Liquids

The Refusal

JO

Ismooth my hands over the bun pulled tight on the top of my head and examine my shirt for bits of breakfast. The atrium of this downtown building is beautiful: drooping palms, huge windows, and sun slanting across the pale marble floor.

Looking up, I watch the numbers tick down on the elevator board above my head and shift the band of my suit around my waist, curling my toes to ease the tightness of my heels.

Why would anyone wear clothes like this normally?

I glance over at the receptionist’s steel-gray two-piece suit and sharp green glasses. Imagine dressing like this every day.

Hmmm. Maybe crazy hipster would have been a better choice than “cool executive” for this meeting?

They’ll probably all be rocking some techy vibe: ripped jeans and rock-band T-shirts.

This is Janus Industries, after all. I straighten my spine.

Why give them what they expect? I’ve stood out all my life—no point in switching tracks now, no matter how big the company.

And with that thought, I can almost taste my father’s exasperation.

Janus Industries. I still can’t believe they called me. Why in the world would one of the best-known tech companies in New York give a security contract to a fish out of water like me? It’s not like we’re well known in the security industry.

I stare at my reflection in the glass doors of the elevator, chewing on a nail. Then movement catches the corner of my eye, and as I glance across the polished floor to my right, my whole body locks tight.

Oh.

My.

God.

Turning back, I open my mouth, bending forward a little to try and suck in air.

A reflection appears alongside mine, and just like that I’m a foot away from Janus Phillips, tapping his hand against his leg in some fast rhythm, staring up at the board, then fidgeting with a leather strap on his wrist. Slowly, I turn around to find he’s already watching me, and a huge smile breaks across his face as two dimples pop out.

And, good God, he looks better than his pictures: messy dark hair in a crazy tousle on his head, thick eyelashes around deep brown eyes, and a grin that is so lopsided that one side of his mouth is much higher than the other. How is it even possible that someone’s mouth could do that?

My lips are stuck together, breath still stuck in my nose. His jaw has this shadow that ... He coughs, raising an eyebrow.

Shit.

Caught.

Staring.

Heat climbs up my neck as my eyes dart back to the elevator.

My damn skin will be covering itself in blotchy red patches.

Ugh. I try and unobtrusively expand my chest. Calm, Jo.

Why can’t I just say “Hi!” like a normal person?

Would that be too challenging? I peek at him out of the corner of my eye.

Would this meeting be worrying enough to go right up to the top?

To him? God, this huge company and it’s his.

He’s thirty-one and looking after the data of some of the biggest organizations in the world.

Some cool designer jeans hang so low on his hips that the waistband of his boxers is visible, and I almost laugh when I catch a glimpse of a faded rock band logo on the front of his T-shirt.

At least he’s not wearing one of those ‘OMG The Element of Surprise’ T-shirts: I am so done with software guys who think that’s funny.

He’s cute, but he must know that, right?

And if the gossip columns are anything to go by, his type isn’t nerdy tech girls like me, just lots and lots of blonde models—he’s always out and about on the arm of some gorgeous girl or other.

I’m sure he’s got an ego the size of a planet.

Given how tiny and flat-chested I am, I can guarantee I will be of no interest to someone like him.

As I glance back at the status board over our heads, my right arm feels like it’s on fire.

Thank God, the elevator is only two floors away.

The silence is crushing until, without warning, the elevator gives a loud ping, and I jerk forward; almost colliding with the doors as they open.

Dear God, how blotchy must I be now? I’m probably matching my hair color.

“Easy now.”

The slightly condescending tilt to his tone lights a fire in me. He’s patronizing me? He’s right on my heels as I move inside and press the button for my floor.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I’ve seen you around before—do you work in marketing?” he says.

His voice is all friendly, warm and deep. And, as I turn to face him, the monkey on my shoulder decides to wake up and have some fun. No one patronizes me and gets away with it. This desire to poke the bear drove my dad crazy: he was forever being called into school to “talk about his daughter.”

“Oh no.” I purse my lips. “I’m here for a meeting.”

He nods at me in that way people do when they’re waiting for you to say more.

I’ll bet he expects me to know who he is.

I’ll bet women normally fawn all over him.

Smiling, I turn away, desperately hoping the floor will come before I’m obliged to tell him anything else.

A ticking silence sits over us, and he clears his throat.

“What company are you from?”

Bingo. Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Phillips. Turning right around to grin at him, I have to stop myself from doing a little victory dance at the somewhat bemused expression on his face.

“Oh, I’m a freelance contractor.” I’m not directly lying here, right? “What are you here for?” My smile is like saccharin.

Janus’s eyes widen slightly, and he runs a distracted hand through his unruly brown mop, making it stick up at crazy angles. I stare at it in fascination. Is there gel in it? His hand drifts down his chest in the ensuing silence, and I track his long slim fingers, the square-trimmed nails.

“Oh, yeah, um, I work here?”

Oh, very interesting. Not the response I’d expect from someone with an enormous ego. I thought he’d say he was Janus Phillips and give me a knowing smirk. Where’s all the arrogance?

“Oh, nice.” I bob my head like a nodding dog.

“It must be terrific to have a job here.” I lean forward and lower my voice.

“I’ve heard that Janus Phillips is so cool to work for.

A friend of mine knows him and told me he was a peach.

” I tilt my head, trying not to laugh. What is coming out of my mouth?

Janus’s jaw drops and redness starts at the bottom of his neck; it makes me want to turn the screw a little more. “Have you met him?” I breathe.

He examines the floor for a while, and when his gaze comes back to mine, I’m taken aback by the crinkles around the corners of his eyes, the conspiratorial gleam.

“I’ve had a few meetings with him,” he murmurs, and his eyes sweep over my hair and cheeks, coming to rest on my lips.

My heart gives a funny little stutter as I stare at him.

What am I doing? He’s ... He’s ... Well, I’m not sure what his game is actually, but I am messing with him, and he probably chases anything in a skirt.

The heat in my face feels like a furnace.

He’ll think I am some airhead who doesn’t realize who he is, and, despite everything, I want this contract; doing Janus Industries security would put my little tech consultancy on the map.

I wouldn’t come to a meeting knowing nothing about the Chief Executive, now, would I?

And here I am with my odd sense of humor about to completely screw it all up by playing some crazy game with the guy who is probably going to make the decision about whether to use my company or not.

Ugh. Idiot, Jo. I’m opening my mouth to say God knows what—but I’m hoping an apology will leak out somewhere—when we judder to a halt, and, before either of us can say anything, the doors separate with a loud ping.

Janus shifts around me, giving me a half smile, which only makes everything worse, before he steps out of the elevator.

“Great to meet you, um ... I didn’t get your name ...?” he says.

“Look I’m sorry—” I start as the doors begin to close. I search frantically for the stop button, but before my hand can get to it, I’m being whisked up to the twentieth floor and my meeting.

The small reception desk on the twentieth floor is all illuminated glass in bright triangles, and I chew the side of my nail, sweat trickling down my spine.

The office stretches out before me like an aircraft hangar, giving an unrestricted view right across the partitions to the other side of the building.

Colored glass walls cut through the space interspersed with gray steel pillars, bright carpets marking out the walkways between the workspaces.

You’d need sunglasses to look at the lime-colored couch in the reception area.

Wow. The vibe up here couldn’t be more different from the atrium downstairs, and I would give my right arm for an office like this.

But all this overt trendiness is not helping. Did I really just try to wind up the CEO of this place in his own elevator? What is it with me and winding people up? I need to find him and apologize.

My phone buzzes in my hand. Nora. Why is my finance person calling me now?

“Nora?”

“Hey, Jo, I’m sorry to call but, um, we’ve got a cash flow problem.”

What? “How much is in the account?”

“About ten thousand dollars.” Her hollow voice echoes through my phone.

God. Payroll is way beyond that.

“I’m sorry but the rent had to go out on Friday. Payroll this month is forty thousand, Jo.”

I don’t say I know this. I don’t say anything. The bright colors of the office blare out at me, success oozing from every pore. I feel like an ant. A very poor ant.

“What’s the situation with the Caltech money?”

“I’m chasing it, but they said three weeks at the earliest.”

Oh, God. The bank won’t lend me a cent—I’ve been down that road before.

I lower my voice to a whisper and pace a few steps away from the reception desk. “Look into credit cards, Nora, see if we can borrow anything,” I say.

She makes a noise like she’s been crushed under someone’s heel, and I don’t blame her. Cards are a terrible idea, but what options do I have? I’m hanging on by my fingernails here.

“Sorry, I know that’s an awful idea, but it’s all I have right now. I’ve got to go and do this presentation.”

“Sorry, Jo, and good luck! Fingers crossed. It could be the answer to all our problems.”

Yeah. Right. I hang up and slide my phone into my pocket. Do unicorns work with ants? Or do they just trample them underfoot?

I scan the receptionist’s oversized plaid shirt, lip piercing, the knitted cap that bobs as she types.

“Is Janus Phillips coming to this meeting?” I blurt out, and her gaze swings over me, coming to rest on where my hands are now white-knuckling my laptop case. Dammit.

“I’m sorry, Miss Williams, I don’t know.” She gives me a placating smile. “Here’s Bob Sugar now,” she says, gesturing to the red carpet that runs in a straight line through the desks from one end of the office to the other. “I’m sure he can answer any questions you have.”

I groan inwardly as a tall man with peppered hair makes his way toward me. I’m damp under my arms, there’s a burning warmth in my body—right before one of the biggest meetings of my life. Great.

Be professional.

Be professional.

Be professional.

If I repeat it enough in my head, maybe it will happen. Then Bob is in front of me offering a welcoming hand and jerking me back to reality.

“Jo Williams!” His earnest face is all wide smiles. “Good to see you again! I hear your company is doing well. You come highly recommended.”

Doing well? My whole body tightens. He wouldn’t say that if he could see the emptiness of our bank account.

But never mind that, someone recommended me to Bob?

After the fiasco that I’m now going to call the elevator incident, the very idea that I’ve somehow been selected ...

I feel queasy. Can’t I find some better behavior from somewhere?

I paste on my best professional smile and hold out my hand.

“Me?” God, even my voice sounds false. “That’s nice to hear. It’s great to see you too, Bob. You were a legend when I was in college.”

Janus poached Bob from one of the top tech colleges in the country, and he’s got a reputation as a genius at managing both people and projects.

He’s close friends with my former professor at NYU, so we’ve crossed paths once or twice before.

He’s the kind of guy who hums as he walks down a corridor, tilts his head while he listens.

A steady hand. Lucky Janus. I have Des and James running my small team, and I love them to bits, but I also know that we’re all young and inexperienced.

His eyes drop down to the floor like the reception carpet holds hidden secrets, and then he shifts, giving me a broad dismissing wave.

“Okay, okay, enough with the mutual back-slapping stuff. Has anyone offered you a cup of coffee?”

“I’m okay thanks,” I say, and we set off through the desks and the walls, passing a large kitchen area where two guys are rapping balls over a Ping-Pong table. “Um, is Janus Phillips joining this meeting?”

Bob grins at me. “That man is a law unto himself. It’s in his calendar and he should be there. Whether he will be is another matter. Have you met him?”

Damn. “Uh, not officially. Actually ...” I should say something about the elevator problem, right? If Janus arrives at the meeting and—

Bob gives a short snort. “He’s got a bit of a reputation, which is not undeserved I might add, but he’s an outstanding entrepreneur and boss. I like him enormously.”

Oh God, really? That’s high praise coming from him. I replay the smirking amusement from earlier, the bowed head, the knowing look in Janus’s eyes as he scanned over my body: Bob admires someone like that? I’m probably not keeping the surprise off my face because Bob frowns, waving his hand again.

“The media print a lot of nonsense. The gossip about him is terrible.” He grins. “Oh! To be thirty and single again.”

This makes me laugh.

“Bob, I’m sure you don’t really think that. You and Mandy are the stuff of legend.”

Mandy is his wife, and the story of how they supported each other through the early days of their careers is tech industry folklore. They’re totally dedicated to each other. No one has ever tolerated my quirks like that. Bob’s eyes twinkle at me.

“Good to know I’ve got a bit of a reputation myself, albeit a different one. But to answer your earlier question, Janus did say he was intending to join us, to meet you.”

His last sentence makes my stomach curl in on itself. I just met him, I think, and it didn’t exactly go well.

Bob’s smile fades and a small frown appears. “We’re worried about the security breach, Jo. We need to get to the bottom of it and fast. We’ve got global clients relying on us.”

We stop by the open door of a meeting room, sunlight spilling across the light-gray carpet. As I walk over the threshold to three pairs of curious eyes, I breathe a massive sigh of relief when Janus’s aren’t among them.