Restoring Jordan (4 page)

She’s pretty in that cold, harsh, mean sort of way—silky, black hair, which is straight as a board, blunt cut bangs that hit just above her brow, and hair tied back in a neat knot at the nape of her neck. She’s tall and slim, wearing a winter white pantsuit that fits her to a T—not a cuff too long or short, not a patch of fabric that doesn’t skim her silhouette in just the exact way it should. Her nails are manicured with a perfectly lacquered shade of burnt umber. Midthirties perhaps, but it’s hard to tell; her pinched and unfriendly features make it impossible to know for sure.

She turns without a word but with hatred showing clearly on her face, and as she walks down the corridor away from me, I scramble to catch up with her. The building we pass through is amazing. Foster Architectural Design is part of the trendy neighborhood of Lincoln Park. The building is actually two old renovated warehouses linked by a single story addition, and it’s this addition that houses the Human Resources offices, Accounting, and Payroll. A long corridor joins one building to another, and exiting this corridor now, we enter the large open space of one of the historic warehouses. It has stained concrete floors and open ductwork suspended from the ridiculously high ceiling. There is a stationary catwalk-type system of walkways that create an open second floor, where offices can be seen surrounding the exterior perimeter of this enormous room. The windows are all massive arched style that let in plenty of natural light and open to incredible views of the surrounding city. I, however, don’t make it anywhere near the upper level, natural light, or incredible views. Instead, I’m whisked down a corridor of small cubicles and dumped in one that has no view of anything whatsoever and is so obviously reserved for someone of no status.

Vera deserts me without another look and leaves me staring after her wondering what the hell I’m supposed to be doing. What the hell
am
I supposed to be doing? I try to log on to the computer, but that’s too much to hope for. I try to call Kelli, but can’t get out of the phone system, and finally after fidgeting and fretting and allowing my boredom to consume me, I venture away from my quaint little cube buried in the land of cubes—some occupied and some empty. Odd so many of the empty ones are larger, have natural light, and even a view of a window, and yet I’ve been assigned the smallest with no visible natural light whatsoever…

Within moments, I’m lost in a maze of hallways and not one of them leads anywhere of particular interest, but as I round a corner into an open expansive room with an amazing view of the downtown skyline, I freeze midstep. I’ve just walked into a room of six men sitting at a massive boardroom table. The conversation stops instantly as all eyes move to me, and I’m suddenly feeling more underdressed than when I met Vera Bitch and her pristine winter-white pant suit. Instead, I’m standing by in my black pants, white shirt, and gray cardigan I attempted to dress up with a thin black belt. These men, on the other hand, are clad in suits—expensive by the look. And while I’ve not yet had the chance to regard any one of the men in particular, I haven’t missed the many thousand dollars’ worth of expensive wool fabric.

“Please come in. We weren’t expecting company, but since you decided to pay us a visit, you might as well stay.” His words aren’t unfriendly; he’s amused at my interruption, and he appears to be in charge here. He’s handsome but older, and his expression remains calm and good-natured. But it isn’t he who stops me in my tracks as I approach the table; it’s the brutally handsome dark-haired man staring from the opposite side of the table. And while I may not know his name, I do know him. I can’t take my eyes from his, and as I continue to hold his gaze, my breath escapes me in a rush that leaves my mouth hanging open. His composure shows his control and calm, but his jaw tenses with a slight shake of his head. His eyes flit from mine, and I catch the
“fuck”
mouthed silently.

The older man who spoke upon my entrance is watching in amusement, and it’s he who speaks first. “I’m Jonathan Foster. I’m the owner, and you are?” His smile is genuine, and his interest in my presence at Foster’s is likewise.

“I’m … I’m so sorry to interrupt. I just … got lost. I’m … Adeline Parker—the new intern.” I sound terrified, mortified, and I am. I’m the nobody, as my pathetic cubicle has made abundantly clear today, standing in a room of somebodys, and not just any somebodys, but
the
somebodys. As my gaze returns to the unknown stranger who deflowered me a mere three nights previous, he meets my eyes and speaks.

“Adeline, hmm?” and after a long and drawn-out pause, “lovely name,” and his gaze remains on me. The other men in the room all stand and introduce themselves, and when it’s
his
turn, he stands and reaches for my hand. His eyes remain on mine as our hands touch, and he enfolds my small hand in his much larger, masculine grip. “I’m Jordan Ellinwood, Principal of Restorations.” Jordan. My skin tingles and trills at the warmth of his touch, and my mind flashes with memories of his hands, his touch, his mouth on my skin, his intense invasion of my body, and as my mind rewinds to the night we spent together, my gaze drops to his lips. They’re beautiful lips. He never kissed me, and now, in this most inappropriate place, it’s all I can think about.

His hand still holds mine, and as my gaze returns to his, he speaks once more in a near whisper as he releases my hand from our overlong touch. “Adeline.” As the other men in the room eye us with curiosity, Mr. Foster speaks.

“Do you two know one another?”

Yes, we fucked three nights ago. “No.” Sometimes I lie, and Jordan’s raised brow speaks volumes as my gaze returns to his. I’m not sure what his brow is actually saying, but it’s definitely saying something. But he doesn’t out my lie. Instead, he shakes his head with slow deliberation, feigning unfamiliarity of me. This was not supposed to happen. When I regretted I wouldn’t see him again, this wasn’t quite the solution I was imagining, and the unreadable expression on his face has me confused and nervous.

*

How the hell did this happen, and why the hell can’t I stop staring? Adeline. She looks like an Adeline … not that I’ve met any Adelines to know what an Adeline is supposed to look like, but it’s her. The virgin … former virgin, whose name has plagued me for days now—never mind the memories of her that have followed me around these long days since our parting and allowed me no restful sleep. Realizing I’d slept with a virgin was perplexing. I wanted to yell at her. She had no right to put me in that position, but at the same moment, I wanted to see her again—have her again. This is most definitely not a typical response for me; beyond that, it’s unreasonable. I don’t know her. I have no reason to desire her, but I do. And now standing in front of me just as nervous as she was three nights before, all I want to do is fuck her … and maybe yell at her.

She looks out of place. Again, she’s clad in what can only be generic garments, including the same pants I had so much fun removing last week. She looks put together and neat, but her style is lacking in comparison to the style of Foster’s. Her warm chestnut hair is piled on top of her head in a loose bun with long, trailing wisps of hair cascading along the line of her jaw and neck. Her small pink lips are damn near trembling in her nervousness, and her light crystal-blue eyes are wide and terrified. Her jewelry looks as cheap as her delicious perfume smells. Yet, I want her. The why is unclear, but my God, the want is undeniable and strong. Were I alone with her, I’m not at all certain I could stop myself from touching her. One-night stand or not, this one has left a mark.

It’s impossible of course, especially now. I’m a principal, and she’s an intern—nepotism clause bullshit, but the rules are the rules, and even if there were no rules, a one-night stand is just that. This will no doubt complicate the next few months of my life, but still, I’m now looking forward to this time with a much-improved outlook. She will definitely be fun to have around, even if I can’t fuck her.

As she makes her escape with one last glance over her shoulder to my eyes, I let my gaze trail after her. Her tight little tush is a joy to see leaving, and even clothed in black I can imagine the small cheeks moving sweetly with every step she takes. Once away from me again, my mind refuses to think about anything but her, and once I’m finally set free from my obligations to the other principals and Foster, I’m pissed when I finally manage to locate her pathetic little cubicle buried in cubicle land and she’s gone for the day.

Well, I won’t be caught dead so underdressed again—least of all with the dear Mr. Ellinwood around. This is what I get for thinking a one-night stand was a good idea. Serves me right. My mother would kill me, my father would disown me, and yet I plunged headlong into this catastrophe with enthusiasm usually saved for my studies. Celebration gone wrong, that’s what it was. But there was nothing wrong at all with him—just me. I’m the pathetic one who so cluelessly walked into this disaster, thinking I knew what I was doing.

I certainly don’t intend to be seen by him and his colleagues and their power suits looking so ridiculous. The moment I walked into the building I was out of my league. Whatever education I may have garnered, it did not prepare me for these people. I’m like orphan Annie meeting Daddy Warbucks for the first time—so very out of my depth.

Kelli picks me up almost as soon as I walk through the door of my apartment after a hasty and desperate call begging for her shopping expertise. If anyone can make me look good, it’s Kell. She always looks like a model, and while I’ve never cared to put so much thought into my appearance, I’m finally most appreciative of her gift for beauty. She will be thrilled. She’s been waiting for four years now for me to jump on her bandwagon of good taste. It’s not as though I have bad taste; I’m studying to be a designer after all. It’s just always been an expense I couldn’t afford, and I chose my studies instead. I thrift shopped, bargain-bin dove, and coupon hoarded my way into a wardrobe that worked … just not up to par in a place like Foster’s.

Two hours later, we’ve had dinner and found me three tailored jackets, four new pairs of slacks, five blouses, and a new pair of pumps. Every last piece can be mixed and matched, and if I’m lucky, I won’t ruin anything before the end of my time at Foster’s, for I surely can’t afford to replace any piece of my new wardrobe. It isn’t terribly expensive clothing but more than I typically spend. As it is, I spent nearly a month’s rent on these clothes, and it will be hard enough to get by until I graduate and can get a job making actual money, or more likely, run home to my parents broke.

Exhausted, I quickly hang all of my new garments in my closet and collapse into bed, but I don’t sleep. Instead, I think about him. I never imagined I would see him again, and as much anxiety as the idea of tolerating his presence for the next few months causes me, I’m also excited. He makes me nervous, especially now. It was one thing to give my body to this man, who knew nothing about me and would never see me again, but now he’ll be around all the time. He knows my name, and he’ll be witness to me fumbling my way through this new and terrifying chapter of my life, and when it comes to fumbling, I tend to be great at it.

Dressing the next morning, I am marginally more confident than my previous day left me. I’m still terrified of running into him, but at least I feel better about my appearance; it’s a start at least. Entering the building and finding my way to my cubicle, I’m happy to find a man from IT already at my desk, getting me logged on and up and running. Once he’s gone, I log into Outlook and explore the different programs. They use one of the most robust programs on the market for design, and the oversize, wide-screen, high-definition monitor is amazing. I worked with software and hardware of this caliber at Columbia, and I’m relieved I’ll at least know my way around the applications of Foster’s even if I can’t find my way around the building without throwing myself headlong into boardrooms I’m ill equipped to handle.

After I’ve had time to familiarize myself with my cubicle, a bubbly but quite nerdy young woman pokes her head in and introduces herself as Bridget. She’s sweet, and she’s the first person I’ve met here I’m not intimidated by in some way. Bridget shows me around some more, and I discover the two buildings that make up Foster’s serve to divide the two divisions of the firm. The long hallway that contains the accounting department, payroll department, and human resources links the two renovated warehouses. The opposite building from the one I’m located in is devoted to the architects of the firm, including Mr. Foster, Jordan, and most of the other principals. Our building is reserved for the interior design division of the firm. Only one principal comes from the interiors department, and like most combined architectural and interior design firms, the management of projects falls squarely on the shoulders of the architectural division. More or less, interior designers rank lower on the totem pole than architects—perhaps a throwback to the division of the sexes from years past. How this translates to me, I will be working with and trained largely by the interiors division, but any project I work on will be managed and at the very least overseen by the architects.

As I pry information out of Bridget on our way to tour the sample room, I hope my interest sounds casual.

“So I met some of the principals yesterday and Mr. Foster. Will I be working for any of them do you suppose?”

“Well sure, but you’ll be managed by Vera, and trust me, she won’t let you get too involved with the architects.” A slight stab of disappointment even as relief washes over me.

“So which architects work with the intern?” I must sound like an idiot, overly eager for information, but Bridget seems not to notice.

“Residential is a good place for interns to start, and that is led by Strahm. Commercial usually doesn’t involve interns too much; the scale is just too vast for an intern to really dig into during the course of half a semester, and then there’s Mr. Ellinwood. He heads up restoration. Frankly, it’s a great place for interns to work, but he never allows interns on his team—doesn’t like working with them for some reason.” Now it’s a shade of hurt that passes over me—just another ridiculous emotional response that makes no real sense whatsoever, but there it is. I won’t be working for the good Mr. Ellinwood. I should likely be happy about this. I acted like a blithering idiot when I ran into him in the boardroom; I cannot fathom having to constantly tolerate his presence that seems only to make me quake in my cheap pleather boots.