As we enter the sample room housed in the corner of the second floor off the main catwalk system, I forget instantly about Mr. Ellinwood, or at least I stow him to the back of my mind for the time being. I’m in heaven. There are worktables aplenty, and walls and shelves, and bins of everything from wood samples, finish samples, flooring samples, paint samples, and fabric samples. There are light boxes set up around the room, and project boards lining an entire wall with various samples affixed. I could live here, and as I pass by a rod of fabric swatches, letting my hand pass over the expensive fabric, excitement runs through my body. Some of these fabrics cost more than a thousand dollars a yard. I am definitely way in over my head, but I don’t mind drowning in it here. The room is so vast, but also organized to a T. It’s for the use of all designers, and where most projects end up. Every vendor in the world wants their product to end up in a room like this where it can be easily picked and chosen for one project or another, and there is never a shortage of new product samples coming in. And that is where Bridget comes in.
She is the office and inventory manager. It’s her responsibility to ensure all the samples stay in workable usable organization. She is the organization that keeps this part of the company moving smoothly. The fact she is friendly and easy to talk to makes me like her all the more.
When I finally return to my desk after exploring and daydreaming in the sample room for half an hour, my instant messaging notification box is lit. When I open it, I still, my heart starts racing, and a warmth floods through my groin.
“Meet me in the lobby at noon. Lunch.” Bossy jerk.
“I don’t eat.” Two can play at this game, but even as I type, my excitement builds and a smirk pulls at my lips. He may have caught me off guard the day before, but with the safety of my cubicle walls, the internal e-mail system and an entire building between us, my confidence is quite healthy for a change; it doesn’t hurt I’m now dressed appropriately for Foster’s. That alone is worth the few hundred dollars it cost me.
“Damn Catholics at Lent. Well I do eat, and you can watch me.” I smile at his sarcastic response, and as the minutes tick off the clock I check my mirror, check my hair, straighten my clothes, but I feel good about my appearance today. I’m wearing a black pencil skirt with my knee-high boots, a new silver-and-black striped fitted blouse under a coordinating gray jacket. I’ve pulled my hair back in a knot that sits at the side of my neck, and loose strands fall over my opposite shoulder. I at least look like I belong here, even if I don’t actually belong, and as I grab my deep, structured, red, patent-leather tote—borrowed from Kell of course—I’m confident.
I enter the lobby, and he’s already waiting. It’s chilly out today, and as he helps me into my belted peacoat, his fingers brush across my shoulders. Even through the fabric of my suit jacket and blouse, there’s a prickle where his touch has innervated my skin. I follow him from the building to his car, already warm and waiting at the curb. As he opens the door for me, and I sink into the warm leather seats, I’m taken back to Friday night. I can still see his hand stroking my thigh as he steered his car easily through the downtown Chicago traffic. Now, however, he keeps his hand to himself and his eyes on the road as he pulls from the curb.
As excited as I was he wanted to take me to lunch, I lurch and gasp at his first words, and more than that, the harsh and serious tone of his voice as he speaks to me.
“Do you think perhaps you should have told me you were a virgin?” He’s accusing, and frankly, he has every right to be. I should have known he’d be upset when he realized what he’d done to me—hell, what I more or less tricked him into doing—but he raises a good point; should I have told him? He wanted a one-night stand. How much of me did he really deserve?
“Perhaps you should have asked my name. Perhaps you should have asked anything about me at all, perhaps you should have asked any one of a million questions you could have asked if you had a mind to know!” I’m accusing too. He wanted a one-night stand, and he got it. But wasn’t that what I wanted too?
“And you weren’t seeking your own anonymity? Huh?” He must be reading my mind. “I made it clear I didn’t want any involvement with you.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised I withheld my personal business from you!” Now I’m getting pissed—or is it hurt?
“If I’m too old for booty calls, I’m sure as hell too old to be fucking virgins. You should have had some schmuck your own age help with your little … agenda.” And then in a quiet voice that borders on a whisper and softens his face in an instant, he continues, “I could have hurt you.” His eyes glance to my own that are now still and without doubt showing my guilt as his own face registers some unknown turmoil.
“Well it’s something of a moot point now, isn’t it?” I mutter. It isn’t really a question.
“That’s for certain.” His words sting with the smack of rejection, but this rejection is hardly a surprise. So, why do I care?
We are silent on the remainder of the drive to the restaurant. He’s taken us to Alinea, a place I could never afford and intimidates me as much as Foster’s, and after he parks and rounds the car to open my door, I’m still very much coursing with irritation, hurt, and absolute confusion I care. When he pulls the door open and offers me a hand to stand, I accept, struggling to meet his eyes though his steady gaze is on me, and as we’re seated at our table my body still bristles with anger.
We manage to almost make it through lunch without returning to our negative conversation of before—almost. But when I make the mistake of asking him why he doesn’t like working with interns, our meal suddenly sours.
“I don’t have time for design interns.” He says it simply as though there is no question to the factuality of what he says.
“You say that like being an interior designer is a crime.”
“No, I say it like being a design intern is a waste of my time.” His eyes are serious, and he believes every word he says.
“But we’re free labor,” I try.
“Free? Nothing’s free in this world, dear Adeline. What in God’s name makes you think that? The principals you will work under will be forced to double-check every last choice you make; they will have to babysit you when they ought to be doing their own work. You will be the most necessarily micromanaged person in this company, and someone will be saddled with all that time and effort on your behalf.” And with a very literal tongue in cheek, he shakes his head before continuing. “I’m being rude. Welcome to Foster’s, Adeline.” He’s not just being rude; he’s being a sarcastic dick. “Regardless of what a pain in the ass you’ll be, it will be a good experience for you.”
He’s an asshole—a very nice-looking asshole, and this conversation has just taken a nosedive. “I’m top of my class, and I’m smart. I don’t need to be babysat by arrogant architects and bitchy designers!” What was supposed to belie confidence ends up showing my resentment instead, but my blood is boiling at his words, and I’m failing to restrain my feelings in any way. He’s a jerk, and he doesn’t know me at all, but my pathetic, juvenile words have failed to sink in as he continues, his irritation starting to show.