Chapter 6 #2
hand, instead choosing to place my palm in a puddle of cooling coffee and get up by myself, causing a ripple effect in the
liquid. He barks out a humorless laugh and shakes his head, choosing to watch me lift my suitcases off the floor by the dripping
handles.
“It’s common courtesy to look where you’re going when you’re carrying two liters of latte like a loaded weapon.” I wipe at
the bright green and brown stains covering my coat.
“Just perfect. Exactly what I needed today,” he grumbles to himself, wiping his wet hands on his suit trousers before checking
his watch.
I throw my arms up in exasperation, gesturing to my torso. “And this is exactly how I wanted my day to go! This is the only
coat I packed!” I gesture to the rain clouds building outside.
He winces, eyes softening as he takes in my state for the first time. My face is wet, my light beige coat now looks like I’m
making a cow print fashion statement, and my hair has a smear of whipped cream in it. Compared to me, he barely has a scratch
on him. He runs a hand through his hair. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning.”
“No, it’s fine.” I gather my things and shove the loose, soggy contents of my handbag back into place. The laminator Cecily got me for Christmas thankfully saved my folder of presentation notes, narrowly avoiding complete and utter disaster.
“I insist.” He picks up one of my suitcases. “It’s one of the hotel services, so you’ll have it back by tomorrow.”
I glance up and down at him, and he easily stands half a foot taller than me. “Are you seriously holding my suitcase hostage?
After you’ve thrown coffee all over me?”
His face softens. “Is it working? If not, I’ll have to send you a cutoff handle in the mail with a ransom note.”
I roll my eyes, determined not to crack a smile. Reluctantly, I shake off my coat to reveal a fitted purple Wyst-branded T-shirt
and jeans underneath. They both have residual wet patches on them, but they are salvageable. He assesses the stains and raises
an eyebrow in question, creating a crack in my resolve. “I am not starting this trip off by stripping in the lobby.”
“Weird, that’s how I usually prefer to kick things off.” He tilts his head, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth. He waits
for my reply, but I just stare at him, trying not to blush. “Just the coat then.” He nods as I place it over his gesturing
arm. “I’ll ask them to leave it at the front desk when it’s clean. What name should I put it under?”
I’m about to speak, but we are interrupted by three angry janitors holding mops and Wet Floor signs.
“Sorry, guys, thanks.” Coffee Assailant looks sheepish as he slips one of the men a twenty-euro note.
“Sorry,” I repeat, wincing for effect as I pick up my bags and drag them into the elevator.
Instead of giving me my suitcase back, he rolls it into the elevator, standing next to me.
His hazel eyes lock back on mine. “What floor?”
I readjust my bags and dig the still-wet key card out of my pocket. “Three.”
“Same as me. Assistant or intern?” He’s definitely American, but can I detect a tiny hint of an English accent?
The doors slide shut with a dull thud. “Why do you think I’m either of those?” I ask.
His eyebrows crease ever so slightly as he lowers his chin to meet me, gesturing to my key card. “Because you’re in the cheap
seats.”
I go to protest, to say I’m neither, but the plan kicks in. A good lie is a consistent lie. “Assistant. Are you one too?” I clear my throat, not quite comfortable at swallowing the truth.
“Unfortunately.” He straightens his broad shoulders, making me realize how much space he takes up in this tiny Italian elevator.
“I hate having to come to these things, having to wear a suit at all times.” He gestures to his stained attire, and I feel
my cheeks go pink.
He stretches out his hand as we come to a stop, offering for me to leave the elevator first as it pings on the third floor.
We awkwardly pace over the red and brown geometric-patterned carpet in the same direction until I can’t stand the silence.
“You come to these events a lot?” I say over my shoulder, my bags taking up all the space in the corridor so he has to walk
behind me. The overhead lights cast his cheekbones in sharp contrast.
“Yeah, part of the gig.” He starts to slow down, reaching his room.
“It’s my first time,” I say, immediately regretting the turn of phrase.
He smiles, eyebrows raised, lines forming in the corners of his mouth. “Well, at least you’ve got the hazing out of the way,”
he says, glancing at my stains. He raps a knuckle on his room door before sliding the key card into the scanner. “My apologies
again.”
“Thanks.” I smile back, lips tight.
The security light on his door goes green, and he pulls down the handle, then hesitates. “Hey, ummm, tomorrow night, once
the big cheeses have gone to their dinners, the assistants are throwing a night-off party at this dive bar a few doors down . . .
if you’re free.”
I freeze and laugh nervously. “Oh, I think I’ll probably be busy working, but thanks.” I use my head to gesture to all my
bags, only now realizing I’d come to a complete halt to continue talking to him.
His smile falters from genuine to rebuffed but polite. “Oh, right, yeah. No problem. Okay, well, see ya.” He jumps into his
room.
“Bye—” I say as his door clicks firmly shut.
An hour later, I’ve showered off the coffee and airplane, hair and makeup are done, and I’m lying in a robe on the bed, looking
through my notes for Spencer. When Coffee Guy described this floor as the “cheap seats,” my expectations plummeted, imagining
a budget-friendly airport hotel vibe, but even the cheap floors in the really, really nice hotel are comfier, airier, and
better designed than my London studio flat.
My phone vibrates across the fluffy cotton duvet.
“Ciao!” Cecily’s voice echoes down the line. I can hear the faint sound of pounding techno music in the background.
“Ciao,” I reply. “Where are you?”
“At Spin, just getting ready to go in. How’s it going?”
I get up and pad toward the wardrobe and scan the array of shirts and sensible trousers I packed. “It’s going well, I think . . .
I successfully lied to a guy in the elevator; he even invited me to an assistants-only after-party tomorrow.”
In hindsight, even if I was being awkward and weird, he’d have no reason to think I’m lying. When people lie about their career,
it’s usually with upthrust, not demotion.
Cecily gasps with joy. “You deceitful little trollop, congrats!”
“I’m not gonna go, though.” I click the call onto speakerphone, undo my robe, and step into the dress.
“Why?” She goes to a whisper. “Was he ugly?”
I laugh that that is the only reason she assumes I wouldn’t go, my mind briefly slipping to his crossed arms under the fitted white shirt and
his bright hazel eyes. “Definitely not ugly.”
“So you think he’s hot?”
I sigh defeatedly down the phone. “He has those kind of ooey-gooey eyes and nice floppy hair, but a guy is the last thing
I need to be focusing on right now.”
I can practically feel her rolling her eyes over the phone. “Jess, you’re meant to be an assistant right now. Why not live
a little?”
“Because my focus is on getting Spencer through this; he seemed stressed about it on the plane. I don’t want to just abandon
him to go and flirt with some guy I’m never going to see again after this trip.” My fingers fiddle at the zip for a few seconds
before pulling it shut.
“And where is my new boss, Spencer? He hasn’t posted anything on his Instagram story today. I was getting worried about him.”
I sigh, clicking the speaker off. “He’s on a complete social media ban while we’re here, and he’s hopefully behaving himself
in his suite.” I never wanted to plaster my name all over Wyst. Who knows what investors had heard about the Malcolm incident
or not. It always felt safer to fly under the radar. So we made Spencer new profiles and populated them with some Wyst content
just to make sure anyone googling would be pointed in the right direction, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to give him free
rein of them. “I’m going to pick him up in a second for the welcome drinks thing. Everything okay there?”
“Yeah, Pacha brought his daughter in today, and we taught him how to braid hair.” I can practically hear the smile on her
face. “We also got an email from Dr. Bernie’s agent asking for a meeting about the collaboration. I’ve told them you are away
on a very important business trip with Wyst investors and you will be back in a few days.”
“Okay, well . . . I guess that’s not the worst lie we’ve told this week.”
“So true—listen I’ve got to go. Instructor Talia has arrived, and you get publicly shamed if you’re late to your bike.”
“All right, thanks for the update,” I say.
Cecily sighs. “Just . . . make sure you don’t spend the entire trip stressing, okay? You deserve a break. You’ve made it this
far, nobody there knows who you are, and you should let your hair down for once.”
My shoulders sag. “Maybe I’ll have a drink at the hotel bar after the first round of the competition tomorrow.”
“You go steady, girl! Okay got to go, kisses!”
The line clicks as Cecily hangs up, leaving me standing in front of the long skinny wardrobe mirror. My hair up in a French
twist and makeup perfect for a day in court. I’m dressed like a CEO. I need to look like a casual but smart assistant, like
Coffee Guy. He looked smart in a fitted shirt and trousers but not stuffy.
I pull my dark brown hair out of the claw clip, letting it dance over my shoulders and curve into curls at the ends. Finally,
I swipe on some extra eyeliner and red lipstick for good measure, taking a picture in the mirror and sending it to Cecily
with the caption “Hair? Down” before heading out the door.
Spencer’s suite has simple meringue-cream walls with white moldings, antique dark wood furniture, and the biggest bed I’ve
ever seen.
Two beautiful sparkling chandeliers hang from the fresco ceilings, painted with cloudy skies. The small balcony hosts a twisted
cast iron seating area with puffy cream pillows, overlooking Rome. Tops of the basilica, metal crosses, and two gods on chariots
adorn the purple, orange, and pink dusk skyline. For the first time since arriving, I realize I’m actually in Italy. It’s
like I’ve been on stress-induced autopilot since this morning . . . maybe since first receiving the invitation to come here.
My arms prickle with goose bumps from the cold evening air, listening to the sound of cars passing by below, doors opening
and closing, and men in suits greeting one another as they step into the lobby. This feels like the start of something. Whether
it’s good or bad, I haven’t decided yet.