Page 5 of Latte Girl
Oh yes. Things aregoingup.
I take a minute to adjust the situation while she’s turned away, and search for an alternative answer to the one my brain justsupplied.
Humour. Wit. Charm. These are things that I must havesomewhere.
“Actually I’m headed to the basement,” I tell her. “I’ve got some plumbing to fix. I’m the newjanitor.”
She runs her eyes up and down my suit and smirks. I hope it’s at my poor excuse for a joke, and not at the very obvious area I’ve moved my briefcase tocover.
“Well, I’m the CEO. Nice to meet you, MisterJanitor.”
I let out a laugh. The elevator arrives and she wheels her cart in. I follow and press the button for my floor as I stepinside.
She eyes the button I’ve pressed. “So you’re not the janitor? Well, I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m not reallytheCEO.”
“Could have fooled me,” I reply, my eyes glued to the doors as we start movingupwards.
The small space is filled with the smell of coffee beans and icing sugar. We spend the next few floors of the ride in silence. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring straight ahead as well. The inside of the elevator feels like an oven and I’m glad we have the cart between us, because I don’t know if I could handle being any closertoher.
The elevator dings at the floor just below mine and she starts to wheel her way out. I reach to hold the door open before it can slam shut as she works the cart over the ridge between the elevator and the hallway. She turns and flashes me one more smile before the doors slideclosed.
Holy.Shit.
I sink back against the wall of the elevator and let out a breath. My head’s filled with that heavy, warm feeling you get after downing a shot, the one that comes right aftertheburn.
The elevator comes to a stop at the next floor. I shake my head, trying to snap out of the haze. Then the doors open and I’m faced with the equivalent of a slap across the face, punch to the gut, and bucket of ice water being dumped overmyhead.
My father is striding towards me, and he doesn’t lookimpressed.
Emerson Knox’s mouth is set in its usual grim and determined line, the hair combed back severely from his face only serving to emphasize his hawk-like features. A dozen or so cronies in colourless suits follow in his wake, trying to get his attention long enough for him to answer a question or sign an outstretched document. He ignores them all, his laser-straight stare focusedonme.
“Jordan,” he barks as I step out of the elevator, “nice of you to join us at...9:36.” He rolls up his sleeve to examine a solid gold watch with a face the size of atennisball.
I nod in response. “Just going to get set up in my office before the ten o’clock meeting,” I add, trying to sidle away before he has the chance to sayanythingelse.
“8:36 would have been a good time to set up your office, Jordan,” he calls, not even looking at me anymore as he gets in the elevator, his followers elbowing each other out of the way as they try to climb inafterhim.
I walk through the aisle between a few rows of cubicles, where more greyscale employees are bent over computer screens and telephones. Several frosted glass office doors line the back of the room. A small brass plaque on the wall next to mine reads ‘Mr. Jordan Knox, Junior Manager ofFinance.’
I close the office door behind me before sinking into the leather desk chair, chucking my briefcase onto the floor and dropping my head into my hands. The office is small, just a chair and a heavy wooden desk set up opposite a filing cabinet and a few narrowshelves.
Given my status as a recent grad with no experience besides a few brief internships, I shouldn’t even have an office at all. My father has been citing my performance at Penn State and strong references from my internships as the official reasons for starting me off as a junior executive, but I might as well be walking around this place with a sign that reads, ‘I am the product ofnepotism.’
I set up my laptop, browsing through my new corporate inbox in the few minutes left before the meeting, then grab my briefcase before making my way back over to the elevator. A few other employees get in with me, and I receive some nods of acknowledgement. Most of the people working here would have seen me as a child. I wonder how the ones who’ll now have to answer to me as a superior feelaboutthat.
The boardroom is already filled with a dozen or so people, busy piling up small ceramic plates at the elaborately arranged catering table. My dad is making today’s meeting into a bit of an affair. It’s my official introduction to all the heads of the company, which is highly unnecessary for someone in my position, but my father does like to show off any shiny new achievementofhis.
I bypass the catering. I’m about to take a seat at the meeting table when Iseeher.
She’s facing away from me, working a mini espresso machine that’s been set up on a small stand, but I know it’s her. Even from the back she draws my eyes like a magnet, her strawberry blonde hair pinned up so that a hint of smooth white skin shows above the neck of her blouse. Just that inch of skin alone has my mind spinning with a kaleidoscope ofpossibilities.
I wrench my gaze away and sit down at the meeting table, turning my back to her. This is not the time or place to get tongue tied overagirl.
As I’m sitting with my hands clenched around the edge of the table, fighting off the urge to turn around, a hand thumps my back, hard, and a silver-haired man drops into the chair nexttome.
“Jordan, Jordan, Jordan,” he says loudly, slapping my back again with each repetition ofmyname.
“Morning,Ludo.”
