That line about divine intervention would have seemed corny coming from anyone else but him. He’s not one to mince words or tell you what you want to hear, or at least it sure doesn’t seem that way. There was something about the way he said it that made me believe, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was hoping he could help me believe in myself a bit more.
I take a deep breath and enter the building which bears his name, catching more than a few looks when I press the ‘P’ button for penthouse.
The moment I do, one guy looks at his watch and his eyes open wide and his head pulls back, almost as if the whole building knows about Mr. Steele’s rules about timeliness.
Just before the man gets off his head tilts slightly my way. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it,” he says.
“What’s that supposed to…” My words fade off as he’s long gone down his floor and the elevator swallows me back up, skyrocketing me to the top floor.
The ding almost sounds like that sound you hear at the top of amusement park rides like there’s a pin being pulled, and then you race to your death, or at least that’s how it feels.
I take a deep breath and before I can even exhale, before I have my back foot out of the elevator, the receptionist says, “Mr. Steele needs to see you in his office immediately.”
No hello. No good morning. No, I hope your first day here is great.
And when I look up at the clock I know why.
8:03
I go to take a calming inhale, forgetting that I’ve yet to exhale and it causes me to cough.
“Ms. Jones. In my office. Now,” a deep baritone echoes throughout the reception.
I nervously scratch my arm and bite down on my lip as I walk toward Mr. Steele’s office door.
The second I cross his threshold I see him, feet planted wide and his arms across his chest. His jaw is stiff as stone and he’s staring at me with venom in his eyes.
“Were you looking for me?” I bat my eyelashes, but it does nothing to improve the look he’s giving me.
“Shut the door,” he commands. I turn and fumble with the handle, pulling it shut to the sound of a loud clicking sound like a bank vault sealing, notifying me that there’s no way out.
His arm extends from his suit and he looks pointedly at his watch, which I can see is a Rolex from clear across the room. Unlike boys my age he wasn’t trying to show off his disposable income’s ability to purchase the finer things in life, he was showing me something else entirely. And I wasn’t going to show him what he wanted more than anything. Fear.
“I didn’t peg you as a cliché, sir,” I toss out, causing his eyes to turn even more devilish.
“And I didn’t peg you for someone who talks back.”
Yeah, Disney wouldn’t be calling him anytime soon for tips on how to play a credible Prince Charming.
Just as I expect him to call me over, he surprises me, and walks purposefully in my direction until the tips of his shoes are flush with mine.
I can’t go forward, and I can’t go backwards. And I most certainly can’t go through him.
“What did I say yesterday?” he says firmly, yet surprisingly calmly.
“You asked me to be on time.”
“I didn’t ask you. I told you.”
Silence, and then he turns on his heel and walks back to his desk and sits.
I bring my trembling hand to my face, covering it while I shake my head and close my eyes as my body collapses back into the door in relief.
It definitely felt like that situation was about to escalate.
“Come. Here.”
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.