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Thank you for your very thoughtful gift. However, I believe it would be inappropriate for me to accept it. I apologize for any problems this might cause, and appreciate your understanding in this manner.
It was lovely meeting you yesterday. Thank you for going out of your way to make me feel welcome.
Sincerely,
Chloe Girard
Crazy as it sounds, it took me half the night to write the stupid letter to Juice Guy. Ethan. Mr. Frost. Whoever the hell he is. Seeing as how I’m going on about two and a half hours of sleep right now, I don’t particularly care what he wants to be called. Not when I feel like a cast member of The Walking Dead.
Twenty-seven drafts. That’s how many versions of the stupid letter I wrote. Somewhere around number sixteen, I almost gave up. Almost said to hell with the whole thing. That’s when Tori threw in the towel and went to bed and I almost did the same thing. But I couldn’t see myself dropping the blender off at his office this morning without at least a small note attached, so I persevered. Five sentences in six hours. It has to be some kind of world record—of the ridiculously awful variety.
Needless to say, I’m skipping my morning workout today. As tired as I am, I’d probably fall asleep on the stupid treadmill and end up killing myself.
I plan to arrive at work thirty minutes early. I figure that will give me time to get to Building One, where the CEO’s office is, deliver the package, and make it to the second floor of Building Three, where my office is, with plenty of time to spare. But it turns out all the extra half hour I gave myself did for me was strand me in traffic. So by the time I get to work, I have only ten minutes to deliver my package.
It could wait for lunchtime, but I’m determined to get it out of my car and my mind. Then I can move on with the day and I won’t have to think about Juice Guy—Mr. Frost—anymore. His office is on the top floor of the building, which means waiting forever for the elevator since I don’t use stairwells by myself. Ever. Normally, elevators don’t bother me, but with only eight minutes to spare, I know waiting for one will mean I’m cutting it even closer.
So I try to take the stairs, even open the door and start to go in. But even that has me breaking out in a sweat, all the bad memories from years ago at boarding school swamping me. Nope, can’t do it. It’s definitely the elevator for me.
When I finally emerge onto the fifth floor, I walk straight off the elevator into a lush—dare I say opulent—waiting room. I don’t have to read the sign on the wall to know I’ve found the CEO’s office. Overstuffed couches, thick carpeting, expensive art—all done in rich autumnal golds and reds and browns. Even the coffee and side tables are dark, heavy wood instead of the glass and chrome you find in most offices these days. I have to admit I find it interesting that one of the foremost tech guys in the world has an outer office filled with antique furniture.
Not that it matters, except it’s another contradiction. Surf bum versus tech genius. Juice Guy versus CEO. Antiques collector versus visionary. Against my will, I’m fascinated. The part of me that’s determined to understand how things fit together wants to scatter all the different pieces of him out in front of me, then watch closely as I put them back together so I can see—really see—how they all line up. How they all work together.
Not that I’ll ever get the chance. After all, I’m here to return a blender. Anything else is completely out of the question.
The reception area is manned by an attractive older woman, one whose stern look says she could take on the devil and win—and probably already has. As I approach, she looks down her nose at me, no mean feat considering she’s sitting down and I’m almost five-nine. It’s a good look, one that I vow to practice until I can successfully imitate it. I’m sure at some point in my career as an intellectual property attorney a look like that will come in handy.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks when I stop directly in front of her desk. Not once does she look at the large box in my arms, which I think shows admirable restraint considering it’s not every day people carry giant blenders into the CEO’s office with them. Then again, what do I know? Maybe Ethan Frost really does send Vitamixes to all his employees—in which case, I look even more stupid trying to return it than I already think I do.
“I don’t have an appointment. But—”
“Mr. Frost doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. ”
“I understand that. But all I want—”
“You’re free to leave a message with your name, number, and what business you’d like to see him about. I will pass the message on. If he’s willing to see you, you’ll receive a call in twenty-four to forty-eight hours to set up the appointment. ”
She delivers the whole speech in a perfectly polite tone, but it manages to get my back up anyway. Maybe it’s because of the way she’s looking at me—like I’m just a bug buzzing around the esteemed Mr. Frost—or maybe it’s because she assumes she knows what I’m going to say before I say it. I get that she’s the first line of defense between the public and one of the most revered CEOs on the planet, but really, he’s just not that special.
Liar. The little voice inside me is back, but this time I’m flatout refusing to listen to it. Especially since last time all it did was get me into trouble. So I wait for the receptionist to pick up her pen and message pad and then say, “I don’t need an appointment with Mr. Frost. ”
She sighs heavily. “Everyone needs an appointment if they want to see—”
Completely fed up by this point, not to mention very aware of the minutes ticking away, I cut her off by dropping the blender on her desk with a resounding thump. “I just want to return this to him. There’s a note attached, but I’m sure he’ll know who it’s from. Thank you. ”
I turn and walk away before she can say anything else. As I wait for the elevator, I’m conscious of her eyes on me and I try not to fidget as precious seconds and minutes slip away.
By the time eight o’clock rolls around and I am officially late for work, I’ve had it with waiting for the elevator. Though I’m sick to my stomach at the thought of taking the stairs, I’m even sicker at the thought of showing up any later to work. This is so not how I planned to impress my new boss.
The fear of making an ass of myself and somehow losing the internship is what finally gets me moving toward the stairwell. It’s broad daylight in one of the most reputable companies in the country. There’s no place safer for me to take the stairs, so I need to stop being a baby and just do it.
I’ve made it down one flight of steps—a task which is much easier today in my sensible navy pumps than it would have been yesterday in those ridiculous Louboutins, thank God—when I hear the stairwell door above me slam open. Though I know it’s ridiculous, know I’m completely safe, ice skates down my spine anyway. Freezes me in place for what feels like endless seconds.
Panic twists up inside me, makes my breathing quicken and my heart beat faster. It’s what I need—I start moving again, jogging down the stairs as fast as I can without looking like an utter lunatic.
But whoever is in here with me is moving even faster than I am. I can hear his shoes slapping on the concrete steps, know he’s gaining on me. He’s getting closer and closer and the fight-or-flight response goes into full effect inside me now. As images of the past bombard me, every instinct I have is telling me to run, to forget dignity and get the hell out of here as fast as I possibly can.
I listen, start running full-out now, my purse dangling from numb fingertips as I race for the ground floor. Maybe I’d do better exiting onto the second floor, but it’s early still, the back halls nearly deserted. The lobby is my best bet. If I can just get there—
