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Might as well I spent the entire day in the drawing room. The rest of day at the office was moving at a snail’s pace. Time seemed to drag, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit restless.
I spent most of my day sorting meetings, answering phone calls on his behalf, and taking messages. The same two journalists call everyday to ask the same question and end up getting the same answer: Mr. Xander is out of office right now.
Finally, as the day wore on, he returned from yet another meeting and signaled me to come into his office. I walked in, feeling a bit out of sorts.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, noticing the concern on my face.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Sorry about my expression. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Mr. Laing and him letting me do architecture today and looking at plans. I really appreciate it.”
He smiled at me. Big. “You don’t have to thank me. I just wanted to make your internship period more enjoyable. Once a week, until the four month period ends, you’ll be spending it with that department.”
I could’ve screamed.
What?
“Are you joking?”
“No, I’m serious.”
Excitement burst within me. “Thank you.”
He’s so close to getting laid.
He gazed at me, a flicker of concern in his eyes. “Can I take you somewhere?”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Are you gonna kidnap me?” I playfully asked.
He couldn’t help but smile. “No, Azzaria, I’m not gonna kidnap you.”
A warm smile spread across my face, and my earlier frustrations seemed to melt away. “Sure.” And we set off to parts unknown.
“Where are we?” After two hours of driving on some of the world’s worst roads, we arrived at this colossal building. It was like a small village tucked into a single property.
He gracefully stepped out of the car and came around to open my door, extending his hand to help me out. “This is where I live, where I used to live, but I wanted to show you something special.”
If you ever wanted to know someone’s wealth, all you had to do was take a look at their home, and Dillon’s was nothing short of extravagant. You could have hosted a marathon with a million participants and still not covered all the acres he owned. What was he doing with such a huge home?
“It’s really nice,” I commented, making sure to emphasize the “really.”
We walked inside, and the area resembled a luxurious office. Dillon gestured for me to take a seat. “I brought you here for some privacy.”
I beamed at the thought. “This is incredibly sweet of you.”
“Are you allergic to anything?” he asked, his eyes focused on me.
I considered the question for a moment. “No, not allergic, but I avoid pork, peanuts, and I’m not a fan of fish.”
“Got it,” he replied, already dialing a number on his phone. “Hello, good afternoon, Mrs. Emerson,” he began.
“Wait, you don’t—” I tried to interject, but he hushed me with a finger to his lips and continued his call.
