2. Lenora
2
LENORA
PRESENT
R ock bottom has an ergonomic keyboard, rolling chair, and an annoying coworker named Linda-Rae.
Not Linda. Linda-Rae. If you call her Linda, you will be corrected and subject to a very long sigh. Linda-Rae not Linda will then share an exasperated look with her old lady office cronies, one that clearly says: that’s what you get for a nepotism hire .
“You need to sign here,” Linda-Rae informs me crisply, pursing her lips as she jabs her finger at the bottom of yet another form. As if I’m incompetent for missing one of the fifty thousand boxes I needed to fill out in order to receive a paycheck.
Obligingly, my pen swipes over the offending spot, and I lean back in my chair, staring around as the woman scrutinizes my employment documents with obvious distaste. The human resources office of Ellinger and Vogel Architecture is easily the blandest, most uninspired space in the entire building. Other employees seem to be avoiding it like the plague, skirting past the open doorway with their eyes buried in paperwork, as if terrified Linda-Rae is going to fly out and nab them for a dress code violation.
I hate it here.
This new “opportunity” is a result of my father’s fairly obvious effort to get me out of the house, as if trading in dance studios in New York for the family business is going to do anything to dispel my soul-crushing new reality. It won’t. I already know that. But, considering I have spent the last five months squatting in my sister’s apartment and have no social or professional obligations beyond physical therapy twice a week, I didn’t really have a reason to refuse.
“How’s it going?” My father’s voice fills the room, and it’s all I can do to suppress a grimace. I look around in time to see him stepping into the office, offering Linda-Rae a polite smile.
“Oh, we’re nearly squared away. Lenora will do just fine at E&V,” the woman tells him, with far more warmth than she’s displayed to me during the hour or so I’ve been trapped in this beige dungeon between a CPR poster and the wicked witch of tax forms.
I must be maturing because I suppress the urge to stick my tongue out at her as I get to my feet. Or maybe all my attention is simply dedicated to not letting on how stiff and painful my right leg is after sitting still for so long. The limb, which was once the perfectly functioning extremity of a professional dancer, is now a painful reminder of just how far I’ve fallen.
It doesn’t matter if I’m sitting in Honor’s apartment or at some random desk at my father’s business, I’ll be miserable either way. Money is required for existence in the capitalist hellscape in which I was born, however, so here I am.
Dad beams at Linda-Rae, so obviously pleased with himself for orchestrating this plan to crush whatever remains of my soul. “Come on, Len. I’ll show you your desk,” he offers cheerfully.
My throat is tight as I take the pink, glittery cane resting against the side of Linda-Rae’s desk, leaning heavily on the stupid thing as I follow Dad out into the hall. “You’re going to be on Holden’s team,” he informs me cheerfully, “HR didn’t think it would be a good idea to have you on mine.”
Do you know what? I take back every vicious, bitter thought I just had about that woman. Linda-Rae did me a solid. The prospect of Holden Ellinger seeing me this low—especially after our last encounter —is pretty humiliating, but I’ll take it over watching my father gaze adoringly at his only slightly older than me girlfriend day in and day out.
“Makes sense,” I say, the thud of my cane echoing off the marble floors of the lobby as we emerge from the admin hallway. Ellinger and Vogel Architecture, or E&V, is located in what was once a bank. Dad and Holden adapted the building, throwing a contemporary office vibe into the classic space, and even my bitter ass can admit it’s beautiful. Warm summer light is filtering in through the high windows, and the place is abuzz with its usual bustling activity.
Dad slows down his pace as we approach the stairs, clearly trying to be casual about it and not upset me with the reminder my leg is fucked up beyond all comprehension.
“What am I going to be doing exactly?” I ask, willing my tone to not betray the sharp pain that shoots up the back of my calf as we begin climbing the sweeping marble staircase, side by side.
He glances at me, still carefully keeping pace with me in slow, measured steps. “You’ll be the administrative assistant for Team E. I’m sure you’ll find it easy to learn, a lot of it is very basic. Scheduling, organizing, restocking. That kind of thing.”
Oh, whoopee . The consequences of my poor decision-making.
I suppose this is what I deserve. While my sister and friends were going to college and getting their first jobs, I stubbornly pushed forward with dance, determined to be one of the ones who made it my career. Now, I’m twenty-two years old, with only a high school diploma and the employment credentials to teach preschool dance part time, and not much else. Meanwhile, my perfect older sister is the director of a major nonprofit and is recently engaged to a hot billionaire who worships the ground she walks on.
By the time we reach the top of the stairs, my entire leg feels like it’s about to fall off. Every step sends yet another hot stab of pain through the limb, but I keep my expression impassive, determined not to let on how bad it is as Dad leads the way across the balcony toward the wing opposite his.
While I haven’t exactly kept up on the inner workings of my father’s business, I do know that his team—Team V—is focused on high-end residential and housing development while Holden’s side of the business—Team E—is dedicated to commercial. They do fewer but bigger projects, and the first thing I see as we enter the room is a 3D model of what looks like a hotel sitting on a table beside the door. I’ve only been in here a few times, and I scan the room, taking in the finer details of the large, open workspace, lined on one side by a window overlooking the street below, and on the other, a row of glass-walled offices. A few dozen people are sitting at their desks, and the room is filled with quiet chatter and the sounds of fingers on keyboards.
And there, in the center of it all, is Holden Ellinger.
He is leaning over a tablet at the group table in the middle of the room, one arm braced on the glossy white top and the other poised above the screen with a digital pencil in hand.
The fluttering sensation that fills my stomach at the sight of him is perfectly understandable, given the man’s—frankly indecent—level of attractiveness. Not one single person would question it if Holden told them he was a male model or actor or a freaking superhero. His pale blond hair is long and artfully tousled, his jaw is square and shadowed with just the right amount of stubble to read as deliberate instead of lazy. Even the white dress shirt he’s wearing looks like it had to be custom tailored to accommodate the breadth of his shoulders.
The memory of the last time I saw him, when he dropped me at home on New Year’s Eve and made it very clear he wanted to fuck me, is all too strong as Holden turns to look at us. I watch as his gaze finds Dad, then me, then my cane.
And, just like that, I’m pretty confident I don’t have to worry about him wanting to fuck me.
“Hey,” Dad greets him cheerfully, “I’m just bringing your new admin assistant up.”
My heart flutters as Holden straightens, the hand holding the e-pencil thing falling to his side. His throat bobs. “Leni. Hi. Good to see you.”
The words I last spoke to him seem to be written in the air between us. I have no intention of losing my virginity to my parents’ former bang buddy.
It feels like a lifetime ago. The way he made me feel that night… I was invincible and confident, and a totally different person than I am now. Holden was attracted to me, and right now, he’s wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He’s probably making a mental note to call his doctor to schedule a brain scan.
It doesn’t bother me, though. If anything, it’s a relief. Yup. That’s what the hot, uncomfortable, tight feeling in my chest is.
“Hi.” My hand tightens on the handle of my cane, and I lift my chin, smiling blandly at my new boss. Careful to be subtle about it, I shift my weight from my injured leg.
God, I really , really don’t want to be here. All I want is to go home, put on stretchy pants, and eat all of Honor and Sophie’s groceries. This is my life now, though. My boring, mediocre, disappointing life. It’s about time I accepted it and learned how to operate the industrial copy machine.
“This is yours, unless I’m mistaken,” Dad tells me cheerfully, moving farther into the room to indicate a glossy white desk stationed right in front of the last and largest office. The surface is clear, apart from a computer and keyboard. At his place beside the worktable, Holden still hasn’t moved, staring between me and his partner with a look of dawning comprehension.
“You didn’t warn him?” I ask with a shaky laugh, and my gaze falls to the floor instead of looking at either of them. God, as if the circumstances of me being here weren’t embarrassing enough.
Dad, oblivious to my discomfort, smiles. “Why would I warn him? I have no doubt you’ll be more than up to the task. You don’t mind, do you, Holden?”
Almost without my permission, my gaze flicks back up to him, and my stomach somersaults as our eyes meet. It’s over in a fraction of a second, as Holden seems to shake himself, looking at my father with a tight, obligatory smile. “Of course not.”
“Right. I’d better get to work.” Dad slaps Holden’s shoulder genially as he passes him, still obscenely pleased with himself for forcing this arrangement upon all of us. “Linda-Rae said Joyce would be up soon to get you set up with an email and walk you through the systems we use. Oh, and Sophie asked me to invite you to lunch on her behalf. Her treat.”
“Sure,” I agree, “sounds good.”
There is nothing Bram Vogel loves more than when his plans are executed flawlessly, and the man is damn near giddy right now. He grins at me, offering me a one-armed hug before strolling off, probably heading across the building to tell his twenty-five-year-old girlfriend all about what a genius he is.
I have bigger things to worry about. Namely, the six-foot-something Viking of an architect who is still hovering ten feet away from me, his bright blue eyes glued to my face.
As I make my way over to my new desk, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so low. Not even after the doctors told me why I suddenly couldn’t stand, and I had to call my family to tell them they’d be meeting me at the hospital instead of the biggest performance of my life. Back then, I had a tiny flicker of hope. Injuries happen a lot in ballet, and I’ve seen dancers come back from them.
If the last few months have proven anything, it’s that I am not going to be one of them.
I open the top drawer of the desk and shove my purse inside, just as movement in the corner of my eye indicates Holden’s approach.
“How have you been?” he asks quietly, and I look up in time to see him wince, as if he immediately regrets this question. He should. After all, every single person in my life knows exactly how I’ve been .
I sink into the rolling chair, the throbbing in my leg winning out over my pride. “Oh, super shitty. You?”
Holden rocks back on his heels, glancing around at his team, all of whom seem far too busy doing important architecture things to be listening in on this conversation. “I have nothing to complain about,” he replies at last.
“I’m sorry Bram sprung this on you. When he gets an idea, it’s full steam ahead.”
A warm chuckle greets my words, and I feel the tension in my shoulders relax, if only a little. “I’m familiar with the phenomenon, yes.”
Yeah, I guess he would be.
I sigh. “If it’s an issue, or if I’m shitty at this, just tell me. I’ll quit so he doesn’t get up your ass about it.”
“I appreciate that.” Holden still doesn’t move, though, lingering beside my desk, hands buried in the pockets of his impeccably fit slacks. “You’re just in time. We do a team meeting every Monday to touch base and discuss any pressing items on the agenda for the week.”
Lucky me . I must already be catching on to proper corporate etiquette, however, because I keep my mouth shut. “Do I need to do anything?” I ask at last, when it’s clear Holden isn’t done with me.
His eyes glint with amusement, as if he knows exactly what I think about all this. “Typically, the administrative aid takes notes and sends a summary email to the team with the highlights, deadlines, whatever.”
“I can do that.”
“Great. And Leni?—”
“Thanks for the opportunity.” I cut him off, turning my attention to the computer in front of me and jabbing at the power button with unnecessary vigor.
No question about it. I really, really hate it here.