Hailee
I do something a bit radical before work the next morning. I wake up at six instead of my sweet, sweet seven and do my makeup for forty-five minutes. To finish, I don a cream-colored blazer and a little lipstick.
I don’t usually wear anything flashy to work. I keep a plain Jane profile. In my office, there’s a silent battle between women judging one another for dressing up too much or too little. I’ve chosen Switzerland and toed the line, but I’m done being a coward.
Of course, a lot of the judgement comes from the obvious fact that some of the single girls are vying for Alex’s attention.
Oh God. I freeze as I stick the key in my apartment door to lock it. That’s just what I’m doing, isn’t it?
I don’t like Alex. No, no, no. But I won’t deny the fact that I find him attractive. Maybe I just want to prove to myself I can capture his attention. I could use an ego boost, and it wouldn’t be the worst thing to catch his gaze for a little longer.
That’s it. That’s all there is to it.
But suddenly I’m thinking of yesterday. Of meeting his eyes across the press conference. My heart jumps at the memory. I look down at my chest and frown. Am I really that desperate for a good lay?
I’ve been alone for too long, and I hope that’s not what this outfit screams.
It’s cooler outside, thankfully. I look at my weather app every single day, but I forget the forecast pretty much as soon as I close it. I lucked out that it isn’t hot and humid, because the blazer I chose is not a featherweight piece of linen.
I’m wearing comfy flats on the theory that guys don’t really notice shoes, and I don’t want to come off like I’m trying too hard anyway.
I still have some extra time from waking up early and decide to walk the twelve blocks to work. From the extra stares I get on the way there, I grow a little nervous. I’m used to putting my hair up and blending in. Or maybe I’m just overthinking this morning and noticing every little glance that I often wouldn’t.
I forget that New York can feel like a fishbowl whenever you dress up a bit. All my morning commute was missing was getting catcalled by a construction crew with Brooklyn accents.
At 6 th Avenue, I watch a girl get pooped on by a pigeon. A big splat of white nails the shoulder of her sage blouse. This town gives no shits, and I raise my hand to my temple in a quick salute of solidarity as she curses and fumbles with a travel pack of wet wipes.
I’m used to all the eyes by the time I reach my building. My city skin has already grown back.
As I walk inside, I stare up at the skyscraper like the small-town girl in the movies who makes it to the big city. But I could live here all my life and still be awed by the size and architecture of these structures.
This building, 290 Park Avenue, is one of the city’s newest skyscrapers. It’s all blue glass and sharp angles that makes me think this is what the 2020s should be about.
It’s futuristic, like it might sprout thrusters around its base and blast off to outer space. It almost makes me feel optimistic, like maybe in the future this decade won’t be known for COVID masks and the collective frying of our attention spans.
I pass through the lobby and crowd into an elevator. A new building isn’t without its flaws. The west two elevators, the ones I must take, have been known to get stuck. It’s happened three times that I’ve heard about. Something about the software.
Software in an elevator. I thought they were just pulleys and gears, but I guess it makes sense these days.
My friend Alana has a toaster that tells her the temperature of her bread.
The elevator rises, and I know the workday has started when my ears pop. Blackwell Mining occupies the entire top floor of 290 Park Ave.
Alex wouldn’t have it any other way. He says the rent is worth it and that a big part of the business is impressing governments and diplomats to win mining contracts. Appearance is everything. This philosophy is not a surprise coming from Alex.
I step into our lobby and smile at Luke, our desk man.
“Looking good today, Ms. Barnes.”
“Thank you, Luke.”
Shit. I said that a little too loud. Like I was fishing for compliments when I dolled myself up this morning. Or maybe I’m overthinking. To others I might just sound cheery. It’s possible the only insecure thing about this outfit is how it makes me feel. I look great. That’s what matters. Now be you, .
I go to my desk. It’s one of a couple dozen in the open-floor office. There’s no privacy, which is meant to inspire teamwork or something like that. My desk is at least near a window, and I don’t have a neighbor to my right.
Yes, it’s unfortunate that they’re ugly and that they became the preeminent symbol of pencil pushing, but bring back the cubicle. Let me pick my nose, damn it. Scratch an itch. Do one of those face-melting yawns where I arch my back, put my hands over my head, and yawn with my mouth so wide and ugly I look like the Scream mask.
Oh well. Even if they did bring them back, they’d be glass and see-through, like I’ve seen in some offices, defeating the purpose entirely.
I’m really trying not to become a work curmudgeon. It doesn’t help that I feel like I’m working at the Death Star. It’s the culture that gets old. Corporate jargon. Why must I speak like a robot? We all know half the office goes out on Friday night and gets so drunk they sleep with their underwear around their ankles.
I look up from my desk after setting down my bag and realize something is wrong. There’s nobody else at their desks. There’s nobody in the room at all. Luke was at the front desk, therefore it’s not the weekend. It’s Wednesday.
I hear a murmur of voices from the other side of the floor. I walk down the hall and check my email at the same time. I missed one sent thirty minutes ago with the subject: Emergency company meeting at nine sharp.
Shit.
Walking to work distracted me in more ways than one. The walls of the conference room are all glass, and I can see dozens of suited backs facing me. Luckily the room is so packed that the door is open, and several people listen from the hall. I join them without anyone noticing my tardiness.
It’s Alex’s voice that I’d been hearing. It’s calm but serious.
“I assure everyone in this room, we have the papers, the proof, to clear our name in this. Your resumes are not about to get a black mark because of this. Richard, our legal consul in this from an independent law firm, can assure you that everything adds up. Every dollar we’ve made and banked. If you want to get a black mark in this industry, then jump ship before we’ve so much as hit the rocks.”
“What happened?” I whisper to Keegan.
He’s a short, stocky guy with glasses and a pocket protector. He tilts his mouth towards me a little but keeps his eyes on the conference room. “There’s been another article published this morning. Very front page of the New York Times . A half dozen banks and finance firms were just named in this same money-laundering scheme.”
I gulp. I’m anxious, kind of, but also ready to take this as a sign from the universe that it’s time to look for a job that actually makes me feel like I’m helping make the world a better place.
“And our firm?” I ask. “Anything new said about Blackwell Mining?”
“We’re still named as a launderer, one who took dirty money in exchange for precious metals.”
“Oh.”
“I know. But I’m not going anywhere. I trust him.” Keegan nods forward.
I can only see Alex’s head and shoulders from here. His 6’3” frame is the most commanding in the room.
He’s making eye contact with the others and still speaking. I whisper to Keegan, “I trust him, too.” I’m not even sure that’s true. There’s something in Alex’s smoky stare and privately kept life that seem to suggest a dark past.
Keegan frowns and turns to me. He must’ve noticed something different from only the corner of his eye. He looks over my makeup and outfit with a bit of surprise he can’t hide. I think it was a “I didn’t know she could be this pretty” look.
But I’m less concerned about my fashion choices now. The front page of the New York Times …
My job is about to become a lot more serious.
The meeting ends, and everyone files out. I go to my desk to await instructions from Melissa. I imagine my old to-do list has gone out the window. I just went from part-time damage control to full.
There’s a good bit of excited chatter as everyone else returns to work, but it dies down quickly as work resumes. I send Melissa an email but don’t go to her office. I’m sure she’s busy enough as it is, and she’ll seek me out when she needs me.
My thoughts turn to Alex. Despite how calmly he spoke, he looked angry this morning. He’s always been one to be calm in a crisis. Even the way he always walks is a display of how composed he is.
He’s never storming room to room like some coked-up Wall Street type. He walks slowly. Calmly. The women in the office joke that he prowls. He is a bit of a panther.
Enough about him. I wasn’t expecting to twiddle my thumbs this morning, but here I am. I start to scroll on my phone. A half hour passes, and my head only lifts from the screen when I notice that the room has suddenly gone dead silent.
I turn to see what everyone’s attention is on, and I’m suddenly face-to-crotch with Alex Blackwell.
He’s walked silently right up to my desk.
“Come on.” He motions with his head. “PR is being entirely repurposed until this is over. You’re getting a war room.”
“Oh,” I say and try to blink my surprise away. I hastily grab my things. Water bottle. Computer. Bag. Shit. I can’t carry it all.
My panic comes with a metal clang as I knock my water bottle over. My heart skips a beat. I stop breathing. It slams and splashes onto the floor. It avoids Alex’s pant leg by inches.
I hold my hand spread against my chest in that steadying gesture of one who’s in shock. “I’m so sorry.”
“There’s water in your new space, Barnes. This isn’t the Oregon Trail. Pack light.”
I’m readying a retort, but Alex is already walking towards the hall. I take the essentials and follow.
When I meet back up with him, he’s calling the elevator. I stand by his side, not sure what to say. “Are we, um…going to be on a different floor?”
“I rented space on the fifty-fifth. We’re keeping damage control away from the business. I’ve hired PR people too, but they won’t usurp you. You and Mellissa both are going to be working with them.”
“Okay.” I nod, maybe a little too obediently. I have to keep myself from saying something stupid to fill the air like, This story is crazy, right?
Alex turns to me and takes one hand out of his pocket. He’s staring at my blazer like he’s seeing something for the first time. I had forgotten I’d even dressed up today.
“No oatmeal blouse today?”
I recoil my head a little, offended. I can call myself a plain Jane, but I’m not okay with anybody else doing it.
“I thought a man like you would appreciate the neutrality of my fashion choices. This is an office, not a runway.”
Alex doesn’t respond. He pinches the lapel of my blazer between his forefinger and thumb like he’s curious about the fabric. It’s an action that says he believes the world is his to touch.
I’d be lying if I said I was more annoyed than flustered. There’s a line between cocky and confident, and Alex Blackwell knows how to walk it.
“This is pretty, too, though.”
The elevator chimes, and he walks inside before I can respond. Not like I had a response. I’m slow to follow him in. My breath is quick. Shallow. Nervous. The kind that makes you buzz. I step in, and he thumbs the button for the correct floor. The doors shut silently.
“I should tell you, . This new article that came out this morning puts your brother in a bit of trouble.”
My body was already a little anxious from being around Alex, and these words make me quick to panic. “How so?”
“His bank isn’t big. And it was his division at the fund that was responsible for taking this money. I don’t think he knew—we both know your brother’s an Eagle Scout—but still, the courts don’t care and the executives could choose him as a fall guy.”
“Like…he could go to jail?”
“That’s not really the concern. This is white-collar crime and not against the government. They paid their taxes. This is the kind of thing that ruins resumes, not lives. It’s the countries they worked with. Governments. That’s what I’m a little worried about.”
My palms are suddenly clammy. “Why are you telling me this, Alex?”
“Because I can’t get through to him. I told him he needs to hire security, but he thinks I’m being ridiculous. In his mind, he’s innocent, so there’s nothing to fear. That’s not how this works. I need you to talk to him. Have him hire them as a favor to you, his worried sister.”
“If I bring it up, he’s going to know you talked to me.”
“It’s not an issue if you get him to do it.”
I don’t really like his tone. It’s not belittling, but it’s not far from it. “Of course.”
“Good.”
Good , I think. Not thank you? It’s not like I disagree with Alex. The next chance I get, I’m going to be on the phone begging my brother to hire security. It’s just…why can’t he ask nicer? Does this man ever say please? He’s not a blowhard or a totally impolite person. There’s just something so icy about how he speaks.
“Do you ever say please?” I hear myself say aloud, and as soon as I do it, I hear a tiny voice screaming in my ear. I hold my ground. I stare at the side of Alex’s chiseled tan face as he frowns and turns to face me.
“What?”
“Please? Thank you? Ever say it?”
He seems to consider this for a moment. “Every time I’m at a restaurant.”
“Really?”
“I believe so, yes. But if you really want to know the truth, I don’t need to say please. Please is a verbal bartering tool when you don’t have the upper hand.”
Verbal bartering tool. This man is driving me nuts. “No. Not true at all. Please is just being polite.”
“I’m polite with my wallet. If someone does a good job, I don’t reward them with words. I do it with cash. Which do you prefer?”
“Both would be nice,” I say, but I’m no longer as confident in my argument, and I look away. Of course, Alex Blackwell has his own methods of showing gratitude.
“So you’ll talk to Lucas?”
“Oh yeah. I’ll force him.”
Alex nods. “Thank you, rabbit.” His face is stoic, but I swear I see the trace of a grin. He’s teasing me. I don’t know what surprises me more—that or the pet name.
I almost want to reach out and slap his thigh. Maybe do more than that. Would he fight back?
“The last thing I need is others getting caught up in this,” Alex says.
I frown. “What do you mean by that?” As soon as I ask, there’s a jolt and I feel us stop.
Alex flings his hand out protectively onto my stomach. Heat pools beneath his touch like his hand is a damn hotplate. The warmth goes lower. I feel it in my core, and it lingers there even after he puts his hand back at his side. Butterflies. Little fires. Why does he have such an effect on me?
We both look around the elevator. The lights dim before brightening again.
“Goddamn it. This building manager is going to be lucky if he can manage a fucking Hilton after this.”
I feel his hand move to my wrist. I realize I had reached out instinctively, too. I grabbed his suit sleeve .
“It’s okay.” He puts my arm back by my side. “It’s practically impossible to die in one of these things.” He steps forward and hits some of the buttons, but they don’t light up.
I take a deep breath. “It’s not about the odds of dying. It’s about how horrible the death is.”
“What?” Alex looks at me.
“I’m afraid of flying, too. Not horribly afraid. I get on a plane a few times a year. But whenever you tell someone you’re afraid of flying, they say, oh, don’t you know you’re ten times more likely to die in a car crash… blah blah blah. There’s nothing too scary about that. A car crosses into your lane, and it’s lights out. But a plane, plummeting from the sky. The G-forces ripping at your guts as you have ninety seconds to contemplate your death… That’s what I’m afraid of. Not the odds.”
“Fair point,” Alex says but with little emotion. I know he must have fears like any human being, but he does an amazing job not showing it. I can picture Alex looking at his watch impatiently if he was in a nose-diving plane. The thought is a welcome distraction from the stopped elevator, and I grin.
“Something funny?”
“No.” I sigh, step forward, and try touching some of the buttons myself. “It’s just a ridiculous situation. Stuck in an elevator with my boss.”
“Mr. Blackwell.” A woman’s voice comes over the speaker. “We’re extremely sorry for the holdup. We’re going to try to have you moving in no time.”
Alex just nods.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m in here, too, you know. My name is ,” I say to the ceiling. “ Barnes.”
The woman doesn’t speak again.
“I’m about a billion bucks short of getting a response, aren’t I?” I look at Alex. It’s only a joke. I don’t fault the building employees for speaking only to him. I don’t have any say in the fate of their jobs.
Alex doesn’t smile. I think how good he’d look if he did. Right now, he’s menacing and sexy. Almost inhuman in a way. But if he was just a little warmer…
I decide then and there that I’m going to make him smile. That’s the mission—make Alex Blackwell smile.
And not the sly one he gives cameras. A broad-toothed beam. I might as well aspire to join the first manned mission to Mars, but it’s something to do.
“We’re going to be here awhile. I don’t have service. Do you?” Alex asks.
I pull out my phone and look. It’s like we’re in a tunnel. No bars. “Neither do I.”
Five minutes pass, and it begins to feel silly to stand. We both sit against the back wall of the elevator. Side by side but a few feet apart.
I think of talking, but for some reason, I know Alex is going to switch to his one-word answers. He’s growing angry, and I don’t want any of it directed towards me.
So, I stare at the door and think about how damn awkward this silence sounds. The silence is a problem. If we’re in here for too long without much conversation, I could start to get tired.
And fast. I forgot the Ritalin upstairs at my desk. Just keep thinking, I tell myself. But all I can think about is snoring in the corner while Alex stares at me, perplexed.
This is going to be a problem.