Page 2 of Handle with Care
I open the glass door and walk in, standing tall like I’m in one of my old dance classes. They say make an entrance—and pre-splash, I looked entirely fabulous—but showing up half-drowned isn’t the look I’m going for.
The receptionist stares at me as the clock behind her ticks ominously to 9:00 a.m.
It’s got to be bad.
I self-consciously run a hand through my hair, now plastered against my forehead. Very aware I’m dripping, I stay on the rug in the small entry, trying to look inconspicuous. And dry.
“May I help you?” she asks at last with a slightly disapproving tone, after she’s had a long, awkward look at me. She’s probably not much older than I am, her dark hair up in a neat twist. Shewears a flowery black-and-white dress with a yellow cardigan. And she’s remarkably dry.
“Er, maybe? I’m… Dylan Alexander, the new intern starting today. Some jerk just splashed me with his car. Is there a washroom where I can try to dry off?”
“Oh, you poor thing! We’ve been expecting you. Though how awful. Such bad luck.” Her eyes widen. “Yes, the WC is down the hall to your right. I’ll let Lily know you’ve arrived after you have a few minutes to freshen up.”
But before I have a chance to go attempt to dry off, the glass door opens. Someone behind me clears his throat.
“Excuse me,” says a man mildly in a posh voice.
I’m blocking the door. Quickly, I move off the rug and instead drip onto the tile in front of the floor-to-ceiling window looking out to the street. An impeccably dressed young man breezes by me with easy confidence like I’m invisible, with the flipped-up collar of his pale designer trench coat and expensive leather shoes polished to a shine. He’s traffic-stopping gorgeous, with his dark brown hair curated into a stylish mess.
Rain hasn’t even dared fall on him.
“I’m terribly sorry I’m late. I’m William Martin-Greene, the new intern starting this morning.” And then, William Martin-Greene smiles a devastating smile, with a quick flash of perfect teeth. Dimples have the audacity to appear. I’m trying not to stare, but frankly, he’s hot. So I’m staring without shame since I’m conveniently invisible to him, and I’m totally into sightseeing like a tourist on holiday. And nobody’s paying attention to me anyway.
“I’m Carine,” she says, beaming up at him, obviously also victim to his charisma. Her cheeks have a new flush as she leans in over the reception desk toward him.
Wait a minute. What did he say?
“I thought I’m the new intern. I’ve come all this way.” I blink at Carine, a frown tugging down the corners of my mouth. There’s got to be some sort of mistake. The posting for the job advertised one internship at the museum this summer. A feeling of dread rises in the core of my stomach. What if I’m not meant to be the intern after all? What if there’s been some sort of admin mix-up?
As I start to spiral, Carine speaks again, still beaming openly at him. “You’re both the new interns. And—perfect timing. You’re not late at all, William. Did you find the parking stall?”
“Yes, I did. I have the red McLaren. Thank you.” At last, he turns slightly, looking at me, appraising. Our gazes lock for a long moment, and I’m absorbed by the sight of him while I continue to drip on the tiles. But I hold my ground despite the distracting gorgeous silver-blue of his eyes, his high cheekbones, his fine, straight nose. This guy has underwear model written all over him. Well, or regular fashion model, if he must wear clothes. Which, in my current fantasy?—
Wait just a minute. The pieces click together.
A red McLaren equals red sports car literally making waves on my way in. The only reason I know anything about McLarens at all is because my best friend back home once made me watch some late-night Formula 1 racing documentary with him—time, I argued, which we could be better spend dancing in a club.
“You—” I snap.
His jaw lifts ever so slightly. A very fine jaw too, clean-shaven?—
I fume, stopping short of cursing him out in the first five minutes of my new job. What sort of intern has a parking spot in the center of London? From what I can tell, cars are barely allowed into this area. And?—
“You soaked me!” I stare him down.
“I did?” He’s startled, his dark eyebrows lifting in an appealing way. Wide-eyed, he looks truly confused. “How? I’ve just arrived. Soaked you with what, exactly?”
“You—”
Carine looks from me to him to me again like we’re playing tennis.
“Car versus puddle, and I lost! You didn’t even try to avoid the lagoon in the street. You blazed through it without a thought to pedestrians.” I scowl at him. I’d better not start with the f-bombs out loud on my first day, no matter how upset I am. “And splashed me.”
Firedalso starts with anF.
“The poor thing’s soaked to the bone,” Carine tells him, as if it’s not obvious enough, and she gives me a concerned look. “I’ll see if we have anything else here you can wear, Dylan. I’ll let you go freshen up, and I’ll ring Lily to tell her you’re both here. It’s perfect timing.”
I take it as my cue to swim down the hall and try to make myself look less ridiculous and hopefully drier before my—our—new boss comes down.
