Chapter 2 #2
“If it isn’t Martha Aldridge all grown up. I never would’ve recognized you if I hadn’t been given a heads-up on who was about to walk through that door.” He says this with the same happy expression he had when he first laid eyes on me.
I hadn’t been given such notice and therefore am still trying to process the presence of the man before me when I was expecting his father. But unlike Julien, I would recognize this man no matter how much time had passed.
There aren’t many men who begin graying at the age of sixteen and are completely silver by twenty.
There are enough black undertones to his hair that I wouldn’t be surprised if a whole Reddit thread existed on the speculation of if he dyes his hair this color to maintain some sort of trendy silver fox image.
But I know better. I had a front row seat to the pepper-salt transformation.
The look had been striking when he was young, the juxtaposition of his youthful face crowned in preternatural gray.
You’d think the effect would have lessened with age.
Fine lines mark his features now. Crow’s-feet around his eyes and grooved ripples along his forehead.
But his looks are just as arresting now that he’s of an age that his hair color shouldn’t be so unusual as it was when he was younger.
“From the confused look on your face, I’d say you were expecting to meet with Dad, not me. Hope you aren’t too disappointed.” He keeps grinning, and if it were anyone else, I’d wonder if there wasn’t a stitch of flirtation in the fabric of his smile.
“What?” I shake my head, trying to get the gears between my ears turning again. “No, of course not.”
“Good.” He pushes himself off his desk and walks over to a beverage cart beside a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. “Can I offer you something to drink? Sparkling water? Still? Coffee? Tea?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He turns to look at me over his shoulder. “You sure?”
I nod. He pours himself a cup of coffee, then returns to his post of leaning against his desk.
The color of his suit enhances the cobalt in his eyes and highlights the path of his gaze as it roams my face, then down my body.
I don’t get the feeling that he’s checking me out—more trying to rectify the image of a prepubescent chubby girl with her nose always buried in a book to the fully grown middle-aged woman in front of him.
That knowledge does nothing to spare me from feeling said gaze down to the marrow of my bones, however.
“How are Phil and Meghan?” he asks politely, eyes back up and meeting mine.
My parents. The housekeeper and groundskeeper for his parents.
It’s nice that he’s asking about them. I always wondered how aware the Kings were of us Aldridges.
Our situation was all very upstairs-downstairs, Downton Abbey-eque but in the twenty-first century.
And no one really knows what to do with that class distinction anymore, do they?
“They’re good. Staying busy,” I say because it’s the truth but also because I don’t really know what else to say.
He nods like my answer is expected. Which, of course, it is. This is the script of small talk, is it not? Which means that’s my cue to ask, “And yours?”
“Same. Busy.” He takes a sip of his coffee.
Sheesh, this is awkward. I fiddle with the ring on my finger, wishing there was a natural segue into asking for a large sum of money.
Hey, it’s good to see you again after, what has it been?
Fifteen years? Great catching up for the last ten seconds, but can I have bucketloads of cash, please? I promise it’s for a good cause.
On top of that, I’m not quite sure what I should be doing with my body. Julien is still leaning, not really sitting, so it seems weird if I take a seat. But it’s also getting a little awkward that I’m just standing here in the middle of his office.
Julien seems to notice my discomfort because he blinks, and a totally different expression overtakes his features.
His bright smile dims so that if it was a voice, it would be at indoor volume now.
His eyes also narrow into something a lot more focused.
It’s a let’s-get-down-to-business face if I’ve ever seen one, and makes me remember my infatuation with Tamara Leigh’s Age of Faith series when I was a teenager—medieval romance following the Wulfrith family who, not so inconsequently, all turned preternaturally gray.
I can imagine one of those knights wearing a similar expression to Julien’s.
Unfortunately, I also remember imagining a younger Julien in chain mail, charging into battle, and that image brings a hot flush of embarrassment to my cheeks.
“Why don’t we take a seat.” Julien indicates one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Instead of walking around his desk back to his office chair that probably cost the library’s entire annual budget, he lowers his frame into the seat opposite mine and leans forward until his elbows are supported by his muscular thighs, his hands clasped between his legs.
“I’m not my father, but is there some way I can be of assistance? I wasn’t told what this meeting was about.”
“Sorry about that. I suppose I should’ve given your assistant more details when I scheduled the meeting.”
“No worries. What is it that I can help you with?”
The question is perfect since help is exactly what I need. So perfect, in fact, that—
“I need a hundred thousand dollars.” I blurt out my request before I can stop myself, then hide my face behind my hands once my brain registers what I’ve done. So much for that pitch I’d meticulously prepared.