Page 27 of Remembering Passion

“Oh, Ms. Crystal. You know without me this building would be chaos, pure mayhem.”

I started to reach for my badge—body memory—but it wasn’t there. I tilted my head. “I’m here for a meeting.”

Edgar shook his head as he walked back around the desk. “I sure don’t remember seeing your name.” He gave me a wink. “It would have jumped off the page.” He lifted a tablet and swiped the screen. “Who you seeing?”

“Mr. Sinclair.”

Edgar’s eyes opened wider. “Oh, let me look at his schedule.” A moment or two passed. “Yep, there you are. Didn’t expect to see you there.”

“That makes two of us,” I said with a shrug.

“It’s embarrassing,” he said. “I know who you are, but they make me scan your ID now days. Can’t be too careful.”

“It’s not a problem,” I replied as I opened my purse.

Edgar took the ID from my grasp and ran it through a machine. When he handed it back, he smiled. “I’ve missed your smile.” He began walking toward the bank of elevators. “Follow me now.”

I walked a step behind. “Thank you, Edgar. I’m happy with my new job, but I’ve missed you too.”

One of the elevators opened. Edgar stepped inside. “You tell Mr. Sinclair to hire you back. I can’t keep this place running for much longer.” He placed his badge over a sensor and hit the button for the top floor.

“I’m not looking for a job. And I know I couldn’t do your job—no one can.”

“You have a nice meeting,” he said as he stepped out of the elevator sending me into the sky.

“Thank you.”

Nice meeting.

Damn, it was as if Edgar was strategically placed in my path to lighten my mood. That was all right. It was a nice reprieve. Securing my satchel over my shoulder, I stared at my reflection in the shiny door. I wasn’t as made up as I had been in Los Angeles. My tan pencil skirt, cream blouse, and two-inch heels were what some would call business casual. My long dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and my smile from the gala was MIA.

“Beta Kappa Phi,” I mumbled to myself.

The doors opened to the top floor. The name Sinclair was scrolled in large gold letters over the long receptionist’s desk. As I approached, I didn’t recognize either of the two women.

“May I help you?” one woman asked.

“I have a three o’clock appointment with Mr. Sinclair.”

“Mr. Sinclair is running a little behind. He asked if you could wait.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Please tell Mr. Sinclair that I also have a tight schedule. If he isn’t available, we can” —I started to say reschedule— “forgo this meeting altogether.”

The woman’s eyes nearly popped from her head. “Excuse me?”

My smile grew. “I can wait five minutes.”

“Oh, okay,” she muttered while giving her coworker an expression that asked who the hell did I think I was, and did I know who I was speaking about.

I knew exactly who I was speaking about.

Lifting my chin, I walked to a cluster of chairs near a window. The view down below was of the large fountain I’d just passed. Farther, the Indianapolis skyline, complete with Lucas Oil, stretched on for a distance. I was lost in my thoughts and simultaneously pissed that Damien would pull a childish power play of making me wait when the second woman from the desk appeared behind me.

“Oh,” I exclaimed, reaching for my chest.

“I’m sorry to startle you, Ms. Crystal. Mr. Sinclair is ready for you.” She turned.

Standing near the door that I knew led to a hallway that would take me to Damien’s office was a well-dressed younger man with strawberry-blond hair, green eyes, and a welcoming smile.

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