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5
Fiona
Standing at the glass doors leading into Ivers International, one of the only buildings downtown with more than two stories, I groan into the crisp air for the millionth time, my feet glued in place. I’ve tried moving them, but they’re stuck, physically incapable of taking me inside.
“Fiona, honestly.” My mother’s shoulder bumps into mine as she tries to push me forward, growing more and more agitated by the second. “Sometimes you’re too stubborn for your own good.”
“I’m a Scorpio,” I mutter, my fingers curling around the lip of the Tupperware container in my hands. The red lid creases with the pressure, wrinkling the plastic until I relax. “It’s in my blood.”
“You’re the one who wanted to do this.” She clicks her tongue, palms gripping my shoulders and giving a harsh shove; this time it dislodges me, and I catch the door handle just to keep from falling. “So, go do it. I’ve got to get to brunch with the girls from the gardening club.”
Nerves slosh around in my stomach as I enter the building and cross the lobby. The so-shiny-I-can-see-myself-in-them tiled floor and glass cubicles give the illusion of transparency, despite the nature of the company.
I glance at myself in the elevator doors as I wait for them to open, smoothing my hand over the part separating my French braids, shame spiraling like a tidal wave when I realize how painfully young the hairstyle makes me look.
But I’d been aiming for innocence and subtlety, going against the advice of my two best friends, who’d FaceTimed me before I left the house. Heidi didn’t want me coming here at all, saying it mixed the feminist message of being a strong, unapologetic woman, and Bea had simply suggested I show up naked beneath a trench coat, even after being reminded that my mother was tagging along.
Instead, I paired a burgundy tartan pleated skirt with a black knit sweater and called it a day, figuring that even if I embarrassed myself by coming to the office, I’d at least look good doing so. The braids, though, I’m now realizing, make me look like a slutty schoolgirl, and my palms grow clammy against the plastic container.
When the elevator stops, I step inside, noting that the lobby is pretty much desolate—I wonder if anyone actually even works down here other than the two custodians chatting by the emergency stairwell, or if my father’s penchant for facades extends to the structural integrity of his office as well.
The doors close as I push the button for the top floor, leaning against the wall and trying my best not to focus on the impossibly small quarters, or the fact that the death trap is only being moved by sheer cables and gears.
Technically speaking, they could snap at any moment.
I reach up and pull the hair ties from my braids, letting them fall out, shaking the strands in an effort to alleviate some of the anxiety coursing through me. I’m nervous enough about seeing Boyd Kelly after last weekend, I definitely don’t need the added apprehension.
Jolting to a stop on my floor, the doors slide open, and I try not to scramble from the death trap. My father’s executive level of the building looks a lot like the lobby, except the glass cubicles are replaced by actual offices with blinds barring what’s inside. The whole north wall is closed office doors and expensive, imported artwork from artists my father’s never even heard of, while reception sits out front, separated by another glass wall.
Inhaling a deep breath and ignoring the way my stomach quivers, I suck on my tongue as I approach the blonde behind the desk. I don’t recognize her—last I was here, my father’s receptionist-slash-assistant was a gray-haired woman named Valerie who smelled like roses and motor oil and always wore tights with runs along the sides.
This receptionist is brand new, and the delicate shape of her pretty face, her clear ocean eyes, and tan skin makes my stomach twist in an entirely new way.
Setting the container on the desk, I prop my arms on the ledge and lean over, looking down as she tilts her head toward me. The red silk blouse she has on hangs open on its fourth button, revealing perky, round cleavage that feels inappropriate for the workplace, and I don’t see a ring on her left finger.
“Can I help you?” she asks, flipping her long hair over one shoulder. The name tag pinned to her chest says CHELSEA, and suddenly I loathe everything about her.
I offer an overly sweet smile. “I’d like to see Boyd, please.”
“Mr. Kelly?” She glances at the container, then at me, scanning my face for some sign that I belong here—never mind the family portrait hanging beside my father’s office door, where I’m situated between my brothers and the spitting image of my mother. “I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting. You can wait, though, if you’d like, or I can take a message?”
My eyes narrow. The likelihood of him getting that message is slim, I can tell by the snarky glint in her gaze. “If you’d just tell him I’m here to see him, I guarantee he’ll let me through.”
“I’m afraid that’s against protocol, and Mr. Kelly would likely have my head if I allowed you to interrupt.”
Tension seizes my shoulders, and my hands curl into fists on the top of the cookies. An image of serving Chelsea’s head to Boyd on a platter flashes across my vision unbidden, macabre in nature and completely startling, sending a shiver of unease through my chest.
Clearing my throat, I try again. “Look, Craig Ivers is my dad. Call him and tell him I’m out here, I’m sure he’ll say it’s fine if I go in.”
Her head cocks, a small smirk playing at her mouth. “Unfortunately, Mr. Ivers is at lunch.”
Sure, he is.Sighing heavily, I sag against the tall wooden desk, reaching into my pocket for a piece of bubble gum. Unwrapping the candy, I pop it in my mouth and chew, glancing around the upstairs lobby, noting Boyd’s closed office two doors down.
At least ten feet away, it’s a stretch, especially given the thigh-high boots I’m wearing with their stiletto heels. Still, it’s probably the only chance I’m going to get.
My mother’s words from earlier ring in my head. Go do it.
Extending my hand on an exhale, I pinch the gum wrapper between my fingers. “Do you care to throw this away for me?”
