Page 8 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
And that’s what I’m dreading.
Trudging to an unofficial meeting with the plan to beg and plead for a little more time until I can figure something out.
By the time I reach Mr. Larkin’s office, I’m a bundle of nerves.
The place is in a small, brick building wedged between a nail salon and a locally owned hardware store.
The gold lettering on the glass door has long since faded with time and sun exposure, cracks forming between the letters and flecks of it peeling off.
I hesitate at the door and catch sight of my own reflection.
I look paler than usual under these grey skies, my hair slightly frizzy under the hood of my jacket from how dry and cold it’s been outside.
Even from the warped mirrored image, I can tell how dark the circles under my eyes are.
My hand trembles when I reach out and grab the handle, and a warm rush of air smelling faintly of freshly brewed coffee greets me.
You can do this.
“Don’t fuck this up,” I mumble to myself then step into the lobby.
The little bell above the door jingles behind me when it swings shut again.
Someone from behind the counter, a young woman around my age with light brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, looks up from her computer.
She fixes me with a polite but disinterested smile. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m here to see Mr. Larkin,” I reply, walking closer to her. “I don’t have an appointment but?—”
Before I can finish, a voice calls from an open doorway behind her. “Send her in.”
I swallow, dread leaking into my gut instantly.
She gestures for me to go ahead before turning back to her computer once again.
Blowing out another breath, I move behind the counter and head down the hallway.
Mr. Larkin’s office is exactly how I remember it from the first time I came here to sign my lease paperwork.
It’s all dark wood paneling and a massive leather couch next to a built-in fireplace. Behind his desk sits a tall, dark-stained chair, the finish on it gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.
There’s not a single personal photo of knickknack in sight. The entire palace is sterile and efficient.
Just like him.
He looks up from his papers as soon as I step inside, his expression perfectly neutral like always.
He’s in his mid-fifties, silver hair neatly combed back, and a pair of glasses perched low on his nose.
“Miss Callahan… I assume you’re here about the notice I sent?” His hands fold together on top of his desk, fingers lacing.
“I, um. Yes.” My eyes dart around, looking for somewhere to sit.
Nothing’s arranged close by enough for me to settle down in. Probably by design. “I wanted to talk to you about it.”
He nods, keeping direct eye contact with me.
“You’re behind three weeks now. Your lease clearly states the grace period for late payments is an extra ten days. You’ve well exceeded that.”
