Page 4 of Latte Girl
ImpendingThunderbolts
Jordan
Iwakeup to the chorus of ‘Gangnam Style’ blasting out of myphone.
Ripping the covers off my chest, I lunge towards my bedside table and stab at the touch screen. The music cuts off and I sigh inrelief.
I read somewhere that starting your morning off with a concrete accomplishment, like making your bed or emptying your dishwasher, can help you be more productive throughout the rest of the day. I decided that nothing would make me feel more accomplished than ridding my surroundings of the most irritating music known to mankind, so for the past several months I’ve been waking up to the sound of Psy. It’s been surprisinglyeffective.
I head to the bathroom and step into the shower, already naked. One of the perks of living alone is that clothing is never a necessity. I do just about everything naked these days: sleeping, cooking, internet browsing. Occasionally I’ll be sitting on my couch, scarfing down a bowl of pasta in nothing but a pair of socks, and realize what a pitiful image of singlehood I make, but really, who would ever choose to wear pants when given the optionnotto?
The pressure from the showerhead beats down on my neck, unknotting the muscles, and I realize how tense I am already. I take in a deep breath and slowly let it out. Considering the fact that I’ve known this day was coming since I was old enough to have cohesive thoughts, I should be less stressed outaboutit.
Towelling off and stopping to stare at myself in the mirror, I consider shaving off the slight stubble I’ve accumulated over the past few days. Keeping it there will piss off my dad. I open my drawer and get out therazor.
My suit is already hanging from my closet door, and as I pull on the grey shirt and black jacket, I feel like a snail crawling into a shell. By the time I’m fully dressed, Naked-Pasta-Eating Jordan is tucked away under eight hundred dollars of Italian wool, and Jordan Knox, son of Emerson Knox and heir to the Knox Company legacy, is staring back at me in themirror.
I decide to take the bus over to 19thstreet today, which will definitely set my dad off if he finds out. There’s a brand new luxury BMW sitting in my building’s parking lot, courtesy of my father, that fits with the image he’d like me to embody. I actually prefer taking public transport to looking like a trust fund jackass, swaddled in enough cash to protect me from the harsh realitiesoflife.
Which I am. The Knox family might not be the private-jet-owning, sprawling-mansion-in-the-countryside kind of wealthy, but we are the private-driver-hiring, million-dollar-condo-in-the-heart-of-the-citytype.
Yes, I realize what a privileged asshole I sound like when I make that kind of acomparison.
We’re also wealthy enough that I was pretty much expected from birth to have an illustrious Ivy League career, and spent my entire childhood and adolescence being prepped for it. I earned my MBA from Penn State over a year ago, and today, the day I start working at my father’s company, should have happened soonafterthat.
Except itdidn’t.
I push those thoughts away. Despite everything that happened during the past year, all the things that went on with my mom, I’m here, standing on the concrete steps outside the Knox Security building, about to face the first day of what has always been destined to be the rest ofmylife.
Cue the dramatic music and impendingthunderbolts.
I adjust the tie around my neck that suddenly feels like it’s strangling me, and step inside the familiar lobby. This may be my first day working here, but it’s far from my first time in the office. After spending all my high school summers being forced to sit in on meetings and watch my father do his job, I associate the inside of this building with nervous fidgeting and longing glances out thewindow.
A woman in an apron is pushing a cart over to the elevators and I head in that direction. I notice it seems a bit heavy for her, and wonder if it would be chauvinistic or polite to offer to help. Then one of the drawers on the side of the cart falls open, and before I can shout a warning, a few dozen spoons spill out onto the floor. I hold back the urge to laugh when I see her wincing at theracket.
She drops to all fours and starts gathering up any spoons within reach. I pick up one that’s landed near my foot and head over to help her. Hoping to avoid embarrassing her any more, I attempt a joke and ask, “Is thisyours?”
She looks up at me and gasps, and when I get a good look at her face it’s all I can do not togasptoo.
She’sgorgeous.
She’s the kind of gorgeous that hits you like a stun gun, all milk and honey skin with huge, inky blue eyes as round and crazy-inducing as a full moon. I’m suddenly hyper aware of the fact that she’s on her knees in front of me with her mouth hanging open in aperfect‘O’.
For a moment we both stand there, staring, my outstretched arm holding the spoon between us like some sort of bizarre Renaissance tableau. Then she blinks those inkwell eyes of hers andlooksaway.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, getting to her feet. I think she’s going to slink away in embarrassment, but instead she lifts her head up to face me, and there’s a small smile on her lips that has me feeling like I’ve been hit by round two of the stun gun. “How’d you know?”sheasks.
I give her a questioningstare.
“That it was mine.” Her eyes drop to the spoon still clutched inmyfist.
“Ah,” I answer, “luckyguess.”
Her smile widens as she takes the spoon out ofmyhand.
It’s not the only thing that’s getting out of hand. My imagination is having a field day and is not checking in with me for permission. My eyes have already travelled the length of her body. It shouldn’t be possible for her to be so attractive in the outfit she’s wearing. Who makes grandma loafers look sexy? And that apron. I’m suddenly picturing her in nothingbutthatapron.
“Going up?” she asks, after tucking the spoons away and pressing the elevatorbutton.
