“How’s everything going over there?” I ask when another minute ticks by.
“It’ll be just another minute.”
“Promise?” My laugh comes out awkward.
Bea smiles, completely oblivious to my desire to move this process along. I’m Tom Cruise suspended from the ceiling trying to go undetected in a room full of sensors.
True to her word, a minute later she stands to grab something from her printer. “We’ll just wait for Mr. St. Clair to finish with his meeting so he can sign it and you’ll be good to go.”
My hopes of picking up the check undetected are dashed.
“Oh, is that necessary?” I ask, checking my watch to indicate a time constraint. I’ve been here for five minutes; it feels like a lifetime.
“Mr. St. Clair is the only one who can sign the check.” She shows me the blank signature line with Barrett St. Clair, President and CEO underneath.
“I’m sure you’ve had to sign his name a time or two, yeah?” I wink. Because what’s a little forgery for a good cause? The money is for the kids, but the good cause is me not having to see Barrett. I could probably sign it myself. Just draw two horns and a pitchfork.
Bea leans into me, conspiratorially. “I did have to sign his name for the company holiday card once when he was out of town and the cards had to make it to the printers that afternoon.”
See? Maybe I can convince Bea to use her power for good. Hope blooms in my chest, but before I can press her further, my phone buzzes in my purse. My phone never rang, but it appears I have a voicemail.
“Would you excuse me a moment?” I ask Bea, then turn away from her desk.
I click play to hear it.
“This message is for Chloe, this is Angelica calling from Le Pavillon to confirm the private party room for your sixteen guests on Friday…”
I’m listening to the message when the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. The sound of size twelve wing tips striding toward us ratchets up my pulse. Even on carpet, his footfalls echo ominously. And because every villain has a theme song, somewhere an imaginary speaker system pipes in Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice.”
The instinct to not leave my back exposed has me dropping my phone into my purse and turning around.
Barrett’s approach feels like it’s in slow motion. His dark hair is thick and wavy, the kind of hair your hands could get lost in. It’s styled meticulously, not a hair out of place. I doubt he ever has bed head because robots don’t sleep. His hazel eyes, the same as JoAnna’s, are framed by long, dark lashes. Lashes that any woman would kill for and are completely wasted on a man. Perfect nose, square jaw—you know the type.
While I’m aware of his facial features, I try to keep the details of Barrett’s body out of my mind. He’s not just a floating head, so I know he has one. It’s been covered in a suit every time I’ve seen him. A suit that fits over broad shoulders and a trim waist. There’s no need to go into details about the fit of his pants over his muscular thighs or the way they hug his firm ass. We won’t even discuss the slight bulge at the front of his pants that I most definitely do not ever squint to see better.
He's the kind of man that you could stare at for hours imagining all the filthy things he might say to you, but when he opens his mouth to speak, he inevitably ruins everything.
“What are you doing here?” Barrett asks, barely stopping before we’re toe to toe.
I silence the call and drop my phone into my purse.
“Ms. Anderson came by to collect the check for the Books 4 Kids fundraising event,” Bea volunteers, lifting said check in Barrett’s direction.
I’m still as a statue, a tight smile plastered to my face. Just sign the check, I want to say through my teeth. Barrett glances at the check, then back to me. While his hazel eyes bore into me, his expression is unreadable.
Without a word, he takes the check from Bea and walks into his office.
“Mr. St. Clair will see you now.” Bea nods encouragingly, then ushers me toward his office door.
I don’t want to be seen. I want to collect the check and skedaddle. Barrett could have signed the check and carried on without a word. But, that’s not his style. He likes silence, but only as a form of torture. To make the other person squirm. My defense tactic is to talk enough for the both of us.
“Wow, I really like what you’ve done with the place,” I announce, as I take in the entirety of his office. Empty shelves, blank walls. It looks like he’s been here seven minutes, not seven years.