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The compliment is a much-needed ego boost, and I feel increasingly confident about my impending meeting.
Sebastian Andrews, as one of the Andrewses, is on the second highest floor of the fifty-story building, so the rest of my elevator comrades are long gone by the time I step out onto the forty-ninth floor.
As with the lobby downstairs, the office space is very cool and modern—lots of white marble, white leather, and stainless steel—but it’s all softened, rather surprisingly, by two stunning flower bouquets set up on either side of the large reception desk.
“Oh!” I say, forgetting to play it cool as I walk right up to the flowers and touch a hydrangea, which contrasts perfectly with pink snapdragons and yellow roses. “These are so pretty.”
The black-haired man in tortoiseshell glasses behind the desk grins. “Aren’t they? We used to order our arrangements from one of the generic corporate florists. Lots of white roses and lilies.” He lets out a dramatic yawn. “Just a couple of weeks ago, Mr. Andrews found this local guy up on Amsterdam. He doesn’t deliver, but I actually like to get out of the office to peruse the weekly selection.”
I stare at him. Surely, he’s not talking about Carlos.
If he is, I’m thrilled for Carlos and Pauline. These arrangements must have been wildly expensive.
But I’m irritated for me.
The thought of Sebastian Andrews and me getting our office flowers from the same place feels… irksome.
“You must be Noel,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Gracie Cooper. We spoke on the phone a couple days ago? I really appreciate you finding time on Mr. Andrews’s calendar.”
He looks surprised, as though nobody ever acknowledges his presence, much less his name.
“Yes, sure,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose and looking down at his computer screen. “I’m sorry I could only find a half hour, though honestly it’s rare he has any time available this last minute.”
“A half hour is all I need,” I say.
“You’re just a bit early, and he’s on another call,” Noel says. “Can I get you anything to drink while you wait? Water? Coffee? Tea? We’ve got a fancy espresso machine.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, moving to the elegant but comfortable seating area. I’ve just settled in with an old Citizen magazine Man of the Year issue featuring Carter Ramsey, because who doesn’t like to fantasize about a hot baseball player, when Noel says my name.
I glance up, and he nods toward the door. “Mr. Andrews is available.”
I stand and pick up my purse, smoothing a hand over the back of my skirt to make sure I’m not living my actual nightmare of having it tucked into my underwear. Begging my already pinched feet to hang in there for another half hour or so, I enter Sebastian’s office.
I was sort of hoping for something to pick on—a ghastly hunting trophy or a torture chamber of some kind, but the worst I can say is that it’s generic. The desk big, the chairs black, the view… well, there’s nothing generic about that.
“Wow,” I breathe, my eyes scanning the view of Central Park and all of the Upper East Side behind him. I start to walk forward to the window, then pause. “May I?”
He gestures with an open hand toward the floor-to-ceiling windows in a way that makes me think I’m not the first to gawk. “Looking is free, photos are ten bucks.”
“Oh, so the Tin Man makes jokes now,” I say, stepping around his desk and walking to the window. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see him check out my legs, my shoes. I carefully try to hide a smirk. And the butterflies.
“Tin Man,” he repeats quietly, standing, though not coming any closer to me as I survey the stunning view of New York City in front of me.
I wave a hand in his general direction without looking his way. “You know. Tall. Thin. Controlled.”
He says nothing for a long minute, though I feel him studying me, and the room suddenly becomes… charged?
No. He has a girlfriend. I have a… pen pal.
We hate each other.
Still, Sebastian surprises me by coming closer, stopping a respectable distance away, but close enough for me to smell his cologne, close enough to feel small next to him.
His left hand slides into his pocket as his right points ahead. “You can’t quite see the sign through the construction scaffolding in front of it, but that’s Bubbles.”
I slowly turn my head to look at him. He hadn’t even hesitated before pointing, as though he’s already scoped it out.
“You were spying on me?”
“Yes,” he says sarcastically. “I hurriedly stashed my telescope in the closet just before you got here.”
His mention of Bubbles & More reminds me why I’m here, and shifting into business mode, I pivot and walk back around his desk.
