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Pardon?I open my mouth but close it without saying anything.Remember, Celine, professionalism is the key to putting your career plan into action!Well, possibly I push the kitchen door shut tighter than necessary behind us.
He stops in the middle of the room and throws the coffee mug into the wastebasket in the back corner. Then he puts his folder and the cell phone on the table before slipping out of his jacket and examining it with narrowed eyes.
I leave him standing there, getting my gym bag from the locker on the back wall.
“…the jacket didn’t get hit,” I overhear, swallowing anotherthank God, although this exclamation would be more than appropriate.
After all, I know from painful experience that even the best dry cleaning cannot remove latte stains. I pile the neatly folded sportswear—freshly washed, of course, otherwise I wouldn’t offer it—onto the bench in front of the lockers. Discreetly, I sort out stretch shorts, leggings, socks, and my sports bra. With the stack of tops in my hand, I turn around and…
…almost topple over backward.
“Oh my God!”Did I just squeal that again?Apparently not, because thank goodness this Philipp’s bare, Y-shaped back—I really need to stop using these phrases!—does not turn around to me. Eager to compose myself again, I swallow several times. But at the same time, I can’t tear my eyes away from the play of muscles under watercolor-paintbox-colored skin.
This… this man is—at least as far as I can see—fully tattooed!Barely a finger’s breadth of normal colored skin between the colorful images that even stretch up his neck.
I feel dizzy and bang against the table, whose modernist metal legs scrape loudly across the tiled floor.
Of course, he turns around. With an amused smile, he scans me with from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.
Careful not to feel my cheeks, which must be glowing bright red, I place the clothes on the edge of the table. I smooth them out where my fingers left creases. “Take your time and see what fits you best. The fabrics have a high spandex content. You’d be surprised how stretchy the items are.”
Dropping the turtleneck carelessly over the back of a chair, he gives me a suggestive look. “Oh, I have a surprisingly vivid imagination.” He paraphrases what I’ve said. Showing a smirk on his darn handsome face, he raises a black crop top. “Damnit!” he hisses, probably meant to be a compliment. “Which way does this go on?”
I suppress a snort, grabbing his turtleneck instead. “I’ll wash this out in the restroom in no time,” I inform him as matter-of-factly as I can. “On this occasion…” I hold up my cell phone, “…I could also apologize to your business partner. After all, the delay wasn’t your fault—I’ll take the blame.”
“Really?” He puts down the crop top and looks at me with a flash in his eyes.
At least, that’s what I’m imagining.Why should he be happy about it?“So, if you just tell me who you’re supposed to meet…?”
“I have a bad memory for names…” He twists his full lips into a regretful grimace, then pulls his papers toward him and plucks off a latte-soaked Post-It. “Unfortunately, the legibility of my handwriting leaves much to be desired.” He studies the note and frowns. “Is this…?” He looks at me almost helplessly. “Is there a Mr. Lechner in this office?”
“No,” I say, leaning back against the door I have closed again. “There is no Mr. Lechner in this place. Here—”
“Or something like that?” he interrupts me. “The L could also be an F, the E a—”
“There is only one Ms. Lechner around here,” I interject. “That’s me. And you…” I walk toward him, my right hand outstretched. “…must be Mr. Sandtmann, then.”
His perfectly cut mouth forms a silentO, but it takes him only a split second to regain his composure. “Ms. Lechner…” He grabs my hand and squeezes it hard.
At least he doesn’t shake it like I’m a fragile porcelain doll. All the men in my work environment treat me like I might break if they so much as close their fingers around my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Lechner.”
Uh-huh. He can use the polite form of address after all.And he scored points with the handshake, too. I’m about to answer him, but he preempts me:
“I think we’re even, then.”
Is he really winking at me?I jut out my chin and give him the Ice bucket Challenge look I perfected at UAS. Now knowing he is my client, it should be clear that we are meeting on a purely professional level. “I’ll give you some alone time… You’ll find me on the second floor, room 204.” Eager to make a dignified exit, I rush out the door, only to find myself leaning against it from outside, almost hyperventilating.
My heart pumps like a Duracell bunny gone wild.
I see red streaks in front of my eyes—which I close tightly—and dull nausea spreads in my stomach.How am I supposed to get through the appointment with this incarnate demigod?Or rather: If it were just about today, I could trust myself to do that.
But for the collaborative development of a business plan, at least eight to twelve two-hour appointments are scheduled!
Oh my Go—I swallow the rest, tighten my shoulders and decide to take it one step at a time. First and foremost, I should make sure I see as little of the client’s body as possible…
…which I’m currently comparing in my mind with my boyfriend’s slight beginnings of a paunch and hunchback.
