On the nightstand beside me, my phone is screeching. Outside my doorway, Jamie is shouting.
“I said, ‘Are you awake?’ Because if you are, you need to answer your damn phone.”
Frazzled, I reach for it, and see Carl’s name on the display. I snatch it up, but the call’s already rolled over to voice mail.
With a groan, I slide my legs off the bed and stretch, then glance at the phone again to check the time. Six-fucking-thirty.
Seriously? I mean, is the sun even up yet?
I’m about to call him back when the phone rings yet again, and Carl’s name flashes like neon.
“I’m here,” I say. “I was just about to call you back.”
“Jesus Christ, Fairchild. Where’ve you been?”
“It’s practically dawn. I was in bed.”
“Well, get down here. We’ve got a shitload of work to do. I can’t get the fucking PowerPoint to work right, and we need to print out PDFs of the specs and get the proposal packages bound for Stark and his staff. I need you on it, pronto. Unless you already signed him to the deal last night? Or was there a nonbusiness purpose for his late night phone call to you?” There’s a lascivious tone to the last that I really don’t appreciate, but at least now I know how Damien got my phone number and my address.
“He called to make sure I got home okay,” I lie. “But next time I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give out my cell number without asking me first.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Get dressed and get down here. We’ll go from our office to Stark’s at one-thirty.”
I frown, because C-Squared occupies one corner of the eighteenth floor of the Logan Bank Building, and Stark Tower is right next door. In fact, the two buildings share a courtyard and an underground parking garage. “Isn’t the meeting at two?” A snail could make the trek in thirty minutes. We should be able to manage it in five.
“I’m not leaving anything to chance,” Carl says.
I know better than to argue. “I’ll be there in an hour. Tops.”
Jamie looks up as I rush into the kitchen to pop a bagel into the toaster. “Boss on a rampage?”
“Big time.” I bend down and scratch Lady M, who’s making figure eights around my legs. “And he was being oh so snarky about Damien asking me to stay last night.”
“Um, hello? You did get off in the backseat of Mr. Moneybags’s limousine.”
I glare at her, then head for the shower while my bagel toasts. On the way, I pass the flower arrangement. I sigh. Jamie’s right, of course.
I let the water get so hot and steamy it makes my skin turn red. Then I step in, tensing as those first heated drops batter my body, then relaxing as the heat oozes through me. I close my eyes and let the water sluice over me. I feel like I should be angry at myself for letting it get so out of control last night, but I can’t quite work up the lather. It sure as hell wasn’t the most prudent thing I ever did, but I’m a grown-up and so is Stark and there was chemistry and free will and it’s none of Carl’s business anyway.
Which would be all good and well if I didn’t have to see the man today. Or, rather, the men. One who’s a lascivious jerk. And one who I’m afraid is going to distract me and throw me off my game.
And what if he surreptitiously shows me my panties?
Enough.
I can’t think about it anymore or I’ll go crazy, so I focus on finishing my shower and getting dressed. I choose a black skirt, white blouse, and matching jacket. Not a suit, because this is Saturday and because I’m working in the tech field and clean jeans are about as fashionable as we tend to get, but I just can’t do a meeting in jeans. The shoes are a bit of a problem because my feet ache, but I jam them into my favorite black pumps anyway. I go easy on the makeup, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and, voilà, dressed in fifteen minutes. I think that’s a personal best.
I grab my purse and my bagel, but I don’t bother with cream cheese—with my luck I’d drop it and have to go the entire day with a creamy white smear on my black skirt. Then I shout goodbye to Jamie and head out the door.
I pause immediately, realizing that I’ve just stepped on a large yellow envelope that someone has left on the doormat. I pick it up. It’s light, with minimal bulk. A sheaf of papers or something similar. I turn it over and see that it has my name on it, along with the sticker from a local messenger service. I roll my eyes. Carl.
With the envelope tucked under my arm, I head to my car. If I’m going to be on time, I’ll have to read it at the stoplights.
My usual commute-time entertainment is the news, but I can’t stomach it today, so as I pull out onto Ventura Boulevard, I let the radio scan through static, evangelical stations, talk shows, and blaring rap music. I really need to get a new radio, the kind with a plug for an iPod. Finally the tuner lands on an oldies station, and by the time I enter the 101 freeway, I’m jamming with Mick as he and the Stones sing about not getting any satisfaction. I grin. At least last night I was one up on Jagger.
I pull into my assigned space in a remote corner of the underground parking lot exactly forty-seven minutes from the time Carl called, which probably breaks some Los Angeles speed record. I don’t leave the car immediately, though, because I still haven’t looked at the envelope, and if it’s about the presentation, Carl’s going to expect me to know the details cold.
I slide my finger under the flap and open it, then tilt the envelope sideways. A copy of Forbes falls into my lap, and I realize that I am grinning. There’s a note paper-clipped to the outside of the magazine. I told you I was tenacious. Read and learn. There’s no signature, but the From the Desk of Damien J. Stark stationery is a big clue.
I’m still smiling as I tuck the magazine in my oversized purse. So he’s tenacious, is he? Well, I can believe that. But my decision still stands. Just like I told Jamie, I can’t let this go any further.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not moved by his gesture. Not only did he remember a throwaway comment from our banter at the art show, but he actually sent the magazine all the way to my house.
“What are you grinning about?” Carl demands as I push through the glass doors into the aquarium-style conference room that is the focal point of the C-Squared offices. But he doesn’t really want my answer. He’s already looking me up and down, nodding, and saying, “Good. Good. You look professional, businesslike. Yeah. I’d give you money. So long as you don’t screw up the slideshow.”
“I won’t,” I say, grateful that he’s not mentioning last night or Damien or late night phone calls.
Carl preps with the intensity of a criminal defense attorney preparing for the trial of the century. His organizational system is a thing to be marveled at, and in the relatively short time since yesterday afternoon he’s completely revamped our presentation outline.
I ask a ton of questions and make at least as many suggestions, and instead of falling back on his asshat personality, Carl responds thoughtfully, answering my questions, considering my ideas, implementing them when they make sense, and taking the time to explain when he decides to pass on one of my proposals.
I’m in heaven. I’ve reviewed the specs of the 3-D modeling program enough to know that I could be a valuable member of the tech team, possibly even the team leader. But being a project leader or even a manager isn’t my goal. I want to be Carl. Hell, I want to be Damien Stark. And to get there, I need to know how to pull together a kick-ass presentation that will hook an underwriter for any one of the projects I’ve been toying with since my last year at UT.
“I said, ‘Are you awake?’ Because if you are, you need to answer your damn phone.”
Frazzled, I reach for it, and see Carl’s name on the display. I snatch it up, but the call’s already rolled over to voice mail.
With a groan, I slide my legs off the bed and stretch, then glance at the phone again to check the time. Six-fucking-thirty.
Seriously? I mean, is the sun even up yet?
I’m about to call him back when the phone rings yet again, and Carl’s name flashes like neon.
“I’m here,” I say. “I was just about to call you back.”
“Jesus Christ, Fairchild. Where’ve you been?”
“It’s practically dawn. I was in bed.”
“Well, get down here. We’ve got a shitload of work to do. I can’t get the fucking PowerPoint to work right, and we need to print out PDFs of the specs and get the proposal packages bound for Stark and his staff. I need you on it, pronto. Unless you already signed him to the deal last night? Or was there a nonbusiness purpose for his late night phone call to you?” There’s a lascivious tone to the last that I really don’t appreciate, but at least now I know how Damien got my phone number and my address.
“He called to make sure I got home okay,” I lie. “But next time I’d appreciate it if you didn’t give out my cell number without asking me first.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Get dressed and get down here. We’ll go from our office to Stark’s at one-thirty.”
I frown, because C-Squared occupies one corner of the eighteenth floor of the Logan Bank Building, and Stark Tower is right next door. In fact, the two buildings share a courtyard and an underground parking garage. “Isn’t the meeting at two?” A snail could make the trek in thirty minutes. We should be able to manage it in five.
“I’m not leaving anything to chance,” Carl says.
I know better than to argue. “I’ll be there in an hour. Tops.”
Jamie looks up as I rush into the kitchen to pop a bagel into the toaster. “Boss on a rampage?”
“Big time.” I bend down and scratch Lady M, who’s making figure eights around my legs. “And he was being oh so snarky about Damien asking me to stay last night.”
“Um, hello? You did get off in the backseat of Mr. Moneybags’s limousine.”
I glare at her, then head for the shower while my bagel toasts. On the way, I pass the flower arrangement. I sigh. Jamie’s right, of course.
I let the water get so hot and steamy it makes my skin turn red. Then I step in, tensing as those first heated drops batter my body, then relaxing as the heat oozes through me. I close my eyes and let the water sluice over me. I feel like I should be angry at myself for letting it get so out of control last night, but I can’t quite work up the lather. It sure as hell wasn’t the most prudent thing I ever did, but I’m a grown-up and so is Stark and there was chemistry and free will and it’s none of Carl’s business anyway.
Which would be all good and well if I didn’t have to see the man today. Or, rather, the men. One who’s a lascivious jerk. And one who I’m afraid is going to distract me and throw me off my game.
And what if he surreptitiously shows me my panties?
Enough.
I can’t think about it anymore or I’ll go crazy, so I focus on finishing my shower and getting dressed. I choose a black skirt, white blouse, and matching jacket. Not a suit, because this is Saturday and because I’m working in the tech field and clean jeans are about as fashionable as we tend to get, but I just can’t do a meeting in jeans. The shoes are a bit of a problem because my feet ache, but I jam them into my favorite black pumps anyway. I go easy on the makeup, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and, voilà, dressed in fifteen minutes. I think that’s a personal best.
I grab my purse and my bagel, but I don’t bother with cream cheese—with my luck I’d drop it and have to go the entire day with a creamy white smear on my black skirt. Then I shout goodbye to Jamie and head out the door.
I pause immediately, realizing that I’ve just stepped on a large yellow envelope that someone has left on the doormat. I pick it up. It’s light, with minimal bulk. A sheaf of papers or something similar. I turn it over and see that it has my name on it, along with the sticker from a local messenger service. I roll my eyes. Carl.
With the envelope tucked under my arm, I head to my car. If I’m going to be on time, I’ll have to read it at the stoplights.
My usual commute-time entertainment is the news, but I can’t stomach it today, so as I pull out onto Ventura Boulevard, I let the radio scan through static, evangelical stations, talk shows, and blaring rap music. I really need to get a new radio, the kind with a plug for an iPod. Finally the tuner lands on an oldies station, and by the time I enter the 101 freeway, I’m jamming with Mick as he and the Stones sing about not getting any satisfaction. I grin. At least last night I was one up on Jagger.
I pull into my assigned space in a remote corner of the underground parking lot exactly forty-seven minutes from the time Carl called, which probably breaks some Los Angeles speed record. I don’t leave the car immediately, though, because I still haven’t looked at the envelope, and if it’s about the presentation, Carl’s going to expect me to know the details cold.
I slide my finger under the flap and open it, then tilt the envelope sideways. A copy of Forbes falls into my lap, and I realize that I am grinning. There’s a note paper-clipped to the outside of the magazine. I told you I was tenacious. Read and learn. There’s no signature, but the From the Desk of Damien J. Stark stationery is a big clue.
I’m still smiling as I tuck the magazine in my oversized purse. So he’s tenacious, is he? Well, I can believe that. But my decision still stands. Just like I told Jamie, I can’t let this go any further.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not moved by his gesture. Not only did he remember a throwaway comment from our banter at the art show, but he actually sent the magazine all the way to my house.
“What are you grinning about?” Carl demands as I push through the glass doors into the aquarium-style conference room that is the focal point of the C-Squared offices. But he doesn’t really want my answer. He’s already looking me up and down, nodding, and saying, “Good. Good. You look professional, businesslike. Yeah. I’d give you money. So long as you don’t screw up the slideshow.”
“I won’t,” I say, grateful that he’s not mentioning last night or Damien or late night phone calls.
Carl preps with the intensity of a criminal defense attorney preparing for the trial of the century. His organizational system is a thing to be marveled at, and in the relatively short time since yesterday afternoon he’s completely revamped our presentation outline.
I ask a ton of questions and make at least as many suggestions, and instead of falling back on his asshat personality, Carl responds thoughtfully, answering my questions, considering my ideas, implementing them when they make sense, and taking the time to explain when he decides to pass on one of my proposals.
I’m in heaven. I’ve reviewed the specs of the 3-D modeling program enough to know that I could be a valuable member of the tech team, possibly even the team leader. But being a project leader or even a manager isn’t my goal. I want to be Carl. Hell, I want to be Damien Stark. And to get there, I need to know how to pull together a kick-ass presentation that will hook an underwriter for any one of the projects I’ve been toying with since my last year at UT.
