by J. A. Huss
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 rock 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.
The Atrium is the main building where all the executive, managerial, and creative staff work. It looks like the name implies—a giant seven-story building with a glass roof. When Stonewall Senior started this company twenty years ago the building was in another part of the Tech Center. One closer to downtown. But about ten years ago they moved to this building and every year the working environment gets more trendy. You know, one of those companies where everyone wants to work.
Stonewall has been voted best place to work in the whole country for eight years running. They have a ton of amenities for employees. Even a day care center for working families. There’s a Montessori school just off campus too, and only Stonewall kids can apply to go there.
And they are big on charity here at Stonewall. Every month we have a charity drive of some sort.
The Atrium is the first stop after the airport, so the doors open and I get off with two other people. It’s another below-ground station, twenty times as big as the one I just left. And the escalator ride up is not as long. From down here you can see straight up into the main lobby and there’s huge palm trees and a view of the waterfall as soon as you get to the top.
The high-level creatives who work in the Atrium don’t have offices. Everyone in this building is assigned a tablet, a laptop, and a phone, just like me. There are tons of brightly-colored workstations scattered throughout the building. Some are picnic tables, some are small living rooms—couches and chairs. Some are even hammocks. I don’t know if working in the Atrium makes people more creative or not, but it’s nice. Cheery and stuff.
Obviously, I’m not a creative. I have no input into the day-to-day marketing of the company, I just schedule guests and escort them around the campus.
The main attractions in the Atrium are the waterfall and the slide. Yes, we are one of those places. A giant seven-story slide. Actually, we have four slides. One that really does twist all the way down from the top floor, but others on floors three, four, and five.
When people come for tours I show them the slide and offer a free ride down from seven. No one has ever taken me up on it. Just once I’d like to see them sit their ass down on that slide and give it a whirl.
The waterfall is two-sided. It snakes all the way down from the sixth floor and on either side of it are banks of glass elevators.
That’s where my attention is right now, because Mr. Fancy Jet McAllister is laughing in a group of executives. Including my boss, Mr. Sowards. Jennifer Sluts-around is leaning into him like she wants to lick his face. Marty Brown-nose is doing that fake laugh thing he always does when he’s sucking up. And Clarisse Takes-all-the-credit is looking at his crotch as she plays with her hair. Jesus. Can they be any more stupid? I roll my eyes as I hide behind a large palm tree. They are standing right in front of the elevator, so I slink my way over to the stairs.
I take a picture of them as they stand there, my camera shutter set to silent. I’m sort of a stalker around here. I have a special private Pinterest board where I collect gossip about my co-workers. I don’t send that to anyone, not even Perfect Heath.
The elevator opens and they all make their way in. I hoof it up the stairs to the second floor, my eyes glued on Mr. Fancy Jet as he gets in the elevator. Instinctively I hold my phone up and snap a picture just as he turns and looks at me.
Oh my God, he smiled. I think he saw me. I look away real fast and then start climbing up to the third floor, checking the picture on my phone.
Nah, he wasn’t looking at me. Something in my direction, but not me.
But holy hell, he is damn hot. I stare at the image all the way up to the seventh floor, by which time I’m sweating more than when I was carting Brutus around in the golf cart.
Mr. Sowards is waiting outside the executive conference room and as soon as he sees me leave the stairs, he starts walking in my direction.
What can this be about? Please, please, please don’t be about Brutus.
“Miss Hatcher, just exactly what were you thinking this morning?”
“I’m so sorry. I forgot I had a peanut butter sandwich in my purse.”
“What?”
“What?”
He scowls at me. “I don’t know what that means”—he holds up a hand—“and I don’t care. I’m talking about that whole ‘Excuse me, excuse me’ thing you were doing out on the tarmac!”
“Oh, well, I didn’t know who he was. I saw the jet and it wasn’t on my schedule—”
“Miss Hatcher, the CEO of Stonewall Entertainment doesn’t have to clear his schedule with you.”
“No, of course not. I mistook him for a guest and I didn’t want him—”
“Well, don’t do it again.” Sowards stares at me until I nod.
“No, sir, I won’t.” I smile and wait. “Is… is that all you needed? Can I go now?”
“Go?” he asks. “No, Miss Hatcher. We’re having an executive meeting. Which is why I called you up to the executive conference room.”
“Executive meeting? Then why do I have to be there? You guys never invite me to the meetings up here on seven.”
“Go sit down, Miss Hatcher.”
Sowards walks off and disappears into the conference room. My eyes follow him and then rest on Mr. Fancy Jet as he appears from my left. He stops and smiles at me. “Did you at least get me in focus?” he asks.
Oh, my God, he did see me take that picture.
“Shall we?” he asks, waving a hand towards the open conference room door. I nod and walk briskly into the room. It’s glass on all four sides and the doors aren’t regular doors because that is way too mundane for a fun company like Stonewall. They are sliders that fold open, the kind you see at beach houses where a wall of windows suddenly slides back and the wall disappears, opening to the outside.
Once the folding doors are closed I am a nervous mess. Why am I here? I’m not really an executive. I can count on one hand the number of executive meetings I’ve been to, and those were all major restructuring changes. I’m my own department here. I run the whole thing. I have Ming as my assistant, but when they gave her those duties, they just added to her current IT salary. So really, I have no oversight over anyone but myself and the guests I escort from studio to studio.
The conference table seats ten. McAllister Stonewall is at the head, just in front of the digital whiteboard, and all eight chairs along the long length of the table are also taken up by other department heads.
The only chair left is the end. I slink into the soft leather and lean back—too far—and then have to scramble to regain my balance as I try to look like I meant to do that. “Wow,” I say, smiling at all the gawking looks. “Are these new? They’re very comfortable.”
“OK,” McAllister says. “Ready?”
Everyone nods and affirms with a chorus of yeses just as the shades come down and the room goes dark. A video starts playing on the digital whiteboard and everyone settles in, tablets in hand to take notes.
>
Should I take notes?
I get my tablet out and set my phone on the table beside it.
The video is about… hell if I know. Ethics? Mission statement? A reorganization? I don’t know. I have nothing to do with any of this. I’m the celebrity concierge.
I do my best to pay attention, but the chair is so comfy, and the room is dark. I start to drift off.
Jesus, Ellie. Get it together. You are in an executive meeting, for Pete’s sake. The CEO is sitting right in front of you.
Hey, the relaxed voice in my head says. His back is to me. He will never know if I just close my eyes—
Sowards clears his throat next to me, and everyone glances over at us.
I force myself to stay awake.
Three minutes later I’m dozing again so I look to my right. Clarisse is taking notes on her tablet. So I flip open the cover on mine and do the same.
New page. Heading. Executive Meeting. Wednesday—I glance at the clock—seven forty-five.
Video about… employees. New health benefits. Reorganization chart.
See, I knew it. That’s the only reason they call me up here. I never get reorganized.
Then I notice my name has moved on the flow chart on the screen. “Hey,” I say out loud. “Did I just get reorganized?”
Fancy Jet looks over his shoulder and smiles at me.
“Later, Miss Hatcher,” Sowards growls to my left.
“Sorry,” I whisper. By now the chart is off screen, so I can’t even take a note. I glance over at Clarisse’s tablet, but she shields it from me with her arm like we’re taking a test in fifth grade.
Bitch.
I open up Pinterest and ease my tablet up slightly so I can take some pictures. Snap. I catch Bob Moran picking his nose and almost laugh out loud. Clarisse is still guarding her tablet like a child. Snap. Jennifer Sluts-around is staring at McAllister like she wants to eat him.
And… McAllister is off to the side now so he can get a better view of the video, so I see him in profile. God, that’s perfect. I snap about a dozen of him and then make a new board called My Hot Brother-in-Law.
