a few small tattoos trailing up the sleeves. His skin is a delicious olive tone, the color of coffee and rich cream. It's complemented by a fringe of short black hair that just sticks out from under his FedEx baseball cap, which is curled heavily over a pair of black eyes that twinkle mischievously at Sarah. His dark features, however, only work to highlight the brightest, most thoroughly panty-dropping smile I have ever seen, which he is working to full effect when I look up.
Like I said: a sack of bricks.
“How you doin’, Sarah?”
If his smile causes all the blood to fly straight out of my brain, his voice makes it all flood back in again. I’ve heard it before, and now that I think about it, I actually recognize the shape of those big shoulders. It’s the guy from the street, Mr. Ass of the Year. And his front side definitely matches the promise of the back. This guy is serious trouble.
His voice holds traces of the same New York accent that Karen has, but his is softer somehow, muted in the velvety texture of his baritone. It’s a gorgeous, deep tone, the kind you want whispering in your ear in some dark alley while he’s got you pressed against a brick wall, hands up your skirt, hot mouth nipping at your ear while he—
Steady, girl. You’re at work.
I know I’m staring, but it takes me a few seconds to shut my mouth and make sure I can actually move my limbs. Apparently Sarah has better recovery time, since she’s standing up when I turn to her.
“Not bad, Nico,” she giggles at him. “Today’s my last day on the night shift. You gonna miss me when I’m gone?”
“Of course I will, hon,” he croons. “Is this the new girl?”
His gaze briefly sweeps up and down from my head down to my waist, which is likely all that’s visible from where he stands. I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.
“This is.”
Karen’s voice confirms his question sweetly from her office to the right of the reception desk, and Nico, Sarah and I all swivel our heads in unison when she strides out. Karen knows how to make an entrance—I’ll give her that. Obviously Nico’s charm spreads beyond the reception desk. The woman is swaying her hips like a burlesque dancer on ecstasy.
Sarah takes a seat next to me as Karen approaches the desk. We both busy ourselves, sorting blank papers and pens to avoid her gaze. Karen smiles at me, as if she was looking at a newly rescued kitten and hadn’t been grilling me with her unforgiving stare and condescending comments all afternoon.
“Yeah, this is Layla, our new intern receptionist from NYU. We’re hoping she’ll do all right. How you been, Nico?”
She turns up her accent even more as she speaks, clearly accentuating the local connection they might have. I wonder for a moment if Nico is from the Bronx too.
“Same ol’, Karen, you know,” he says, flashing that brilliant smile again.
It’s a wonder Karen doesn’t lose the feeling in her legs just like I did. Sarah and I are safely seated behind the desk—otherwise I’d be grabbing onto the edges for dear life.
“Nothin’ changed since yesterday.” Nico turns to me and leans over on the desk, extending a hand. “I’m Nico,” he says with a grin. “Your friendly neighborhood FedEx delivery man.”
Now that the smile is directed at me, I’m genuinely shocked that Karen didn’t topple over in her five-inch heels. A pair of deep, incredibly dark brown eyes square on me with bright, obvious intelligence in a way that makes me feel like he can see all the way down to where the five year-old Layla still lives, carefully protected from strangers. Like he can see any secret I’ve ever kept down there. And the weird thing is, I want him to know every single one of them. Does he want to know about the time I shoplifted candy from the corner market? Or the time I made out with a man in Brazil old enough to be my father just because my cousins had given sixteen-year-old me too many caipirinhas? Because I’d tell him everything and more. I’m suddenly an open book. Wide open.
Instead I clench my thighs together and manage to stick out a hand to shake his, a big calloused paw that feels like it could chuck me over his shoulder and run me out of the office like a marauder he resembles. I’ll bet he was a pirate in his last life, pillaging lasses with a wink and a quick nod of the head. Oh, yes, please do.
Someh
ow I smile back—it turns out his grin is contagious.
“Nice to meet you,” I say through lips that feel like rubber. “I’m Layla. I guess I’ll be seeing you every day at six.” Immediately I feel foolish—Karen literally just told him my name, didn’t she?
His smiled falters a moment, and he blinks before his grin returns, wider than ever. “I guess you will.”
For a moment we just gaze at each other, still gripping onto the other’s hands tightly. I, for one, have apparently lost all ability to control my body parts once again. On the up side, I could take his lack of movement as an indicator that he apparently feels something similar. At least I hope it’s that and not that I’ve completely held him hostage with my newfound paralysis.
“Ahem.”
Karen clears her throat, and Nico drops my hand, which flops noisily onto my desk. Sarah snorts, and I resist the urge to kick her in the shin—after all, I did just meet the girl.
“So, yeah,” Nico says to Karen, glancing at me one last time before he turns to her. “I got few for you today, ladies.”
He sets his clipboard onto the countertop and turns to unload several large boxes from his dolly. He stacks them easily next to the receptionist’s desk, and Sarah flits around to check the address labels in order to alert the assistants in the back. I content myself with watching the clear ripples of his back muscles as he works.
“So, you gonna do the honors, NYU?” He holds out the clipboard, which I stare at for a moment until Karen snatches it away.
“I’ll take care of that today,” she purrs, shooting me a dirty look after she returns the board. “But Layla, this will be your job most evenings, got it? Sorry, Nico. You know we gotta teach these young kids everything these days. You workin’ the door at AJ’s this weekend?”
“Every Saturday,” Nico concurs. He sets the clipboard back on the remaining packages he has to deliver and wheels everything back to the elevators. “Girl, you know I gotta pay the bills.”
“You know I do,” Karen cheers. “See you tomorrow, then, Nico.”
She taps her fingernails on the wooden desktop cheerfully before teetering back to her office in her noisy boots. They look like Louboutins. She must either buy them at sample sales or be in an amazing amount of debt; there’s no way an office manager makes enough money for shoes like that, no matter how profitable the firm is. Sarah stands up promptly to deliver the smaller packages to the assistants, leaving me alone with Mr. Panty-melting smile.
“Your first day going all right, NYU?”
The deep voice yanks me out of my ungracious thoughts, and I jerk back to where Nico stands, waiting for the elevator to arrive. God, that voice is going to be the end of me—I can already tell. Damn, and there's that ass again, filling out his company-issued cargo pants in a way that no man has any right to do. It’s hard not to love a man in uniform, even if it’s just from FedEx.
“Um, yes,” I say, willing my voice to even out and sound less like a flustered thirteen-year-old talking to a boy for the first time. Goddammit, I’m not that flustered girl anymore—I haven’t been since the day I stepped onto Manhattan a year and a half ago.
“Where you from, NYU? Kansas?”
I snort, which is oddly the first sound since he walked in the door that sounds like me. There I am—direct, even caustic sometimes, never afraid to express what I’m thinking. Purveyor of distinctly unladylike sounds, according to my mother.
“Are you serious?" I ask. "Kansas? Why would you say that?”
Nic grins, and I’m pleased to say that this time I can still feel my toes. Good, I’ve already established a solid learning curve with this one.
“Just ‘cause you got that Dorothy look all about you, NYU. Bright lights, big city and all that. So, Kansas? Am I right? Or is it Iowa?”
“Um, neither,” I pronounce emphatically. “Definitely not. Washington, actually.” And then, realizing that to a New York who probably hasn’t spent much time outside the tristate area, Washington State isn’t any different than the Midwest, I add, “Just outside of Seattle.”
“Ah,” he says, as if that tells him everything about me. The way he’s examining me, I can’t help but wonder if it does. When he looks down at what I assume is a list of deliveries on his clipboard, I glance down at my outfit, wondering what about me says “Not a New Yorker” so clearly. It’s not that bad. The clothes are cheap, but I bought them here only last year, and the skirt is black. Between that and my hair, which is rioting in a big ponytail of curls right now, I don’t exactly look like a character from Leave It to Beaver.
The elevator bell signals the opening doors, and Nico backs into the car before I can think of anything else to say.
“See you tomorrow, NYU,” he says, raising a hand in mock farewell.
“It’s Layla!” I call out as the doors begin to shut, but not before I catch a sly wink and one more flash of that big, bright smile. I sit back in my chair with a thud, wondering what the hell had just happened to me. Sarah’s shoes echo on the hardwood floors as she returns from her package delivery.
“Everything okay?” she asks, taking her seat in the chair next to me. This desk really isn’t big enough for two people, and I’m happy that I won’t have to sit permanently so close that she can see every emotion as it affects my body.
I smile, pleased when the phone rings so I don’t have to reply. Because the honest answer is no. I’m not okay. I’ve never been farther from okay in my life.
~
To Be Continued...Fall 2016
Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1) Page 51
