Ezra whistles, low and under his breath. “Mr. Sinclair isn’t exactly the sharing type.”
If the article is correct, which I assume it is since he willingly did it, Beck didn’t use any of his family’s money to fund his start-up. In fact, he talks about working odd jobs around campus just to earn funds for the company. He eventually talked some fraternity friends into investing in his vision before building the company from the ground up. Knowing this information unnerves me for some reason. I imagined Beck having the same entitlement and silver spoon that his brother did. Carter has never worked a job that didn’t pay him above six figures. A nice modest livable wage was beneath him. His words, not mine.
The article doesn’t go into any detail on why Beck didn’t just have his father invest in the company. I’ve met his dad, and he seemed like a good guy—especially for someone so rich. He treated me kindly and didn’t talk down to me; not even when he was fishing for questions on who my family were and where I came from. It never felt like he thought any less of me with his line of questioning, it just seemed he genuinely wanted to get to know me.
“Interesting.” I hand the magazine back to him, remembering the title of the article so I can search it online later tonight. Now I’m wondering what else I don’t know about Beck.
I push all my questions about who he is to the back of my mind. Plastering on a smile, I tilt my head toward the gallery, as Beck would call it. "I’m ready to head in whenever you are.”
Ezra doesn’t say anything. Like Beck, he seems to be a man of few words. I follow him into the elevator, my mind reeling with questions on Beck. I’d always imagined his dad was a big reason why he had the company, but I’ve learned that’s not the case. There’s got to be so much more I don’t know about him, but I’m dying to find out.
My mind is lost the entire ride to the building. Even my phone ringing multiple times in my purse doesn’t pull me from my thoughts. The only thing that finally breaks me free is Ezra putting the car in park and turning around to look at me.
“Beck said you’d need to stop here first.” I look out the window, finding a coffee shop with a navy blue awning.
I shake my head, grabbing my purse from the seat next to me. “Off I go to get him caffeine so he isn’t grumpier than his typical Beck grump self.”
This makes Ezra belt with laughter. He claps his palm against the steering wheel before opening the door and loping around the car. My door opens, a grin still wide on his face. “I think you’ll be good for him, Margo,” he states plainly.
I step out, careful not to twist my ankle in the process by the height of my heels. “You’re only saying that because I’m getting his caffeine for the day.”
The returning look from Ezra is one that I can’t quite read, but I don’t have the time either. He’s shutting the door and heading back to the driver’s side before I can say anything else. “See you later!” he yells, hopping into the car.
I join the line of fellow New Yorkers all waiting for a coffee. It feels refreshing, to be back in the hustle and bustle of the city. In LA, people act like they don’t give a shit about you but stare at you and judge you. In New York, people act like they don’t give a shit about you because they truly don’t. Everyone in line is so preoccupied with their own lives, they don’t have time to judge mine.
The woman in front of me looks like she is leaving a spin class, or maybe I’d peg her more as the hot yoga type. Whatever it is, she holds her head high as she stands in a mass of people who all wear business attire.
My phone vibrates again. Knowing I have a few minutes before it’s my turn to order, I pull it out. Excitement runs through my veins when I see the notification is another email from Beck. I’m liking the thrill of wondering what he responds back with a little too much for someone who shoved him away yesterday when he so clearly wanted more. More meaning me pinned underneath him as he did every single dirty thing he’d promised he’d do to me.
From: [email protected]
My meeting is over, yet I have no assistant here and no coffee.
These are both problems.
Beck
From: [email protected]
When I told you to dress to impress, I still meant you needed to show up to work.
My patience is wearing thin.
Beck
The second email comes in less than a minute after the first.
I begin to type a response back to him, but I realize it’s probably better to make him wait. He can sit and stew in his conference room a bit longer, wondering where both his assistant and his coffee are. I’m determined to do a good job at being his assistant, wanting to earn the large paycheck I’ll now be receiving, but I can’t help but toy with him a little. He makes it too easy. It’s too fun to make him actually show emotions.
When I get to the counter, I order both Beck and I coffee. I bite back a smile when I add a little extra to his. Not a lot, but just a tiny little something extra to spice up his boring coffee order.
The baristas are quick. In no time, I have my coffee and I’m ready to head into work. I delicately balance the drink carrier between my hands as I walk down the street. Beck hadn’t been wrong when he’d mentioned how close the coffee shop was to the office. That was probably the reason that so many people in business suits waited in line. I bet a lot of them work in the same office as me, or one of the towering buildings next to it.
Tom gives me a huge smile as I pass by his desk on my way to the elevators. I walk up to the counter of his desk and gently set the coffees on the lip, careful that I don’t spill anything. Reaching into my purse, I grab a small pastry bag from inside. I set it on the tall counter in front of me, sliding it across to him.
“I thought you might be hungry,” I explain, as Tom’s eyes light with excitement. “It’s no homemade bread or anything.”
“It’s perfect, Miss Moretti.” He opens the bag with enthusiasm, pulling the scone out and admiring it.
“How’d you know the bacon cheddar was my favorite?”
I shrug. “It was a wild guess.”
“You were already on my good side, but I appreciate you thinking of me this morning, Miss Moretti.”
My hand waves dismissively before grabbing my coffee again. “Catch you later?” I ask, taking a few steps back.
“Don’t let Mr. Sinclair be too hard on you,” he responds.
“I’d never.” I turn and walk to the elevators, waiting with a fairly large group of people to go up.
My phone alerts with another message from my bag, but I don’t risk freeing one of my hands to reach and grab it. The last thing I want to do is spill the coffee floors away from the person it’s intended for.
People spill out of the elevator as we climb higher and higher, stopping frequently to let people off. Eventually, we make it to the floor I need.
My stomach rolls a little with nerves as I take a step off the elevator. What do I do if Beck is currently in a meeting? Do I just stand awkwardly? Wait in his office? He hadn’t really filled me in on what to do once I got here other than give him his coffee, of course.