Chapter Eight
Eventually, I’d showered and dressed in my usual uniform of dark trousers, loose shirt and some of my favorite jewelry to try and pep myself up.
But, thanks to the jetlag, I felt little better than a bag of crumpled laundry.
My eyes were gritty and my head fuzzy as if filled with cotton wool.
I needed a pint of proper jet-fuel coffee and some fresh air.
“Watch out!” he yelled, as if me walking on the pavement was the most unreasonable thing in the world.
By the time I had found words to retaliate, the cyclist had already disappeared down the street.
Once my breathing returned to normal, I resumed my journey up Tenth Avenue.
The buildings here were mostly low-story red-brick tenements and small businesses, with a few taller, more modern tower blocks here and there.
I walked past multiple sandwich shops, a carwash, an upscale gallery and some kind of international school in a building that appeared to be made entirely of opaque black glass.
There were a few coffee shops dotted around that smelled tempting, but I was anxious to find the office first. Besides, the walk was exciting.
Even though my mind was foggy, I couldn’t ignore the overwhelming feeling of space.
The broad avenue and wide pavements, the open sky above.
As I dodged the busy New Yorkers going about their day, I felt this undeniable sense of possibility shining through the jetlag like a laser.
Soon enough I was at the Hartnett Building, a converted warehouse of neat brick, with faded signage still visible just along one side.
I was twenty minutes early and I debated with myself whether I should show up now, all keen, or play it cool and arrive on exactly on time?
But my stomach rumbled; I’d yet to have breakfast. Luckily there was what looked like a decent coffee shop right across the street from the Hartnett Building – Have a Java.
The name was corny but the sight of fat pastries in the window sealed the decision and within seconds I’d placed my order.
As I waited for the barista to finish making my coffee, I shoveled a silky, flaky croissant into my mouth.
The shop wasn’t that busy, but I soon became aware the man in front of me seemed to be having trouble catching the attention of the baristas.
He kept raising his hand and tutting when no one looked his way.
As I chewed my delicious pastry, I allowed my gaze to linger on his broad shoulders and the golden warmth of the skin on the back of his neck.
“Ah, caramel syrup?” As he debated his order with the barista, the sound of his voice made me catch my breath, a drawl so deep it resonated to my bones and my reaction was so unexpected that I momentarily forgot how to chew, inhaling a mouthful of pastry down the wrong way.
I did a discreet cough, but all that did was push the flakes further down my windpipe.
I coughed harder, thwacking my chest in an effort to dislodge the offending pastry, but it didn’t work.
Oh God, I couldn’t breathe! I wheezed, bent over – only to feel a heavy hand slap me hard between the shoulder blades, once, twice.
I coughed again and finally, thankfully, my airway cleared.
I straightened up to face my rescuer. “Tha—”
It was him, caramel-syrup-voice-man, staring at me with eyes the sweetest shade of brown I’d ever seen.
He gazed at me with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Pastry,” I spluttered.
The man turned back around and for a moment it seemed as if he had dismissed me but, seconds later, he was handing me a cup of water from the complimentary jug on the counter. I gulped it back gratefully.
“Is that better?”
I nodded, barely able to speak. The combination of that voice and those endless, long-lashed eyes was really something. “Thanks.”
“You are so welcome.” He smiled and I almost dropped the water.
It was all too much. The jetlag, the embarrassment.
His hotness. My mind scrambled frantically to come up with conversation.
Anything to make up for my recent and inelegant display, but the very sight of him was robbing me of every aspect of my vocabulary.
Oh hi, I’ve been sent here to salvage my career and don’t worry, I do know how to eat croissants like a human?
I decided to attempt a demure laugh, only for a flake of pastry to fly out of my mouth and land on his perfectly broad chest. “Oh God.” I clapped a hand over my mouth, mortified.
“I’m so … God, I’m so sorry!” My fate was sealed.
He was going to go to his workplace or to his friends and tell them about the strange English woman who spat croissant all over him.
“No problem.” He raised a hand and swiped at the offending flake. The motion caused the sleeve of his denim shirt to slide back, revealing a cheap-looking tin bangle, so completely at odds with the rest of his outfit.
“I don’t spit food on strangers as a rule,” I gabbled, frantically running my tongue over my teeth to check if any more flakes lingered.
His eyes locked with mine. “Oh, so I must be special then.”
Desire made my gut flip, and it took every inch of my willpower not to melt under the intensity of that gaze.
“You’re … I mean, obviously, you know …” I’d started talking with no clear sense of destination, what the hell was wrong with me?
London Lucie would have jumped on that flirtatious line in a heartbeat.
Clearly, New York Lucie was the type of Lucie who just babbled rubbish.
“Caramel syrup latte?” a barista called.
He grinned that devastating grin again as he turned and thanked the barista for the drink.
“Seriously, don’t worry about it. You helped me get their attention to fix my order.
So, I really should thank you.” His phone buzzed and, clocking the screen, the man grimaced.
“Oh man,” he said apologetically. “I gotta bounce. Nice to meet you though.” He began backing out of the coffee shop.
“Maybe catch you tomorrow morning? Same time?”
My brain glitched. Would I have so much as a spare second working at RJF?
What if RJ had me chained to a desk for hours at a time?
What if I got fired after less than a day, then kicked out of the country?
I realized caramel syrup man was waiting for an answer.
“That’d be nice.” Was that the best I could do?
“I mean, I might be busy, I’m not sure.” Great save. Not.
“Oh, I see.” He chuckled. “A woman in demand, I get it.”
“No, really, I might be busy. I’m not trying to play it cool or anything.” Oh God, shut UP. I pressed my lips together as if that could stop the torrent of drivel that was gushing forth from my mouth. I was supposed to have a way with words, wasn’t that what had brought me here?
He stifled a laugh. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Okay,” was all I could manage.
He grinned, turned on his heel and left.
I let out a long, appreciative breath as the adrenaline ebbed away. Whoever messaged him to make him leave so suddenly, I hoped they had a miserable day.
“Ma’am?”
I turned round to see a bored barista holding out a cup. “Sorry. They don’t grow them like that in London.”
The barista cast a glance at the cup. “Whatever. Latte, extra shot?”
Seconds later, coffee in hand, I was crossing the street to the Hartnett Building, pushing my way through the revolving doors. The lobby was cool and dim, with exposed brick and wooden beams a rustic contrast to the sleek glass reception desk.
An impeccably dressed receptionist gave me a key card and gestured to some turnstiles behind which a bank of lifts waited.
“Go on through, tap the security panel by any elevator and take whichever one comes first to the top floor. Juno will be the first person you see, and she will take care of you.”
I thanked her and swiped on through the turnstile, then took the lift as instructed, heart thudding all the while.
What would RJ say to me? Could I even live up to the task I’d been set?
Because if I didn’t, not only would I be sent back to London with my tail between my legs, but I’d most likely arrive there with a severe case of unemployment.
By the time the lift doors finally opened, I was trembling with anxiety.
The combination of jetlag and the comedown from the euphoric meet-cute in the coffee shop had left me with a heady mix of emotions, and so I was relieved the woman waiting for me in RJF reception looked like sunshine personified.
She wore banana-yellow dungarees, with tight curls tied back from an open, cherubic face with a silk bandana.
Unlike the minimalist reception on the ground floor, her desk was cluttered with half-opened mail, empty coffee mugs and a technicolor vase filled with glorious tulips.
“Hi!” Her voice was husky and sweet. “You must be Lucie! Welcome to RJF. I’m Juno.” She stuck out her hand.
“Nice to meet you.” Her grip was strong and her smile genuine, melting away a speck of the tumult within me.
“Okay, I’m just gonna …” She pulled away and tapped at her keyboard. “RJ’s PA asked me to IM them when you arrived.”
“Oh, yes, Elliot?” I asked, thinking back to what little Lin had discussed with me.
“So, Elliot is RJ’s creative aide, but RJ also has a PA called Vivian, she basically runs his life.” Juno stared at her computer screen for a few seconds then gave a shrug. “Hm, she’s clearly not at her desk. But no problem, I’ll give you a quick tour.”
The office was large and airy, with scuffed wooden floors and pops of technicolor art adorning white walls.
After pointing out various offices and the restrooms, Juno took me through a set of doors and then suddenly we were on a spacious balcony, Chelsea Park stretching below like a lush green oasis among a checkerboard of buildings.