A pedicure? The thought brought a small smile to Chloe’s lips. At one time, pedicures had been a very standard part of her life. Manicures, pedicures, regular blow dries and spray tans. She cringed to think what she’d spent on personal grooming a few years earlier. Probably more than her month’s grocery budget at present.
As if sensing the importance of her mission, the subway had decided to fall apart at the very time she needed it most. The line that would have taken her to her appointment in a timely fashion was disable for emergency maintenance and so Chloe had to walk the last seven blocks to the sky-rise monolith that housed Forrester & Associates. She paused outside, her breath burning in her lungs from a combination of exertion and anxiety as she stared heavenwards.
This was it.
The moment of truth.
She moved purposefully through the foyer and consulted a board to determine which floor the offices were located on. It seemed to indicate they took up the top four levels of the prestigious building.
“But which one’s the reception?” She pondered to herself, running her finger over the plaque thoughtfully.
Surely it had to be either the top floor, or the lowest of their offices. She bit down on her lip as she made her way to the lift. The top floor. She could start there, and work her way down. She pressed the button and stood back patiently, waiting for the lift doors to slam shut.
When they did, she made a small sound of surprise. Who was the woman staring back at her? So serious and slim. Her hair, once neatly chopped into a neat bob had grown so long that winding it into a big bun was the only way to keep it neat. She lifted her hands to it now, wondering when she’d become so lazy. She was only twenty-four, and yet she seemed to have willingly phased herself into the old biddy section of her life.
The doors opened silently to reveal a foyer area that seemed to go forever. Highly polished marble ran in every direction, and a simple bank of white leather sofas in the middle looked almost dwarfish, simply because the room was so enormous.
Nerves were her constant companion. Butterflies beat mercilessly against her stomach, making her legs wobble in that mysterious way they had. She looked across the vast space until her eyes came to rest on a glass bar. It was waist-height, and perhaps six feet long. Two women, both reed thin and impeccably presented, were standing at it. Their torsos were obstructed from view by the gun-metal grey of their matching MacBooks.
Presumably this is what passed as a reception area in offices such as this. It was painfully chic, and it deepened her sense of not-belonging. But that didn’t matter. She didn’t need to belong. She’d come to Forrester & Associates as a client. She didn’t need them to think she was fashionable or expensive; only that she could cover their bills. Which was, in and of itself, a slight problem.
Chloe braced herself for the upcoming meeting. Her future, and Ellie’s, depended on the next twenty minutes of her life. Failure was not something she could allow.
Part way across the cavernous space, a door opened. Chloe hadn’t even noticed that there were doors to her right. She’d presumed it was the edge of the building.
Her steps faltered. Maybe this had been a mistake. There were firms in Brooklyn. Firms that would have reassuringly threadbare carpet and laminate desks at which people could comfortably sit. Receptionists with pilling cardigans and an overpowering scent of floral perfume.
A man emerged from the door, mid-sentence. “Maria, I need the Geneva contracts. All of them. Going back four years.”
“Certainly, sir.” The taller of the two receptionists nodded. The other flicked a peremptory look in Chloe’s direction.
Chloe had stopped walking. She was a stagnant piece of slightly rumpled flotsam in the middle of the pristine environment. The man who’d emerged was the final nail in the coffin.
He was too handsome. Too heart-meltingly, bone-weakeningly gorgeous. Though he wore a slate grey suit, he looked far too strong and virile to be in such a commercial environment. His dark hair had a slight wave to it despite being cut short around his head. His eyes were a piercing shade of brown, so dark they were almost black. His skin glowed like caramel and spice, and on his square jaw, he had a hint of stubble.
Chloe pulled on the strap of her handbag, holding it firm against her. It was a Prada bag, given to her almost five years earlier. But years of being pushed indignantly into service as a makeshift nappy bag had weakened it. And of course, now that it recognised it was amongst its own people, it chose that moment to launch its vindictive protest. The strap snapped, sending the bag to the floor, and an assortment of items skidding over the immaculate tiles.
Lip gloss, hair brush, a dummy, several pens and her sunglasses did their best to scatter in as many directions as possible. Chloe was suddenly in the middle of a circ
le of her life’s detritus, and her cheeks were as hot as the sun.
No one moved. Not the two amazon receptionists. And not Chloe, who felt certain the ground would swallow her up if she just stayed still enough for long enough. And not, at first, the Minotaur in a suit.
He watched, a curious expression on his face, as Chloe stood there doing nothing. His dark eyes probed her, sending little shockwaves of an unfamiliar emotion darting through her system. And then, just a fraction of a second later, he began to move with an easy athleticism, closing the distance between them. He crouched down, scooping the items into his hands before depositing them into the traitorous pouch. When he stood, his dark eyes latched to hers, and his large hands held it out for her to take.
“Your bag seems to have broken.” His voice was deep and rich.
“Yes, I suspect it’s got it in for me.”
He quirked a thick, dark brow, and waited for her to explain.
And for some reason, though her heart was racing and her pulse was shooting like a supercharged river through her body, she nodded conspiratorially. “It’s suffered years of mistreatment at my hands. It was only right that it decided to exact its own payback.”
He didn’t smile, exactly, but his expression rearranged itself in a miniscule way, that expressed his amusement.
“A sentient bag?”
“Mmmm,” she made a sound of agreement. “And a disloyal one at that.”