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She checks her watch. “You, no. As for me, I have seven minutes before I’m late.”
When we’re almost there, her walk transforms into jog, and I hardly break a sweat keeping up with her. I gaze up at her impressive office building, thirty stories of stone and steel, with a mixture of admiration and disdain. This is where she’s been coming every weekday for the past five years, when she could have been in London with me.
Kennedy stops at the revolving doors and turns as if to say goodbye. “Will you be all right on your own? You can always call a taxi to take you back to my apartment.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a keychain. “Do you want to take my key?”
“No need. I’ll meet you here at your building when you get off. What time?”
“Five o’clock.”
“Good morning, Ms. Takahashi,” says the doorman, an older African-American gentleman wearing a smart uniform. He tips his hat to her before gazing curiously at me.
Kennedy returns the man’s smile. “Good morning, Mr. Walker.”
I follow her through the revolving doors into a nicely-appointed lobby.
“Do you want to come up to my office?” she asks me.
“By all means, yes,” I say. “I’d love to see where you work.”
She leads me to the visitor desk and signs me in. I’m given a visitor badge, which I clip to the neckline of my T-shirt.
I follow her through the foyer toward the lift. The doors open, and we step inside. A handful of men wearing bespoke suits huddle together, talking quietly amongst themselves. I gather they’re executives.
“It looks like I’m a bit underdressed,” I whisper to Kennedy.
She smiles. “It’s okay,” she whispers back. “They’d fall all over you if they realized who you were.”
The old boys get out on the eighth floor. We continue up to the twenty-third floor. The lift pings right before the doors open. Kennedy steps out, and I follow.
“Here’s my office,” she says motioning to a modern, wide-open office space. “Wentner Global Financials.”
I glance around the spacious layout. Cubicles are situated in small clusters throughout the floor. There are small seating groups scattered throughout the room. Private conference rooms line the far wall, tables and chairs visible behind glass walls. There’s a short queue in front of what appears to be a coffee shop.
“Not bad,” I say. “Where’s your office?”
She points to one of the clusters of cubicles. “Over there.”
“Good morning, Kennedy,” says a young African-American woman who walks up to us. She eyes me curiously. She’s a few inches taller than Kennedy and dressed in an emerald-green skirt and jacket.
“Oh, hey,” Kennedy says to the young woman. “Lauren, this is Connor. Connor, this is my friend, Lauren. She’s a graphic designer in the marketing department.”
“I’m pleased to meet a friend of Kennedy’s.” As I shake the young woman’s hand, I notice more than a few people standing around staring at us. I’m sure Kennedy must notice it, too.
“Likewise,” Lauren says. She tosses Kennedy a questioning glance before turning back to me. “So, Connor, are you—” She hesitates, and it’s obvious she has no idea who I am.
“Her boyfriend, yes,” I say, getting straight to the point.
Lauren chuckles. “I was going to say, Are you here on business or pleasure? But I guess you answered that.”
I return her smile. “Definitely pleasure.”
Lauren gives Kennedy a look—one that says she’ll be interrogating Kennedy as soon as I leave.
After her friend takes her leave, Kennedy shows me to her cubicle. I’m surprised by how small it is—a desk, office chair, and a computer. If she were working at Carmichael & Son, I’d make sure she had a private office.
After my tour of her workplace, she escorts me back to the lift. Just before I step inside, I take her hand. “I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby at five. Then we’ll go have dinner. Sound good?”
To give her coworkers something to talk about, I raise her hand to my lips and kiss it. “Until then.”
