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Penelope
Boxes in hand, I step inside the elevator and press the button for the eighth floor. Since Summit was only half a block away from my old place, I figured I’d pop in, make a few demands, and be on my way with a shiny new position and the promise of all this security my family seems to want for me.
The sweaty wisps that have slipped from my carefully constructed updo curl at my temples, but if one good thing came from Carrie’s makeover, it’s that at least I look professional.
“Sorry,” I mutter, making myself and my things as small as possible as a man no taller than my shoulder shuffles inside.
“You can do this,” I whisper, staring a hole through the closed doors as we glide upward. “You’re brave, smart, and capable. He will accept you for this position, and you will not think sexy, dirty, explicit thoughts about him.”
The elevator stops on the fourth floor, and before the man steps off, he adjusts his tie and juts his chin up. “Thanks, lady. I really needed to hear that. Wish me luck.”
“Oh.” My arms strain as I shift to wave at him. “Good luck!”
I step into the hall on the eighth floor with my head held high, exuding Carrie-esque confidence as I push the lobby door open, and help myself up to Margret’s desk.
Said confidence shrivels up the second her cold, lifeless gaze flicks up at me.
“No.”
With an exasperated huff, I use the edge of her desk to lighten my load. “What do you mean, no? You don’t even know why I’m here.”
“And I don’t care,” she says, licking her finger to turn the page of a gossip magazine.
“Come on, Marge. Margie. Can I call you Margie?”
Her wrinkly lips thin when I spot a decorative cardinal beside her stapler. Impulsively, I pick it up, inspecting the delicate carvings of the handmade piece. “Did you know female cardinals aren’t bright red like their male counterparts? They’re actually an ugly brownish color. Kind of feel bad for ‘em. Which makes me wonder… Why do men get all the nice things?”
“Miss Vance—”
“Well, the males are the ones who feed the females; they call it ‘beak to beak,’ and it’s romantic, I guess. But if you think about it, he’s really just regurgitating—”
“Miss. Vance.” She yanks the bird out of my hand and sets it back where I found it. “If you do not have an appointment, you may not speak with Mr. Murphy. No matter how persuasive he was when you saw him last.” She peers at the scheduling book. “And would you look at that? No appointment.”
“Oh, you thought we…? No, no. I’m here to see Mr. Anderson.” Giving the crotchety woman my most innocent smile, I say, “But not to have sex with him, of course.”
Trying to play it cool, I hike one cheek up to sit beside the boxes still perched on her desk.
She sighs when I promptly knock over a pencil holder and tape dispenser.
“Oops. Let me fix that.”
Before I can right her things, she swats my hand.
“Ow.”
I’m pinned with a stern look. “Thank you for that clarification, but the answer is still no.”
“What? Surely his schedule is free for the afternoon. I can’t imagine he works too hard around here. You know, because… Well, this is Logan we’re talking about.”
I snort. But then, she wouldn’t know that his younger self would outright laugh at the thought of being chained to a desk, working a corporate day job, would she?
“Margret,” Logan calls down the hallway, growing closer with each step. “Can you remind me when Mrs. Pikkah will be here this afternoon?”
It’s a simple question, one not even directed at me, but that commanding tone has me sliding to my feet, and my knees clamping together.
“We may have to move her to next Monday depending on—”
The rest of his thought doesn’t register as panic grips me in its claws. Tap, tap, tap. His ridiculous, probably-for-sure, over-priced dress shoes announce his presence, and my heart rate triples.
