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Monday morning is brisk, almost cold, and I’m damn grateful for it. It’ll keep me from sweating out my nerves. This is the first time since signing my contract with Sizzle that I’ve been asked to attend a meeting with the higher-ups in their corporate office. Since they called the meeting over the weekend, I can only assume it means I’m in trouble for something.
That little scene with Drew Hicks at the kickoff gala might have something to do with it. Just a guess.
Which means this shitty day is all his fault, right down to the coffee staining my tie and the pain from stubbing my toe getting ready this morning.
My livelihood puts me in front of a camera on the reg, so I’ve got no problem with dressing accordingly. Most days. This morning, though, not a damn thing looks right or feels right and since I’m feeling pissy, that’s Hicks’s fault too.
I’m fucking nervous, and I hate feeling nervous. They can’t fire me at this point—I haven’t done anything wrong, for one thing. And good luck finding another host when the competition starts in less than forty-eight hours. So I’m pretty sure my job isn’t in danger.
Still. I have the distinct feeling of being sent to the principal’s office for acting up in class.
He started it.
Sizzle headquarters takes up the top ten floors of one of the tallest buildings downtown. The lower floors are mostly studios and test kitchens, plus wardrobe and makeup and equipment storage. I’ve only had to go upstairs a handful of times during the interview process, and the trip is as daunting today as it was then, complete with the upscale yet subdued decor. Everything is gray and taupe and beige and other not-quite-real colors.
Not my style at all, but it has the desired effect, I guess. The place looks appropriately professional and high-end and sterile.
The elevator chime echoes in the marble foyer. The suits must have already clocked in, since I’m the only one waiting for a ride. Stepping inside, I hit the button for the nineteenth floor and breathe deeply, hoping whatever’s about to go down happens fast and doesn’t end with me unemployed.
A hand catches the sliding doors just before they close and in walks Dickbag Drew Hicks himself.
He does a double take at me as he steps into the elevator, his expression going flat as he focuses on the numbers over the door.
“Lawson,” he says.
“Hicks.”
“Nice weather we’re having,” he says blandly, making me snort. “What?”
I roll my eyes and he finally climbs off his damn high horse long enough to catch me in the act.
“We’re making small talk now?” I ask.
“Got something better to do?” he says.
“Only anything in the universe.” Fourteen more floors. I swear to God, this is the slowest elevator on the planet.
You’d think in a building this size the elevators would be spacious, but there’s only a couple of feet between me and Hicks. I can smell his scent from here—something earthy that makes my mouth water, goddamn him—and it puts an itch between my shoulder blades. I shift back, pressing against the handrail.
“Whatever,” says Drew. “I’m just making conversation.” It’s the closest I’ve heard him get to surly, except when he was marking his territory around Bailey. The itch between my shoulder blades grows.
He just takes up so damn much space. Not physically—with his presence. Ugh. Why can’t he just stand there like a normal person? He’s not doing anything in particular, just leaning against the rail across from me, arms crossed, tapping his fingers on his arm like he can’t wait to get out of here either.
Why that irritates me further, I have no idea. God knows, I don’t want to be locked in here with him any longer than I have to be.
“You can take your conversation and shove it,” I say, the cap popping on my frustration. I realize belatedly that this is the first time we’ve ever been alone and the thought makes it hard to breathe, which confuses me and pisses me off even more.
It’s all his fault, all of it.
“This is all your fault,” I say, stepping forward. A second step takes me squarely into his personal space and Hicks stands up to his full height. He’s only a couple of inches taller than me, but broader and thicker and clearly aware of it.
Hell with that. You don’t scare me.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re really going to tell me you don’t know what this meeting’s about?” I say, sneering.
“Pretty sure that scene you caused Friday night has something to do with it,” he says, leaning forward. If he’s trying to intimidate me, he’s failing. Miserably.
