When I don’t answer, he pops to his feet and holds his hand out. I take it, letting him haul me up from the mat.
“I don’t need a break,” I finally say, tugging a glove off. “I just need to prioritize my time better.”
“Well, I miss training you, kiddo,” he says, bopping me lightly on the top of my head, which I barely feel because of the padded gear I’m wearing.
“And I miss training,” I reply earnestly. And more than the training, I miss Duane, who has felt a bit like a father figure to me, much the way Rich has. While neither can replace my dad, it’s nice to have strong, stable men as role models in my life.
I glance up at the clock on the wall, one of those old analogs that have a metal grate over it, which is bolted into a stud so no one will steal it. “I need to get going.”
I have to take a shower, get back to One Bean for a few hours, and then off to my late afternoon appointment at Olympic Dreams.
“Text me to let me know when you can come back in,” he says, holding his gloved hand out.
I bump it with mine. “I will.”
And I resolve to make more time for this, because it’s one of the few hobbies I have and it’s something I genuinely love doing.
* * *
Olympic Dreams is headquartered on the third floor of an office building several blocks west of One Bean. I decide to take the bus rather than drive because it’s raining, and I don’t want to walk to the garage for my car when one bus stop is right outside the coffee shop and the other is just one block down from Olympic Dreams. An umbrella is adequate protection for that brief walk, and it will keep my hair from frizzing.
I managed to get my hair halfway decent after my shower at the gym by pulling the riot of curls away from my face and securing them with a large barrette. Fallon always says wearing my hair back does wonders for my cheekbones, and I’ll just trust her on that. I also took a few extra minutes to put some makeup on, mostly concentrating on my eyes. I even put on a beautiful skirt and blouse Fallon loaned me that probably costs more than I make in a week. The only thing I wouldn’t compromise on was a pair of super high heels she tried to insist on. Instead, I’m wearing a pair of my own modestly low heels so I can walk more naturally.
The lobby of Olympic Dreams is quiet. There’s no one else in here besides the beautiful receptionist behind a glass-and-chrome desk. I choose a leather couch along the wall adjacent to the entrance doors. It lets me face the only other visible door from the lobby, which I assume leads back into the belly of the company. I imagine a maze of cubicles, or maybe even a collaborative, open-plan office design because Seattle is progressive in that way.
My position here is deliberate because I want to be able to see the man I’m meeting with as soon as that door opens. I have my brilliant smile and a firm handshake ready to unleash.
The receptionist has an earpiece, and she effortlessly handles answering a busy phone system. She doesn’t spare me another glance after telling me to take a seat. In between phone calls, she types away on a thin white laptop. It matches the white walls, the white tiled floor, and the white leather furniture. Even her outfit is white—a form-fitting sleeveless dress. The overall effect is disconcerting, but rather than feeling sterile because of the absence of color—much like the lobby of The Sapphire feels—the effect is like being in the middle of a cloud. I expect that might be because the furniture is comfortable and almost squishy, and there are beautiful arrangements of white lilies on a few of the tables dotted around. The artwork—also white but in various shades from bright white to vanilla—is actually graceful with soft lines. There’s a statue of a woman that looks as if she’s swaying to music with her hands over her head, eyes serenely closed, and in a dress that billows around her ankles. On one wall, there’s a painting of a snow-covered landscape with mountains so far in the distance, they’re more light gray bordering on eggshell. Altogether, it exudes peace and serenity, and again I marvel how it contrasts to the lobby of Fallon’s condo, which is also all done in white and chrome. I bet Fallon could lecture me for an hour on how texture, curves, and layout have everything to do with creating different atmospheres and feelings just with the color white.
I’ve been waiting on the couch for only about five minutes, but, then again, I was about ten minutes early and have resigned myself to sitting here a bit longer. My nerves are getting the best of me, so I decide to review my proposal one more time since I can only admire the decor for so long.