Chapter 18 #2
I must have sighed loudly or made some other overt sign of displeasure, because the room became quiet; somewhere to the right a throat was cleared. I glanced up. Everyone was looking at me, including Quinn.
“Ms. Morris…” Quinn was very Mr. Sullivan in his expression and tone. “Is there something you wish to add?”
I looked from Quinn to Carlos to Steven to Allen (or Alex or Andrew or whatever his parents had named him that was so forgettable) to the client, Mr. Northumberland.
I was on a precipice. It was my first client meeting, I was the most junior member of the team; I didn’t even know if I deserved the job or if my zebra print stilettos had been the deciding factor.
I should smile politely and apologize, or cough wildly to cover up the unintended sound. I could also feign Tourette syndrome.
Or I could publically announce that all the team’s cost estimates had been based on a grossly inaccurate rendering of the space due to an oversight or, more alarming, the purposeful deception of the client.
Well, what do I have to lose?
I licked my lips then placed my hands, folded, on the table.
“Yes. I do. Before we move beyond the AutoCAD rendering, I would like clarification as to why the space we toured this morning doesn’t match the plans sent by the casino last month, included here in our packet.
We based all our cost estimates on the AutoCAD rendering. ”
There was a slight pause as the group apparently absorbed this information before all eyes swung to the nephew—AllenAlexAndrewAiden. I followed their stares.
He looked decidedly uncomfortable. The man’s eyes bounced around the conference room then settled on Mr. Northumberland’s before he issued a small, nervous laugh. “The differences are minor, really. It’s basically the same.”
I frowned severely as several sets of eyeballs ricocheted back to me, but I focused my attention on the nephew.
“I must respectfully disagree. There are two partitions—non-weight-bearing walls—that are not present on the digital design rendering; the current space has west-facing windows and an outside patio, but the design depicts no windows and no patio; additionally, the square footage of the actual space is at least eleven hundred feet larger, not including the patio.” I shifted my gaze to Quinn’s.
I couldn’t read Quinn’s expression, which may have been due to my current unrest regarding all topics McHotpants rather than any surreptitious attempts on his part. I did comprehend that his stare was neither hostile nor warm; in fairness, I could only describe it as attentive.
The nephew moved from side to side in his seat as though he couldn’t get comfortable. “That’s absurd. Clearly you can’t read architectural schematics.”
“Actually…” Quinn paused, pulling his eyes from mine and addressing Mr. Northumberland, who, for the first time since the meeting began, hadn’t felt the need to interrupt.
“Actually, Ms. Morris is very familiar with such schematics as she graduated summa cum laude from Iowa State University with a dual major in architecture and mathematics. You see, Iowa State is one of the top schools in the nation for architecture.”
I flinched, just a little, barely perceptible to anyone who may have been watching me, when Quinn recited my qualifications. I was not aware that he was so acquainted with my academic credentials. It made me wonder what else he knew about me and how he came to be such an expert.
Mr. Northumberland’s expression of surprise boiled into sudden impatience; to my relief this thunderous glare was directed at his nephew. “Allen, this is entirely unacceptable! If this causes another delay in—”
Quinn smoothly interrupted. “Mr. Northumberland, we can modify our implementation strategy and meet the deadline if time is the issue here. However, the cost…” Quinn sighed, closed the packet of papers in front of him, and leaned back in his chair.
“I cannot guarantee that the cost of the project will not be impacted.”
Without any overtures or pretense, the client leaned forward and pointed a finger at Quinn. “If you can meet the deadline, you can have triple your original budget.” Then his black glare moved to his nephew. “I can’t have any further delays.”
Quinn nodded once then abruptly stood; I watched his long fingers button the top button of his suit jacket. “In that case, we’re finished for today. I see no further need for pretense and discussion; what’s important now is getting started.”
Northumberland stood as well, almost eagerly. His entourage also stood; they reminded me of synchronized swimmers, only in business suits. Their boss said, “Good man. I couldn’t agree more.” He reached across the table and shook Quinn’s hand. “You have an impressive team.”
I caught Steven giving me a meaningful look, and I returned it with a raised eyebrow and a shrug of nonchalance even though inwardly I was breathing a ragged, yet guarded, sigh of relief.
I’d taken a chance. I only hoped it would be enough to prove that I was worthy of keeping my job.
Carlos and Quinn disappeared together directly after the meeting adjourned, and I begged off dinner with Steven, claiming a headache.
Of course, Steven still threatened to keep his promise of a sleepover.
I was noncommittal and laughed at his good-natured teasing, but I didn’t feel like company.
I felt like stewing in my room alone with a bottle of wine and a hamburger and HBO.
Before I ran off, Steven reminded me that our meetings for the following day had been canceled and that the plane would now be departing at 3:00 p.m. He suggested we meet up during the day and try to see a little of Vegas before leaving. I was, again, noncommittal. I felt kind of like a jerk.
I did have a headache. I had a cornucopia of confusion to sort through. I needed to figure out what I needed, what I wanted, what was right, and where they all intersected.
What I needed was to keep my distance from male humans—Jon and Quinn—and keep my job—and reorganize my life so that calm and order were restored.
What I wanted was to throw myself at Quinn and continue behaving like an infatuated teenager.
And I didn’t know what was right.
When room service arrived, I took the bottle of wine into the bathroom and had a bubble bath. The hotel tub was nowhere near the awe-inspiring, spectacular feature in the apartment Quinn had showed me last Sunday, but it was perfectly adequate for my current needs.
Nevertheless, after an hour in the tub drinking alone, I felt no closer to solving my dilemma. Instead, I was left with an empty bottle of wine, pruney fingers, and more questions.
I was getting dressed when I heard a confident knock on my door. It was just past 9:30 p.m. Naturally, I assumed it was Steven making good on his sleepover threat. Due to this perilous assumption, I didn’t check the peephole; I just opened the door.
It was a crucial, if not monumental, mistake.
If I’d seen Quinn first through the fish-eye opening, I might’ve had time to compose myself. I might have decided to pretend I was asleep. I might have trapped myself under a heavy immovable object or jumped out the thirty-story window.
As it was, I could only return his smolder with stunned, albeit tipsy, surprise.
My internal organs and major muscle groups were helpless against the chemical reaction reducing them into frozen yet gelatinous goo.
My heart, likewise, spring boarded to my throat.
I was abruptly aware that I was attired only in a white tank top, bra, and bikini bottoms; so, basically, my underwear.
I’d like to say that, when faced with the smoldering indigo eyes of Quinn Sullivan after a bottle of wine, his impressively massive and muscled form hovering outside my hotel room door and big hands gripping the frame, I felt very little in the way of intense physical or emotional response.
If I said that then I’d be a dirty liar—a dirty, dirty liar.
Quinn, suspended like a metaphor on the abyss of in-my-room/out-of-my-room, was still in his custom cut black suit, white shirt, and blue silk tie.
However, he was emphatically mussed.
His tie was loosened haphazardly and hung a little off balance around his neck; his shirt was wrinkled from hours of wear; his hair was askew and spiking about at odd angles; his chin and jaw were shadowed with a full day of stubble.
Of course, he still looked like a GQ model, but instead of the well-groomed variety, he looked like the well-tousled variety.
The fact that he said nothing at all didn’t help. He just…looked.
At first, he held my gaze for a long moment; then he looked up, he looked down, he looked all around.
This was done with such a deliberate languorous insolence that I feel like I was being perused for purchase.
I blamed my slightly inebriated state when I was tempted to ask if he were looking for something in particular or just window-shopping.
Regardless, his eyes were the bull, all my previous attempts at detachment were the china shop, and he was smashing it to pieces—smash, smash, smash.
I managed a deep breath but couldn’t seem to release it. I maybe resembled a red-nosed reindeer caught in headlights.
Then, he moved.
“Can I come in?” Quinn asked the question like it was a statement and, without even pretending my response mattered, he walked into my room leaving me to stare after him as I held the door.
“I don’t. I—well—if—you—I guess—how… ok.”
As he walked by, I smelled whiskey, and the aftershave or soap he had used still clung to his skin and his suit.
He smelled delicious. Smash, smash, smash.
I released the breath I’d been holding after a further three or four seconds then, on fragmented autopilot, hesitantly closed the door.
I kept changing my mind as I moved in slow motion, reconsidering the correctness or appropriateness of closing the door while my boss’s boss sauntered around my hotel room.