7. Rei
A couple hours into my first shift back at MyHome, I walked to the wall of Post-it notes in the lobby. They now stretched at least ten feet up the wall and spread thirty feet wide. A bright pink square stood out amongst a sea of standard yellows and oranges, and I read it, intrigued.
You can’t change the world on an empty stomach.
A chuckle rose in my chest. “Amen,” I muttered. A few adjacent notes said things like... Call your mom and tell her you love her. And Bad ideas are just good stories waiting to be told.
My lips quirked, and I eyed a table with a stack of yellow Post-it notes and an assortment of pens.
Even as I was watching, an employee I didn’t recognize bent over the table and scribbled a note before finding the barest patch of wall.
Soon, it would be so thick with sticky notes, they’d need a ladder to add more.
So many voices already lived on this wall, and it was like seeing all the stars on a clear night in the country. I felt insignificant knowing I was just one small note amongst thousands. One sentence strung together amongst a library full of tomes.
Despite all these people having so many incredible ideas, I felt like I was stuck on the same chapter.
Go to work.
Go home.
Sleep.
Repeat.
Maybe part of me hoped that my secret admirer would reveal himself and help me turn the page.
It was a stupid part of me, clearly, considering weeks had passed since our text message exchange, and he still hadn’t shown his face.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. The man had left me notes for months without revealing himself.
My phone vibrated in my chest pocket, and I pulled it out, looking at the screen.
Unknown Number: Looking for a note from me?
All of my senses jumped to attention at once. The muscles in my ears twitched like it would make me hear better, and my skin prickled, ready for sensation. Even my vision was laser focused as I turned in search of the sender. He could see me now... but I couldn’t see him.
My phone vibrated again.
Unknown number: I’m sitting in the Caf, to the right of the barista.
I stared at my phone, then at him. He wasn’t looking at me, just down at his phone on the table.
My jaw dropped.
The man seated near the coffee stand was Quentin Thomas, CFO of MyHome.
The same man Conrad had asked to find dirt on had been leaving me kind and encouraging notes for months.
My phone vibrated again, and I tore my eyes away from Quentin to read the text.
Quentin: If you want to talk, I’ll be here for five minutes. If you don’t come to my table, I’ll know you’re not interested, and I’ll respect that.
Quentin: Because I’m not a stalker.
I chuckled despite myself and looked to see his face was still trained toward the table. But I could have sworn there was the ghost of a smile on his lips. My fingers flew over the screen as I tapped a message back.
Rei: Says the man watching me from across the room.
Quentin: Can you blame me?
Heat bloomed on my cheeks as I looked back at him, and now he met my gaze. No smile, no hint of a joke. Only him, laying the truth between both of us and offering me a choice.
I studied him in a way I hadn’t before. He was a big man, skin a rich shade of dark brown, with broad shoulders, a strong, square-shaped face. Short facial hair accented his full lips and strong jaw. His hands on the phone made the device look small, like a toy for children.
For the first time, I allowed myself to realize, He’s handsome.
And my heart instantly quickened in response, like I’d had one too many energy drinks. I took a step toward him, and at the sight of my worn-in black tennis shoe, I froze.
I was not dressed to meet with the CFO of a billion-dollar corporation.
My blue jumpsuit was still damp at the knees from the time I spent on the floor earlier, scraping yet another sticker from the marble tile.
And besides the wet spots, the material was thin and worn from daily use, with the color fading in places.
Even my hair was a mess, pulled back with a claw clip shaped like a gingerbread man—a gift from my niece who saw it in a dollar spot.
Turning on my heel, I hurried to the supply closet. If I only had five minutes, I was going to make the most of it.
I tore an outfit out of my locker, unclipped my hair, and raked my fingers through the fine black strands.
Then I tugged on a pair of fleece-lined leggings, a green and cream plaid skirt, and a thick, cable-knit sweater. The black booties in my locker finished out the look. For reassurance, I took a quick look in the mirror.
Pretty good for four and a half minutes.
Just in case, I spritzed a little bit of my travel perfume on my neck and wrists.
Checking my phone again, I realized my five minutes were up.
I rushed to the door, but tried to appear casual as I walked out so Quentin wouldn’t see me squirm.
But when I stepped out and saw the table empty, squirm is exactly what I did.
I hurried toward the Caf, booties clacking over the hard marble floor. Quentin was already halfway to the elevators, so I called out, “Hey, stalker!”
Everyone’s heads turned, and then, finally, Quentin’s did too.
For the first time, I saw his lips twitch into what could be considered a real smile. A small one, but a smile nonetheless. Butterflies danced in my stomach like that was all the fuel they needed.
Instead of walking toward me, he strolled back to the table and sat down, hands clasped in front of him. His brow arched as if to say, I’m waiting.
My lips spread on their own accord, and I stuffed back my nerves and those no-longer-dormant butterflies as I walked toward him.
His gaze traveled over my body, stalling on the skirt for just a moment before tripping back up to my eyes. My skin warmed under his attention.
When I reached the table, he said, “You weren’t wearing that earlier.”
“No, ‘hello’?” I asked.
“I think we’re past that.” He stood and raised his hand to get Dom the barista’s attention. Poor guy was staring at us with the most confused look on his face.
“Dirty chai,” Quentin ordered.
I stared at him. “You know my drink order? You are a stalker.”
He gave a noncommittal shrug. It shouldn’t have been so endearing.
“What else do you know about me?” I prompted.
“I’d like to know more,” he said eventually.
I watched him for a moment. It seemed like every word he said left me with more questions, and yet he wasn’t an open book, spilling words of explanation across blank pages. He was a diary kept carefully locked with a hidden key.
“Do you have any questions?” he asked.
“Thousands,” I admitted, sliding into the chair across from him. Up close, I picked up on more about him, like the curl of his eyelashes, the way his dark eyes mirrored every bit of light around us. The clean line of his facial hair, like it was carefully maintained instead of a messy afterthought.
He leaned in too, and I caught a hint of his cologne. God, he smelled good.
“Why don’t you start with one question?” he suggested.
“Why have you been writing to me?” I blurted.
“I didn’t have your email address.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking. So I pressed on to the next question. “Why me?”
It sounded insecure the second it passed my lips, and maybe it was.
After all, I was just the cleaning staff to him.
Always in a worn jumpsuit, head bent over a stain, reaching for a trash can to empty.
Hidden behind a bulky cleaning cart. Objectively, there were more attractive women here dressed to the nines in designer clothes tailored to accentuate their best features.
They had hair perfectly done, makeup painted across features enhanced by surgeries or Botox or both.
Quentin rolled his lips together, thinking for a long moment while I held my breath in anticipation of his answer.
He leaned closer yet, shoulders hulking over the table, suit sleeves pulling back to reveal hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold adorning his wrists and fingers.
“I wrote to you because it couldn’t be anyone else. ”
“You talk in riddles,” I accused.
His lips twitched again as he flicked his gaze toward the table, then looked up at me with gorgeous dark-brown eyes. “I wrote to you because you’re the first person in this building to walk past my assistant and treat him like more than a barrier to get to me.
“I wrote to you because the days you clean my office are the only days I hear people laughing on my floor outside of the break room.
“I wrote to you because when I watch you clean, determination on your face, it’s like you’re doing more than a job—you’re fulfilling a calling.
“And I kept writing to you because when you found one of my notes and you smiled... I felt alive for the first time since God knows when.”
My lips parted and closed again. Speechless wasn’t a word that could describe me… well… ever, but that’s what Quentin had made me.
“One thing you should know about me,” he said slowly, as if carefully choosing each of his words, “I don’t speak often, but it’s not for lack of thought.”
Heat warmed my cheeks again as I processed his words. Dom came to our table, setting my drink in front of me. “Here you go, mama,” he said quietly, like he wanted to flirt but wasn’t as into it with Quentin watching.
Quentin gave Dom a hard look. “Her name is Rei.”
Dom raised his hands in surrender and walked away.
“You didn’t need to be mean to him,” I told Quentin, reaching for my drink and taking a cautious sip. It was perfect, as usual.
“You didn’t see the way he was looking at you in that skirt.” His gaze flicked down like he could still picture it through the table. Despite the layers of vinyl, wood, and fabric, I suddenly felt bare under his stare.
Quentin’s phone rang in his pocket, and he tugged it out, giving it an annoyed look. “I have a meeting.” He stood, reached into his pocket again, and put a plain yellow sticky note on the table with an address, date, and time. “If you’d like to see me again, this is where you’ll find me.”
“Wait,” I said, examining the handwriting. I’d studied his notes for weeks and knew the careful swoops of the letters as well as my own. “This isn’t your handwriting. I mean, it doesn’t match.” I couldn’t admit I’d saved and reviewed every sticky note without seeming just as obsessed as him.
He cleared his throat, mumbling, “Daniel has been writing them for me.”
Despite myself, I laughed. I’d checked out the paperwork on Quentin’s desk because of Conrad but hadn’t thought to check Daniel’s. “You really thought of it all, didn’t you?” I finally said.
He gave a shrug, although I thought maybe he seemed pleased.
“Why the secrecy?” I wondered out loud. “Why not just say hi in person? You know I’m around.” I gestured at the lobby for emphasis.
“Come to the date and I’ll tell you.” With that, he sauntered toward the elevators, hands tucked into his pockets.
When he disappeared behind the sliding golden doors, I looked at the address on the note, along with a date and time.
“Holy shit,” I murmured, feeling like I’d just walked a tightrope over a hundred-foot gorge. His presence was so strong it consumed me, made me feel on edge and alive at the same time. Months’ worth of mysteries had been solved and somehow expanded in five charged minutes.
With shaking fingers, I dialed Jada’s number, wishing she was still working at the daycare instead of taking maternity leave at home. It was so much easier to keep up with each other when she was only a dozen steps away.
When she accepted the call, the line was entirely quiet for a moment. “Hello?” I said.
Then, I heard a whisper, “Sorry, she’s sleeping. Finally.”
I smiled to myself, wishing I could be there for her more as she navigated this new part of life. One I may never fully relate to. “Is it a bad time? We can totally talk later.”
“No, I'm glad you called.” Her voice was closer to a normal volume, but sounded a little weak.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“It is,” she said with a little more warmth to her voice. “Bryce is already the best dad. I haven’t had to change a single diaper yet.”
“Score,” I said, happy for her.
“Definitely. How are you?”
“Well... I found out who Mystery Man is.”
She let out the quietest shriek I’d ever heard. “WHO IS IT?!” she whisper-yelled.
“It’s Quentin.” All the amazement I felt permeated each word. The line went silent again, and I asked, “Did I lose you?” I checked the timer, seeing the seconds ticking past.
“I’m here,” Jada said, not sounding so happy for me anymore.
“Did Twyla hear you having the world’s quietest freak out?” I half-teased.
“No, I...” She trailed off uncomfortably.
My system went on guard. Usually, my friend would be laughing with me. “What is it?” I asked.
“Before you go any further with Quentin, there’s something you need to know.”
My eyebrows rose. “What is it?”
She stalled for a second. “I can’t tell you yet. Come over to the house after work?”
“I have a meeting with my boss after work today, and my date with Quentin is tomorrow afternoon. I can come beforehand. Does that work?”
“It will have to.”