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“He’s replied already!” I choke out.
“Refresh the screen.”
“I can’t. I’m paralyzed.”
Fi takes the phone from me and reads aloud.
One percent commission and no hourly rate. If you think your feng shui is that strong, prove it. :) As for clothing, we can be flexible.
“Oh, ho ho!” Fiona crows. “He’s a crafty one, isn’t he?”
A surge of adrenaline rips through me.
Deal, I type.
“Mal!” Fi’s mouth is open in shock. “You need guaranteed money. You can’t control whether a house gets sold or not. One percent of nothing is–”
I hit Send.
“One percent of nothing is nothing to lose,” I tell her. “He thinks he’s so smart? He thinks he has all the power? I’ll show him.”
See you tomorrow, he says, giving me his office address.
“I think I have a job,” I whisper.
“I think you have a masochistic streak.”
“Same thing.”
Chapter Seven
I can’t quite catch my breath.
It’s my first day at my new job working for Will, and I forgot about the fringe benefits. I may not be an employee, technically–just a contractor–but my, my, my, does Will look so fine in that suit.
He’s on his phone and angled away from me, face turned up to the arched ceilings that soar as high as my pulse right now. It’s summer, so he’s wearing a lightweight tan suit, the kind that looks really good on models in Nordstrom’s ads but horrible on everyone else.
Unless you’re Will Lotham.
If Tom Brady became a supermodel like his wife and started doing Ralph Lauren ads, he’d be one tenth as hot as Will right now. White dress shirt open at the neck. No tie. Tan suit, dark brown leather shoes, and patterned socks, a flash of color peeking out from under his pants cuff. A leather belt the same shade as his shoes bisects his body, the flat abs a wall of yummy goodness as he pivots, turning his body to write something down on a notepad.
In a flash, sunlight glints off the pen he’s using, a silver pen in a hand that moves gracefully.
“Mmm hmm. Yes. No. Ten percent. Deliverable is fine,” he says as I stand there, suddenly awkward. I move, just enough to make a sound so he knows I’m here. Will looks over, waves, and turns back to his call.
No smile. But I’m mature enough to know his lack of a smile has nothing to do with me.
Um, right?
He’s wearing reading glasses, perched on the bridge of his nose the way people who haven’t worn glasses most of their life balance them. Whoever he’s speaking with has his full attention. He doesn’t notice that I’m watching him.
Out of the blue, a grin spreads across his face, making him change from a hard-edged business executive to a carefree, sigh-able man. He’s all ease and achievement, relaxed and unwaveringly stoked. The energy in the room changes so fast.
And now he’s ending the call.
The downtown headquarters of The Lotham Group turns out to be in a former yoga studio. Brass elephants line a very high shelf that runs a few feet below the tall ceilings in a room painted in purple and mustard tones that make my trigeminal nerve do the samba. The place is clearly not finished, giving off the feel of an office in limbo. They’ve either just moved in or are preparing to move out.
I close my eyes. I let the feeling find me. There it is. The space tells me.
