Page 1 of The Refusal

1

Jo

Ismooth my hands over the bun pulled tight on the top of my head and examine my shirt for bits of breakfast. The atrium of this downtown building is beautiful: drooping palms, huge windows, and sun slanting across the pale marble floor. Looking up, I watch the numbers tick down on the elevator board above my head and shift the band of my suit around my waist, curling my toes to ease the tightness of my heels. Why would anyone wear clothes like this normally? I glance over at the receptionist’s steel-gray two-piece and sharp green glasses.Imagine dressing like this every day.

Hmmm. Maybe crazy hipster would have been a better choice than “cool executive” for this meeting? They’ll probably all be rocking some techy vibe: ripped jeans and rock-band T-shirts. This is Janus Industries, after all. I straighten my spine. Why give them what they expect? I’ve stood out all my life—no point in switching tracks now, no matter how big the company. And with that thought, I can almost taste my father’s exasperation.

Janus Industries.I still can’t believe they called me. Why in the world would one of the best-known tech companies in New York give a security contract to a fish out of water like me? It’s not like we’re well known in the security industry.

I stare at my reflection in the glass doors of the elevator, chewing on a nail. Then movement catches the corner of my eye, and as I glance across the polished floor to my right, my whole body locks tight.

Oh.

My.

God.

Turning back, I open my mouth, bending forward a little to try and suck in air. A reflection appears alongside mine, and just like that I’m a foot away from Janus Phillips, tapping his hand against his leg in some fast rhythm, staring up at the board, fidgeting with a leather strap on his wrist. Slowly, I turn around to find he’s already watching me, and a huge smile breaks across his face as two dimples pop out.

And,my God, he looks better than his pictures: messy dark hair in a crazy tousle on his head, thick eyelashes around deep brown eyes, and a grin that is so lopsided that one side of his mouth is much higher than the other. How is it even possible that someone’s mouth could do that?

My lips are stuck together, breath still stuck in my nose. His jaw has this shadow that … He coughs, raising an eyebrow.

Shit.

Caught.

Staring.

Heat climbs up my neck as my eyes dart back to the elevator. My damn skin will be covering itself in blotchy red patches. Ugh. I try and unobtrusively expand my chest.Calm, Jo.Why can’t I just say “Hi!” like a normal person? Would that be too challenging? I peek at him out of the corner of my eye. Would this meeting be worrying enough to go right up to the top? Tohim? My God, this huge company and it’shis.He’s thirty-one and looking after the data of some of the biggest organizations in the world.

Some cool designer jeans hang so low on his hips that the waistband of his boxers is visible, and I almost laugh when I catch a glimpse of a faded rock band logo on the front of his T-shirt. At least he’s not wearing one of those ‘OMG The Element of Surprise’ T-shirts: I am so done with software guys who thinkthat’sfunny. He’s cute, but hemustknow that,surely?

And if the gossip columns are anything to go by, his type isn’t nerdy tech girls like me, just lots and lots of blonde models—he’s always out and about on the arm of some gorgeous girl or other. I’m sure he’s got an ego the size of a planet. Given how tiny and flat-chested I am, I can guarantee I will be of no interest to someone like him.

As I glance back at the status board over our heads, my right arm feels like it’s on fire. Thank God, the elevator is only two floors away. The silence is crushing until, without warning, the elevator gives a loud ping, and I jerk forward; almost colliding with the doors as they open. Dear God, how blotchy must I benow? I’m probably matching my hair color.

“Easy now.”

The slightly condescending tilt to his tone lights a fire in me. He’spatronizingme? He’s right on my heels as I move inside and press the button for my floor.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I’ve seen you around before—do you work in marketing?” he says.

His voice is all friendly, warm and deep. And, as I turn to face him, the monkey on my shoulder decides to wake up and have some fun. No one patronizes me and gets away with it. This desire to poke the bear drove my dad round the bend: he was forever being called into school to “talk about his daughter.”

“Oh no.” I purse my lips. “I’m here for a meeting.”

He nods at me in that way people do when they’re waiting for you to say more. I’ll bet he expects me to know who he is. I’ll bet women normally fawn all over him. Smiling, I turn away, desperately hoping the floor will come before I’m obliged to tell him anything else. A ticking silence sits over us, and he clears his throat.

“What company are you from?”

Bingo.Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Phillips.Turning right around to grin at him, I have to stop myself from doing a little victory dance at the somewhat bemused expression on his face.

“Oh, I’m a freelance contractor.” I’m not directly lying here, right? “What areyouhere for?” My smile is like saccharin.

Janus’s eyes widen slightly, and he runs a distracted hand through his unruly brown mop, making it stick up at crazy angles. I stare at it in fascination. Is theregelin it? His hand drifts down his chest in the ensuing silence, and I track his long slim fingers, the square-trimmed nails.

“Oh, yeah, um, I work here?”

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