Nor would I subject him to my high-school-girl gawking. Hands shaking, I put my glasses back on in what felt like an aggressive gesture.
‘Yes, you will.’ He almost smiled at me, pleased at my flustered state. ‘Are you throwing me out of the dining hall, Ms Dewitt?’
I shrugged, averting my eyes. Some people deserved to be handsome. Dorian Holder was not one of those people.
‘Maybe.’
‘Ms Dewitt, I own this cafeteria.’
As if he was pulling rank about the lunchroom. Like I would be ever so impressed and intimidated. Who cared? I was getting canned, anyway. ‘I am well aware. See, Mr Holder, I’m actually throwing you out of my personal space. Which, at the moment, you are standing in, and you don’t own.’
Whoops. It just popped out.
How dared he chuckle? But chuckle he did.
‘Not yet, I don’t.’
My jaw dropped, as Mr Holder stifled a yawn.
‘Mr Holder, what are you –’
‘It’s decided, then. Meet me on the top storey when you’re finished, Ms Dewitt.’
‘Done and done.’
Dorian Holder took a sip of my coffee, and his Adam’s apple took a dip as he swallowed. He winced. ‘Christ. Is this what we’re serving?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. Please don’t drink my coffee, Mr Holder. I actually paid, so you no longer own it.’
The whole thing struck me as bizarre. Couldn’t I just go home?
‘Now that was me being in your personal space.’ He set the cup down. ‘You like it sweet and creamy. I’m surprised.’
‘Would you have guessed dark and bitter?’
‘Hmm. I’ll have to speak to the staff.’ His eyes wandered to the kitchen. ‘But not now.’
I shrugged, ‘It’s good enough for me.’
‘I refuse to be served anything less than the finest,’ Dorian Holder explained. He glanced at my feet and sneered, ever so slightly. Huh? Oh, yes. Horrified by my cheap flats. Can’t blame him there.
‘Yeah, well.’ My pulse pounded. Was it lust or anger? Mix and match.
‘Nor do I like shabby presentation.’ He appraised my casual-chic frumpwear ensemble.
OK, chic was not involved in that particular outfit.
‘What size shoe do you wear, Ms Dewitt?’
Wow. Bisexual, foot fetish, or Buffalo Bill? I tried to appear unruffled.
‘Eight.’
‘Eight?’
‘Yep.’
He glanced at his watch. You got to be kidding me, he wears a Rolex? Does he think it’s 1983? ‘You said it would take you fifteen minutes?’
‘Or so.’
‘Fifteen minutes,’ he repeated, ‘is what you said. There is no “or so”.’
And then he strode away.
Definitely a strider.
* * *
While I’ve never been the world’s fastest typist, I’m not so bad. Trying to edit, revise and hammer my cryptic notes into something smart and clarified? While my hands shook and I was terrified? Not so much. To make matters worse, I couldn’t open half the attachments the team had sent. Altogether I was caught in a real-life spin on one of those anxiety dreams where someone or something is chasing you, you’re running as fast as you can but your legs are nearly immobile and, just as the Thing is about to catch you, you awaken swaddled in wet sheets with your heart throbbing.
A little blip notifying me of a new message did nothing to assuage my growing panic.
Fr: Dorian Hartley Holder
Subject: Tick-Tock
Fifteen minutes have come and gone. I’m waiting.
BTW, you won’t find a number button on the elevator. Press ‘P’ for the penthouse.
Yours,
D
I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keys.
Fr: Lily Elizabeth Dewitt
Re: Tick-Tock
Penthouse? We’ve always called it the 13th floor, but you’re the boss. I know where the top storey is, though I wasn’t aware that’s what the ‘P’ button stood for; I had other ideas.
Just five more minutes, if that’s OK. I’m almost there. Sorry to make you wait.
Respectfully,
Lily Dewitt
Yeah, I totally did that.
A few seconds passed, and there was a second blip.
Fr: Dorian Hartley Holder
Subject: Impatient
I am, indeed, the Boss.
But no, I said ‘now’. Nobody makes me do anything, you see. Just email me whatever you have, which – judging from your ‘notes’ – is worth trying to do something with. We’ll discuss the rest in person. Despite what you may or may not have heard, I’m relatively flexible.
And I like your mind.
I want you in my office. Thirteenth floor, per your correction. Penthouses are for Playboys. I’m curious about your P.
Yours,
D
Oh, do you, now? I paused, nibbled at my fingernail and began to type.
Fr: Lily Elizabeth Dewitt
Re: Impatient (Tick-Tock)
OK. I’m coming.
P is for Porcupine.
Respectfully Yours,
Lily Dewitt
P is for Prick, but you know that.
Very well, then.
I highlighted, cut, pasted and sent what little I’d typed up. None too impressive. I bit my lip in consternation.
Hopefully, I won’t get all stuttery again. Scratch that. I promise myself not to get all stuttery again. I would channel my inner coolness I faked in the cafeteria. That’s part of me, somewhere inside, straight-up Lily Dewitt. I take no guff. I will present my plan with all kinds of confidence and enthusiasm, while not sounding overly bubbly. Like a high-school girl. Right?
What did he mean by that, anyway? My penmanship is like a high-school girl? Meh. How did he know so much about high-school girls and shoes, anyway? P was for Pervert. The more I could think of Dorian Holder as just freakazoid control freak, the easier this meeting – or confrontation – would be. As my mom used to say, when I was faced with a spelling bee or whatever, ‘Pretend they’re all in their underwear, Lily. And instead of fighting off tears, you’ll fight off laughter. Don’t forget the funny.’
Sighing, I grabbed my bag, and prepared myself to lose my first decent job.
Ah, well. It was a good run, I figured.
Then I was off to Dorian Holder’s office. The thirteenth floor. The Penthouse.
P.
The top storey.
* * *
The thirteenth