There’s two kinds of texters in the world: the kind who fit all they want to say into one message, and then the kind who send parts of sentences ten times to make one message.
Ella: Message me when you land.
Ella: Well, not as soon as you land, but when you turn your cell on.
Ella: We have to go for drinks.
Ella: It’s been too long! Last time I saw you was at high school graduation!
Ella: Is your hair still a frizzy nightmare?
Ella: I can’t wait for you to be here!
Ella: This is going to be the best Christmas ever!
Ella: Message me when you land!
I huff out a laugh as I write a reply before clicking send.
Me: I’m in a car on the way to the hotel. Once I’ve settled in, I’ll call you. And it has been too long! Can you still not stomach tequila? ;)
Looking out the window, I take in the city as we drive through it before Jeeves starts to pull up in front of a hotel with a doorman standing out front. As soon as he comes to a complete stop, my door is opened and I’m lead into the hotel. Jeeves follows me in, handing off my case to a bellboy.
“Miss Scott, if you’ll come this way,” the bellboy says when we’re inside, showing me over to a high glossed, wooden reception desk two people are sitting behind, checking people in and out.
My gaze runs over the chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings as my Converse squeak on the polished marble floors.
“Miss Scott,” the woman behind the desk greets, her nude-painted lips lifting into a smile. “We have your room ready for you. Al will show you up.” She indicates to the bellboy who is waiting with my case on one of those trolleys only high-end hotels have. “Mr. Taylor has left a package for you in the main area of your suite. I hope you enjoy your stay.” She hands me a keycard and Al whisks me away before I even get a chance to say “hello.”
My voice feels like it’s stuck in the back of my throat as we get into the elevator. Al presses the button labeled thirty-nine just under another button labeled P with a small hole next to it for what looks like a key.
The instrumental music plays, covering the silence taking over as my cell beeps and I pull it out.
Ella: Tequila.... Blurgh.
Ella: Drinks?
Ella: Tonight?
Checking the time, I see it’s already nine here, which makes it only six back in L.A. I could go out for a drink, but knowing El we’d be out all night and I want to make a good impression with Mr. Taylor for my first day at the New York office.
My gaze flicks up as the elevator comes to a stop and I see my reflection staring back at me in the doors. My bottom lip has a lovely cut and bruise forming from Friday’s... fall. My hair is a giant bird’s nest sitting atop my head, and my mascara is smeared under my eyes.
I quickly move my gaze off the mess that is me. I look like I haven’t looked in the mirror for days.
When the doors open, I follow Al along the hallway lined with what has to be the plushest carpet I’ve ever felt under my shoes. The cream color has me cringing though. There’s no way I would ever have that color carpet with me around; I’d have stains on it within an hour.
Me: Not tonight, maybe tomorrow. I’ll let you know.
I turn my cell off, knowing she won’t take no for an answer as Al stops in front of a door labeled 3987.
“This is you,” he says, swiping a piece of plastic against a small device next to the door, a clicking sound reverberating around us as he pushes the door open and shows me around.
I was expecting a room with a bed and maybe even a small desk. What I’ve been given is bigger than my apartment—in fact, I could fit my whole apartment inside the living room.
Al leaves me standing inside the bedroom that has what looks like the softest bed in the existence of beds, all the drapery and comforter matching the chair sitting in the corner. I can’t help it, a huge grin spreads along my face and I dive face first into the bed and hundreds of throw pillows, squealing at the feel of clouds beneath me.
I do a little dance while lying down before jumping up off the bed and running into the bathroom. Turning the taps on and filling the Jacuzzi tub up, I find a bottle of bubble bath and decide I may as well go all out.
Tying my hair up into a messy bun on the top of my head, I walk into the main area, finding a manila envelope on the glass dining table. I pull the tab open, reaching inside and pulling out a cell and a tablet. A Post-it note is stuck to the tablet: “You’ll need both of these. Check out my schedule and meet me in my office at 7 a.m. promptly.”
I raise a brow at the note signed “Taylor.” Switching on the tablet, I click onto the scheduling app the whole company uses, seeing his schedule written in lots of detail as I take in tomorrow's work. Jeez, it looks like an essay I’ll have to memorize.
Placing the tablet and cell down on the table slowly—almost like it’s a bomb that’ll explode if I move too suddenly—I back away a step.
I’ll deal with it all after a long soak in the bath and an early night.
Seriously, 7 a.m.? 7. A. M
These early mornings are going to kill me.
Chapter 2
Confession #78: I fell over and scraped my knees… while I was carrying a baby.
I stumble out of my hotel room and toward the elevator, my eyes small slits as I try to wake myself up. It’s not that I’m tired per se, I just freaking hate mornings! Who the hell decided everyone would have to wake up at an ungodly hour to start work?
Why can’t we all wake up at say, noon, then stroll into our offices leisurely and do our allotted hours before coming home?
All I’m saying is that Dolly is wrong. I’m not working nine to five—it’s six thirty right now and the sun isn’t even fully up as I walk toward the main reception area. Al is standing there, his eyes focused and fresh-faced. Ugh, morning people are the worst.
“Good morning,” he chirps, just like the birds I’m sure are singing outside.
“Hey.” I stumble to a stop in front of him, my lips spread into a stern line. “I have two very important questions for you, Al.”
“Sure, go ahead.” He grins, his face full of hope that he can help.
I hold up a finger. “First: I need coffee, a huge jug of the stuff… where’s the best place?”
His lips spread into a wider grin as he holds his hand up and says, “Wait here, Miss Scott.”
I watch as he wanders off, well, wander is a relative term, he’s kind of jogging toward the bar that’s behind two ornate glass doors to the left.
He returns a couple of minutes later, a canteen of some kind in his hand.
“I didn’t know if you liked cream and sugar but I added them—”
“Oh, God, Al.” I practically tackle him when he gets within a few feet of me, ripping it out of his hand and unscrewing the lid, taking a huge gulp. “You’re my new favorite doorman.” I tilt my head to the side. “Although I thought you were a bellboy?”
He chuckles but I see a blush start to cover his sculpted cheekbones, his blue eyes skirting away from mine as he moves back to the post he was standing at a few minutes ago. He clears his throat, standing at his full height—which by my awesome estimation is about six feet. Give or take five inches. “I’m kind of both.” He shrugs. “There was a second thing, Miss Scott?”
Taking another couple of sips and moaning as the coffee hits my taste buds, I pull it away from my mouth. “Ah, yes. I need a taxi to take me to…” I trail off, already forgetting the name of the place where I’m meant to be working. Shitpouches.
Screwing the lid back on, I place it on the floor between my feet before pulling out the tablet and logging into it, searching for the address. I reel it off to Al and he nods, looking out of the glass doors where the sun is just starting to come out—barely.
“Mr. Taylor left just before you stepped off the elevator—”
“Wait, what?” He was here but didn’t even offer me a ride? How… rude! “He
was here?”
“Uh-huh.” Al nods, his brows drawing down in confusion. “He owns the hotel so he lives on the top floor.”
“Of course he does,” I practically sneer as I remember Jeeves telling me he owned it yesterday. My gaze roves around the empty foyer before landing on the grandfather clock standing proud next to the reception desk. “Shit, I have fifteen minutes to get there.” I bend down, picking up my liquid gold before rushing out of the doors, Al on my tail.
What the actual! Cold… too cold. How the hell do people live in this artic weather? My nips could cut glass!
I watch as Al hails a cab, telling him the address before opening the back door for me. I practically jump into it, pulling my coat around me—my way too thin for New York coat.
“Should get you there in ten minutes, Miss,” the middle-aged man with graying hair at his temples tells me, clicking a few buttons on his dash before darting out into oncoming traffic.
My shoulder bangs into the door and my canteen rolls off my lap and onto the floor. The driver doesn’t look fazed in the slightest as I hold onto the handle on the door. Is that what these are here for? To hold onto so you don’t die?
He rushes through the streets, taking turns left, right, and center—literally—before pulling up alongside an office building. They all seem to look the same in cities, all this modern-day steel and glass gives me a giant headache and vertigo.
Why can’t people understand it’s not sexy to stand on the fiftieth floor gazing out of the window at the skyline. What if the glass pane all of a sudden breaks free as you’re leaning against it? Then all you are is a splat on the asphalt before street cleaners sweep you away and they replace the glass.
I shiver—both from the cold and my mind’s image as I step out of the cab, handing the driver some bills.
Taking a deep breath, I check the time on my cell, noting I have four minutes to get into the building and up to Mr. Taylor’s office. More than enough time.
My heels click on the sidewalk as I walk through the revolving door, coming face-to-face with a giant. His burly face has a squeak escaping my lips—he looks like he’s a real-life White Walker.
He flicks his cold-eyed gaze toward me before looking away. Thank God! He looks mean, like really really mean.
The foyer is full of people in suits, all ready for the day ahead. L.A. is nothing like this. We’d all be trailing along with our giant coffees, gossiping before we finally make it to our desks. Life is paced slowly there, along with friendly faces and designer coffees.
I shake the sunny city from my head, walking forward and trying to get through the barriers that are between me and the hallway of elevators. Staring at the little keypad for several minutes too long causes a line of people to form behind me. They all start murmuring that I’m “a new girl,” going around me and using another gate.
How the frack am I meant to get past this thing?
A vibrating from my pocket gains my attention, and pulling my new cell out, I see a number I don’t recognize. Pressing the green button, I gingerly bring it to my ear.
“Hel-lo?”
“Miss Scott,” a nasally voice comes over the line. “Mr. Taylor said to call you and let you know the code to the gate.”
“Oh, right, okay.”
My gaze roves around the area, searching for a clock—I’m sure to be late now. Great! Way to make a good first impression.
“It’s… five-two-seventy-six-two-oh-four.” She doesn’t give me a chance to say anything before she ends with, “And you’re late.”
“Had you called me earlier—” I pull the cell from my ear, seeing that she hung up on me. What a… a… birch! Yes, I meant birch. Autocorrect does things to your brain and you end up talking like it. Don’t tell me that you don’t do it either—I know you do. Uh-huh, you’re nodding your head now, huh?
Typing the numbers into the screen pad, I’m finally let past the great wall and into the main domain. I feel like I just achieved something major, and when I get into the elevator and it stops on the thirtieth floor, I step out feeling better about the day. So it’s cold and wet in New York, I may be late—six minutes to be precise—but I have coffee and a pair of brand-new heels that replaced the ones I broke.
Strutting up to the desk a woman with white-blond hair sits behind, I stop and wait for her to acknowledge me. When her light-blue eyes meet mine, a bored expression on her face, she asks, “Yes?” And I know immediately it’s Little Miss Nasally Voice from the phone call.
“I’m Miss Scott,” I announce, to which she points behind her.
“His office is the last one on the left—you can’t miss it on account of it being the biggest one.”
I nod, thanking her before I walk down the hallway and past the many other offices, all housing people working at their desks. Pulling off my coat, I hold it over my arm before coming to a stop outside of Mr. Taylor’s office. I know this not only because it’s the biggest like Nasally Voice said, but because it also has his name next to the door.
A sleek white desk sits outside, off to the side a little. I walk toward it, placing my canteen on it before placing my coat over the back of the chair and my purse on the seat. There’s no doubt this will be my workplace while I’m here. There’s definitely no way I’ll be able to slack off on account of him being able to see my computer through the glass windows separating his office from the hallway.
Steeling myself and straightening my back, I take a deep breath, spinning around before a booming voice calls, “You’re late, Miss Scott. Get in my office.” My eyes search for the voice and where it came from, spotting a speaker attached to the phone on the desk.
Smoothing my white blouse down, I trail my hands over my hips and down my gray pencil skirt before walking toward his door, knocking lightly and opening it up.
A hunched figure sits behind the sleek desk that’s much the same as the one outside, only this one is twice the size.
Clearing my throat, I start to say, “Good morning, Mr. Taylor. I’m sorry I was a few minutes late. I wasn’t given the code—”
“First rule,” his deep voice interrupts. I widen my eyes at the baritone of it, hating how the smoothness causes goose bumps to spread along my skin and a flutter to explode in my—downstairs region. “Don’t blame anything or anybody for being late. Own your mistakes.”
“But—”
“Second rule,” he grates out. “Don’t interrupt me.”
“Like you just did?” I whisper, not loud enough for him to hear me.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I chirp, much like Al did earlier.
Why has he still not looked up at me?
“Third and final rule.” He pauses. “Close the door when you come into my office.”
“Oh! Of course.” I scramble behind me, shutting the door without taking my eyes off his bent head, making out his dark-blond hair, longer on the top and flopping forward but shorter on the sides.
His head flicks up at the sound of the door clicking shut and the breath leaves my body in a rush. His dark-blue-eyed gaze runs up my body, stopping at my eyes, assessing me in a calculating way. My cheeks heat at his attention.
A smattering of hair covers his jaw, his cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass. And those lashes—it’s so unfair that men are blessed with the long, thick ones. Hot damn, he even has a chin dimple! What is it about dimples that immediately make a woman turn to mush?
I’m preoccupied with taking him in, noting his charcoal suit jacket on the back of his chair, his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows and showing arm veins. Oh, God, I’m a sucker for arm veins. They’re so… manly.
My gaze finally rolls up over his dark-blue tie before stopping on his lips that are… spread into a grim line.
Shit. How long have I been staring?
“If you’ve quite finished, Miss Scott, we have a schedule to go over.”
“I—” I clear my throat. “Of course, Mr. Taylor, let me grab my tabl
et to—”
He huffs impatiently before pushing a piece of paper across his desk and placing the pen he was writing with on top of it, silently telling me to use that.
Right. I can do this, I can totally sit opposite this juicy beef burger of a man and write down what he tells me without disappearing into Vi Dream Land, where all the men are as sexy and as cut as this one, fanning me as I sit on my chaise lounge—dammit, I’m going there again.
Shaking my arms out, he watches, his brow lifting. I ignore it, ready to get to work. Three weeks. Fifteen work days—possibly a few more if he’s a tyrant. I bet he’s a tyrant in the bedroom—Stop it!
“Right, yes.” I pull away from the door. “Let’s do thi—”
No. No, no, no. The sound of ripping material echoes around the room like the bass of a guitar in a crowded arena. I slam my eyes shut, praying—hoping like hell—that what happened isn’t…
Yep… yep it is. I feel the air flowing up my thigh, and when I look down, the seam to my skirt is ripped all the way up to my hip.
I slap my hand over it, concealing the white cotton granny panties I decided to wear today.
Great first impression, Vi. Just… great.
* * *
Standing up, I pull my coat off the back of my chair and push my arms through it, thankful it’s covering the disaster that is my skirt. I managed to pin it together with five safety pins, but all it’s done is make me look like a goth kid—you know the ones that walk around with their hair in their eyes that are rimmed with black kohl? I never understood kids like that, why paint one fingernail black? What does it mean? And don’t even get me started on those jeans that may as well be painted on them much like the nail polish. I wonder what they’d look like if they laughed? Or is that against their religion or something?
Confessions Of A Klutz: Confessions Series #1 Page 2