by John Corwin
"Black coffee," yelled the barista. I snatched it.
Seven minutes remained on the clock for the return trip. I couldn't trot because the coffee, despite the lid on the to-go cup, was quite capable of splashing through the tiny hole in the lid. The boy behind the counter also hadn't doubled up on the cardboard thingy that prevented the coffee from scalding my hands through the cup. I juggled the newspaper and coffee from hand to hand, cursed a bit more, and took long strides, proving to myself I could multi-task and use vulgarities like any common sailor.
Mum would be so disappointed at my lack of proper etiquette. And Dad would be appalled at how the preacher's daughter had turned out.
The seconds were counting down when I reached the building, pushed open the door, and raced for the lift. I hit the buttons and willed it to speed upward without any stops. Miraculously, it reached the floor without pause. The doors dinged and started to slide open. I juggled the hot coffee. Dropped the paper. Snatched it up and hurried out, looking up at the last moment and—
Crushed the coffee against the chest of a man as he stepped toward the lift, his eyes on Sandra as he said, "Don't worry, Sandra. I'll run grab it myself."
I shrieked as hot coffee ran down my hand.
He shouted in alarm as hot coffee splashed on his suit and face.
Sandra stood upright, gasped, and promptly threw up all over her desk.
"Oh bloody hell in a hand basket," I said, trying to ignore the pain in my hand long enough to see if the fellow I'd run into was suffering from third-degree burns on his face.
He looked up at me.
I looked at him and nearly fell on my bottom in shock.
It was my mystery man.
Chapter 4
The man's eyes widened for an instant before normalizing. He turned to Sandra. "Are you okay?"
The executive liaison had managed to redirect some of her spew into a rubbish bin. She wiped her mouth with a tissue and nodded.
He looked to me, took my reddening hand in his, and tsked. "Come along."
With my brain paralyzed, my feet decided on their own to go along without resistance. We reached the kitchen where he pulled ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a paper towel, and dampened it before placing it against my skin.
"You look a bit flustered, Miss—" He raised an eyebrow.
"Uhm, Emily. Glass. That's my name, what people call me." I clamped my mouth shut before sounding like a complete ninny.
He chuckled. Looked down at his shirt and tie, following the trail of coffee down his slacks to his shoes. "Looks like I need a bath."
"I'm so sorry, really," I said, opening my mouth again despite my better judgment. "I was just bringing—oh God—Mr. Jones is expecting his coffee."
"Well, you didn't fail in that regard." The corner of his mouth turned up in an amused grin. "You did deliver my coffee."
"Wha—wait, you're Mr. Jones?" I felt absolutely flummoxed.
He pulled away the ice to look at my hand. "Hmm. Looks like it won't blister." Leaving his other hand beneath mine, he pressed the ice back to the skin. "Ice has so many uses," he mused, as if it were a marvel of the modern world.
"Who are you?" I said in a low voice.
"Thomas Jones. I'm the sales manager here."
"I know that, but, well you beat the hell out of a man, saved me and my roommate, and didn't want to talk to the police. Is this company a cover for nefarious businesses?" I had no idea what gave birth to my line of reasoning, though my mental faculties were still aflutter, and there was something oddly comforting about the way his hands clasped my injured one. In fact, the hand beneath mine felt much warmer than normal, likely due to the contrast with the ice. The strange sensation I'd once detected from him began to permeate my muddled thoughts.
He gave me another amused grin, his green eyes twinkling. "I like the word nefarious, especially when you say it in a British accent. It makes me think of spy movies."
I slipped back into my American accent. "That doesn't answer my question, Mr. Jones."
He shrugged. "I simply didn't feel like dealing with them."
"And that's it? You're not a criminal mastermind?"
"I suppose you'll just have to find out." He winked.
For some reason, that wink sent a nervous little flutter into my belly. Why, I had no idea. Thomas Jones seemed rather ordinary, from his plain business attire, to a marginally handsome face. Admittedly, his eyes were quite remarkable. He practically radiated self-confidence. Perhaps he was rich, well hung, or both. I realized my eyes had wandered to his crotch and jerked them back up.
A tiny self-satisfied grin perked his lips. I felt a hot rush of embarrassment run from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head.
He removed the ice from my hand again. Nodded. "Much better."
"Aren't you burned?" I asked, looking at the coffee stains.
"I'm fine. Heat doesn't bother me."
"There's no need to play tough guy with me," I said. "That coffee was scalding hot. I can't believe it didn't burn you just a little."
He held out his hands. "See? No blisters." His fingers went to his shirt. "I suppose we could check my chest for third-degree burns."
My flush returned. "I'm quite sure it won't be necessary," I said in a slightly choked voice.
"I'm going home," said a moaning voice from the door. Sandra leaned against the jamb for support, face pale, eyes sunken. "I think I have the flu."
"You look awful," Thomas said. "Let me give you a ride."
"I can take the bus."
"Are you kidding me?" He nodded to me before turning and guiding Sandra toward the lift.
"Cover for me," Sandra said, trying to sound imperious but failing, as Thomas took her inside the lift. She couldn't even manage to move her eyebrows.
I saw her handbag on the ground next to her desk. "Hold the lift!"
Thomas stuck an arm out to make the door open again, and I handed him the purse.
"Be seeing you, Miss Glass." He smiled as the lift doors closed.
Long after the doors had shut, I stood there, my heart beating a staccato rhythm, my mind a jumble. How on earth was it possible I would intern for the very man who'd rescued me and Isabel? Was it some strange twist of fate? I hardly believed in coincidence, preferring instead to think of the universe as a massive joke factory with humans as the punch lines. Not the sunniest outlook, true, but I could think of no other way something this bizarre could have happened.
"Sandra?" said a voice from behind. I turned just as a middle-aged man with a thick head of hair stepped around the corner and regarded me with a confused look. I recognized him from pictures I'd seen while researching OnTech, but hadn't met him yet since I'd been hired by proxy through an employment agency.
"She's sick, Mr. Jameson. Can I help you with anything?"
His nostrils flared, likely from the odor of Sandra's vomit. "Are you the new intern?"
"Yes, sir. Emily Glass."
He held out a hand. Gave mine a quick squeeze, and released. "Burt Jameson. Pleased to meet you, Miss Glass. Did Sandra leave any instructions?"
I glanced at her desk, and spotted a calendar on her computer. It showed the sales meeting scheduled that afternoon and detailed several things in her notes. "Yes sir, I just need to consult them."
He nodded. "Sounds good." Checked his watch. "We'll need the conference room set up ASAP."
"I'm on it." I gave him my cheeriest smile, though a flicker of panic passed across my vision.
After he'd gone, I read Sandra's notes. Most of the listed duties were labeled as mine, so I set about getting the portable coffee pots filled and ordering the pastries and other snacks. Thankfully, someone had already called janitorial services to clean up Sandra's spew. By the end of the hour, the conference room was good to go.
Kevin entered bearing a stack of pie charts and cardboard backers. He set them on the tripod at the other end of the conference table. "Have you seen Mr. Jones?"
I gave him
the rundown on my unfortunate encounter. He burst into laughter. "You really know how to deal with the upper management."
"Nothing like a bit of coffee to warm things up," Thomas Jones said from the doorway.
Kevin's smiled froze on his face.
Thomas gave him a grin that thawed the temperature in the room. "I see you have everything ready to go, Miss Glass."
I noticed he had on a fresh set of clothes, khaki pants, and a white button-up shirt—understated attire that only bold-faced his normalcy. I imagined him dressed up in something a bit more stylish, say designer jeans and a fitted shirt, but decided he would still look rather non-descript. Perhaps if he worked out a bit, and got a tan, he might improve his looks, I mused. It occurred to me just how odd it was for me to even consider the benefits of a makeover for this man. Why did I care how he dressed or how he looked? He certainly wasn't what I'd consider my type—and why, oh why, was my mind even pursuing this line of reasoning?
Before I made a fool of myself yet again, I gave the room one last look and returned to the front desk to consult Sandra's calendar again, but only after applying hand sanitizer to everything she could have touched. I felt certain catching the flu and missing work would not bode well for my continued employment here, especially after scalding the sales manager with his coffee.
Most of the items on the calendar were things Sandra had assigned me to do whereas those tasks labeled with her name were few and far between, and mostly in the executive wing. It was obvious she meant to squeeze me like an indentured servant. I wondered what she'd done in the interim without an intern. Had she actually—gasp—worked?
On the upside, the day fled rather quickly thanks in no small part to my workload. As I gathered my things and prepared to leave, Thomas leaned against Sandra's desk and smiled.
"I'm gonna grab dinner at the pho noodle place down the street. You should join me."
His invitation caught me off guard. My mouth opened to say, "Thanks, but I have other plans," but curiosity got the better of me, and instead the word "Okay" popped out of my mouth unbidden. I wanted to get to the bottom of this enigmatic knight. Was his armor shiny, or tarnished?
"Shall we then?" A lopsided grin formed on his face.
My traitorous mouth left me little wiggle room, so I nodded and followed him onto the lift. He pressed the button for the lobby and leaned against the lift wall. A moment of uncomfortable silence ensued, though it didn't seem to bother him in the least.
"How is Sandra?" I asked, trying to make small talk.
"Sick." He shrugged. "I swung by the pharmacy and grabbed her some medicine. So long as she drinks plenty of water, she'll be fine."
"Is it your business to rescue damsels in distress?"
His green eyes studied me for a moment. A shrug. "I simply do what I need to do."
Something about his gaze unnerved me, and I looked at my hands, folded as they were in front of me. "That's not much of an answer."
He chuckled. "The universe has a nasty sense of humor. If I happen to be in a position to thwart it every now and then, I take the chance."
My gaze snapped back to him. "It appears we have the same opinion of the universe, Mr. Jones."
"Call me Thomas."
"Is that really a good idea? Whatever will the other employees think?" I gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look.
"That it's none of their concern."
He seemed so cocksure of himself, I couldn't help but puncture his little bubble. "Mr. Jameson might not like the new intern calling you by your first name. In fact, he might suspect something, Mr. Jones."
"I don't think Burt would mind. He certainly doesn't when Sandra calls him by his first name." A devilish grin crept onto his face. "Besides, when you say 'Mr. Jones' in that lovely British accent, it sounds even naughtier."
"Oh, dear," I said before I could bit my tongue. Why was I slipping up around him? I felt a strange magnetic pull from him. It wrapped around my senses in an alluring manner, but I viewed it in my typical detached way as just one more oddity about the way my mind worked.
"Why is it people assume such things simply because of what you call a person?" Thomas shook his head as the lift doors open. "Then again, I suppose it's not so different from my—" He broke off his sentence and looked down the street toward a neon sign advertising pho soup. "Are you a fan of Vietnamese cuisine, Miss Glass?"
"If you want me to call you Thomas, you might as well complete the scandal by calling me Emily." I narrowed my eyes at his back as I followed him down the sidewalk. "Not so different from your what?"
"Hmm?" He turned, slowing his pace so I could walk at his side.
"You never finished your sentence."
He looked amused. "Which one?"
"Oh, never mind."
He opened the door and waved me inside. The aroma of broth and onions met my nose in a pleasant medley.
We took a seat. A woman walking past us slowed and looked at Thomas. For a moment, I thought she might know him, but she continued on and sat at another table. The waitress, a short Vietnamese woman, approached. Her eyes fixed on Thomas.
"You ready to order, sir?"
He raised an eyebrow at me. "Are you?"
"Which soup do you recommend?"
"I like number thirteen."
I shrugged. "Sounds good."
He ordered two of them, and the chubby little woman wandered off, stealing glances at Thomas as she did. I regarded him again, wondering if there was something about his appearance I'd missed, like a tattoo of Satan emblazoned on his neck.
"So, Miss Glass—"
"Emily."
"Miss Emily—"
"Now you just sound ridiculous."
He grinned. "Why do you have a British accent?"
"I don't have a bloody—" I took a breath. Sighed. "I was born there. My father transferred us here with his job when I was sixteen."
"Why do you try to mask it?"
"To keep people from asking me about it, I suppose."
He leaned back in his seat. "Well, Emily, I think that's silly."
A shiver went through me when he said my name. I felt my eyes widen in surprise. "Silly?" I said, grasping at the line of conversation like a slippery rope dangling from the back of a boat.
"I happen to think a British accent is sexy."
A flush crept up my face. Thomas looked at me appraisingly. I could almost sense his satisfaction at keeping me off balance. "I'm not into older men," I said, regretting the weak riposte the second it left my mouth.
"I suppose it is intimidating for a young woman." The soup arrived. He dumped bean sprouts and an ungodly amount of hot sauce into his as I floundered for a response.
"No, it's just—it's just—I've never been attracted to older men." It was an outright lie, and I knew it. I found plenty of older men very attractive, even ones with more years on them than Thomas. He appeared so ordinary, and yet, there was something devilish lurking behind those eyes of his.
He smiled. "No need to apologize for your preferences, Emily." He took a pair of chopsticks and shoveled a clump of beef and noodles into his mouth, not even attempting to be neat about it.
I grabbed a pair of chopsticks, though a slight tremble of my hand made it difficult to control them. Why did this man have any sort of effect on me? Judging from the amused sparkle in his eyes, he seemed very much aware of my distress. Steeling my nerves, I steadied my hand and successfully delivered a mouthful of noodles, slurping the long ones in a deliberate attempt to show as little grace as possible. I'd show him I didn't care what he thought.
He laughed. "I love the way you eat."
I raised an eyebrow, a fresh bunch of noodles still dangling from my mouth and nearly choked trying to swallow them.
"I hate it when people hide their true nature behind good manners." As if to demonstrate that contempt, he took a spoon, filled it with broth, and piled noodles and beef atop it before cramming it into his mouth.
I accepted his chall
enge and followed suit. The noodles slipped off the spoon the moment I tried to put it in my mouth, splashing broth on the table and my blouse.
"Oh, hell," I said, grabbing a napkin and brushing at the droplets.
Thomas laughed. "I guess you're not ready for the big leagues of pho eaters just yet."
"Very funny, sir."
At the end of the meal, which was delicious I had to admit, I reached for my purse, but he stopped me.
"My treat," he said, standing up.
"I don't know if that's appropriate, Mr. Jones."
He shrugged. "Appropriate can kiss my—" He looked at his backside. "My well-defined ass."
His ass, obscured as it was in the folds of his khakis was anything but well defined from what I could see, but I giggled, covering my mouth and shaking my head. Again, I asked myself, what was it about this man that caused me to like him?
He paid the bill. Looked back at me with an amused gaze that sent a shiver through me. Again, my intuition pinged with a strange sensation I couldn't identify. Was Thomas toying with me? Did he hit on all the interns? Perhaps that was what had happened to the last one. I suddenly felt very unsure about what I was doing out with this man. For all I knew, he might demand something I wouldn't give him. He could fire me.
This was all a terrible mistake.
Chapter 5
I felt a hand atop my shoulder and looked up into his face. "Stop worrying," he said. "Cut loose and have fun for once. I don't bite too hard."
His hand felt feverishly warm. A chill sent goose bumps up my neck and into my scalp. How did he know what I was feeling? "I can't help but worry. You are my boss after all."
He took my coat from the back of the chair and held it out for me. I slipped into it.
"Thank you for the soup, Thomas."
I felt a slight tremble in his hand before he removed it from my shoulder. "You're welcome, Emily." He stood in front of me. "What kind of music do you like?"
Oh lord. I hoped he wasn't about to ask me to a Barry Manilow concert. "Heavy metal," I said, suppressing a grin at the momentary flicker of surprise on his face.