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“Oh my God!” a woman’s voice squeaks. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”
2. To Put One’sFistin It
Celine
The rose-gold clock hands on the ivory-white dial of the Daniel Wellington watch on my wrist are showing 8:17 am.
Sighing, I hurry down the stairs to the first floor for the third time to see if my client has finally arrived.
Well, this Mr. Sandman doesn’t exactly make a very good first impression with his lateness.
But to be honest, I’m pretty happy about every minute of delay. After all, today is the first business plan meeting for which I have to take responsibility all by myself.
The fact that Ms. Walter from the reception desk has been absent all week because her twins have an infection doesn’t make the situation any easier. And then, just as I arrive on the first floor, my cell phone informs me of the arrival of a text message with a discreet buzz.
I pull the device out of the pocket of my blazer, unlock it as I cross the foyer, and bounce— “Whoa!” —against something—or someone—standing unexpectedly in the middle of the room.
A clatter rings out. It sounds exactly like the impact of a cell phone on the mirrored floor tiles, accompanied by a groan and—
Was that sloshing liquid?Startled, I take a step back.
Thesomethingturns out to be the back of a tall man wearing a charcoal gray jacket.
Very tall, I correct myself, as I have to crane my neck to look up at the back of his military short-cropped head.
Now he turns, revealing the mess I’ve made.
“Oh my God!”
The liquid I’ve just acoustically identified turns out to be a light brown puddle on the floor.
I let my gaze slide up over sneakers, jeans, and a rippling puddle of latte on the folder of documents in the man’s hands.
My eyes jump up, trying not to look at the sodden fabric stretched across his chest. Desperately searching for purchase, they pin themselves on the paper cup, its rim wedged between even rows of teeth.
“Oh my God!” I catch myself squealing as the man raises his right hand and takes the cup down. Because the face which becomes completely visible by doing so— “Oh my God!” I’ve only ever seen something so even, so perfect on the big screen.Masculine and striking. And at the same time… somehow… boyish.In addition, those full lips, around which a mocking smile is now fluttering. “Oh my God!”
“It’s okay, girl.” He drags out the last word like bubble gum and smirks. “No excessive formality, please. You can call me Philipp, by all means. God isn’t required at all.”
Does the amused glint of his green-speckled gray eyes really promise “…at least not until you land in my bed”? And… Is he puckering his lips as if for a kiss?I blink my eyes. His words should have the same effect on the fluttering in my stomach as cooling water on hard-boiled eggs. But they don’t have. The fact that I’m still breathing, I guarantee, is only due to my professionalism.What a self-righteous asshole! But does that surprise me? Men who look like incarnate pagan gods have presumably, in principle, sold their souls—if they ever even had one—to the devil!Still, I know what I should say. “Excuse me, please! Oh my—” With effort, I suppress the rest. “I am so sorry! Usually, I’m not so clumsy!”
“Mhm.” Suddenly at a loss for words, he bends down and examines his cell phone—which fortunately appears to have survived the fall and impact unscathed. Then he straightens up again and looks down at himself with a resigned sigh.
He takes a deep breath, revealing truly impressive chest muscles under the milk-stained fabric of his formerly immaculate black turtleneck.Think of something else, Celine!“Did you burn yourself? Would you like me to get you something to cool you down…?”
“The coffee was barely lukewarm…”
“Thank Go—!” I swallow the rest. Is there an amused glint in his eyes again? Like earlier, when he acted like I was addressing him as God? “Blessing in disguise,” I say, albeit a little tortured.
“Girl, do you happen to have…” He seems to want to treat me like a little kid.
I mean, it’s bad enough that I, at twenty-five, still get asked for my ID for PG-16 movies at every box office.But shouldn’t my presence here in the office and my business outfit let him know I’m of legal age?
“…spare clothes available?” he continues. “I can’t show up at my appointment in this condition…”
Spare clothes.Something rings in the back of my head at these words. “Yes! Come with me!” By leading him, I hurry to the back, directing him to the staff kitchen. “After work, I always go straight to the gym…” I don’t know what prompts me to share this personal information with him. Probably it’s the hope that the truth will dawn on him and he’ll stop calling me a girl. “I’m sure I can find something that suits you among my sports clothes.”
“Me? You want me to wear something of yours, girl?” His exhilarated snort hits me from behind, as at least he follows me dutifully. “Sorry, but… you’re barely up to my shoulder and as skinny as a stick.”
