Restoring Jordan (5 page)

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.

“Your intelligence remains to be seen, and you may someday be a great designer, but right now, you’re green, darlin’—supergreen. Don’t let your arrogance trip you up. If you want to learn, I suggest you pay attention and grow a thicker skin than you obviously have at the moment. Grow up and stop acting like a wounded puppy.”

At that, he waives the waiter to our table and drops a credit card on the check. He’s pissed, but frankly, so am I. Not for the first time today, I wonder why I should care what he thinks. He’s no one to me. We had sex, and it was quite clear his interest was in nothing more than my body for one night. This is not a man who deserves my concern or care. Who the hell am I kidding? I’m no victim of his whoring. I asked for it, and I got it. But I feel victimized; I’m hurt. There’s no sense to it, and yet the pain is rejection. This realization is unwelcome; it means I’m exactly the same as every other pathetic woman so intent in believing my life is somehow attached to a man—as though his approval should mean anything to me. But it does, and with a swift and overpowering surge of emotion, I decide I’m going to prove him wrong, and I’m going to make him eat his bullshit words.

He stands swiftly to leave, and I fall behind his steps. He’s walking with a brisk pace, his irritation showing in his every swift footfall, and as we near his car he approaches my door. Rather than opening it for me, he pushes me gently but firmly against the door with a strong hand to my hip. His touch is possessive, his eyes are on fire, and I’m certain his harsh irritation has finally cracked. He’s going to touch me, and in all of my irritation and hurt, I want him to. I want him to soothe the pain he’s caused me. I want his hands on my skin and to push away his painful words with them. And as he slips his hand past the lapel of my jacket to my breast, my breath catches audibly, and I stop breathing. And with one final look to my eyes, he destroys me.

There’s a ripping sound, but it’s many long, confusing moments before I can figure out why his intimate touch my body is so craving sounds more like ripping fabric than the gentle kneading of my breast through my shirt, but as he dangles the long, clear, sticky clothing label, announcing I’m a size S in front of my face, I die. He continues to appraise my eyes as I stare at the sticker he now holds in front of me, and with one swift move, he pulls my hand to his, places the sticker in my palm and moves to the driver’s door without a second glance to me. I quickly wad the sticker in my hand and fumble for the door latch. Humiliation is washing over me in tsunami-size waves. I don’t want to be in the car with him, and the irrational childish part of my brain pleads with me to run, but it’s not an option. And sinking into the seat next to him, I look out the window, praying I can restrain the embarrassment and the tears pricking at my eyes in humiliation.

*

I’m not prone to getting pissed off easily, but she managed it in less than thirty seconds. Quite frankly, most people don’t challenge me so openly as she did, but she had no problem firing back at me. What happened to the innocent, sweet fuck from Friday night? Hard to believe this resentful bitch is that same girl. I told her what she needed to know. I don’t sugarcoat anything outside of my bedroom, and she might as well get used to that fact. What does she expect? I’m not here to hold her hand … but God, I wouldn’t mind touching her leg.

She’s sulking beside me in the passenger seat as I return us to the office. I had thought the ride back would be awkward, but my mind has been racing in irritation, and I’ve paid little attention to her whatsoever. But as she crosses her leg away from me, her black skirt riding up a few inches on her thighs, I stop hating her for long enough to fantasize about her. She had no business withholding the fact she was a virgin from me, but at the same time I can understand why she did. Would it have made a difference? I’d like to say the answer to that question is yes, but my cock begs to differ, and as I steal glances at the perfect, smooth, pale skin that peeks out between her knee-high boots and the hem of her skirt, my groin aches in want. I’m hard just sitting next to her in the car as she stares out the window in anger, and I have to concede I want to fuck her. I want to pull over and push that skirt to her tight, little waist and take her body. I want her to submit to my demands and fuck every last ounce of her obstinacy from her mind, but I don’t make a move. I keep my hand on the wheel, guiding the car through the traffic, and once we’re back at Foster’s I park quickly, desperate to get away from her but not wanting to.

I round the car to her door, and as I help her from the car I freeze. She’s been crying, and while she won’t look at me, her eyes are still damp with her tears, and her cheeks are splotchy and red. I humiliated her. I was angry, and rather than sparing her feelings, I let my anger get the better of me, and now seeing her in this state I hate myself.

Her pain is a punch to the gut. I want to touch her. I want to apologize. I want to take the hurt and embarrassment I caused her away, but as I open my mouth to speak she beats me to the punch. “Please stay away from me.”

Her eyes meet mine for the first time since stepping from the car. They are bright with her tears and twinkling from the glossiness. The blue is stunningly clear, and she looks beautiful—hurt but beautiful. And as she turns to leave, she stops and looks back with one final comment. “I’m sorry I lied to you.” And then she’s gone, and I feel like an asshole. More than that, I feel rejected. How the hell did this happen?

Vera has fast become a pain in my ass, and when she approaches me the week following my lunch with Jordan, every muscle in my body tenses. She’s as much a bitch today as she was on my first day here, and when I see her coming I become nervous and jittery in an instant.

“We have a briefings and assignment meeting in the executive boardroom in ten minutes. Stay out of the way and try not to say anything stupid.” In Vera form she turns on her heel and leaves my gaze trailing after her in confusion. I’m guessing the executive boardroom is where I first met the executives, but it surely doesn’t mean I can find my way back there. In a fortunate coincidence, Bridget stops by my cube a few minutes later to see if I’d like to walk with her. Thank God for sweet Bridget, who doesn’t hate me for being
supergreen
.

I haven’t seen, spoken to, or instant messaged Jordan since our lunch, and I’m guessing I’m about to be face to face with the handsome asshole any minute. The butterflies in my stomach are an unwelcome reminder this man still has the ability to stop me in my tracks, get under my skin, and intimidate the hell out of me.

As we enter the room, I hold my breath. Standing quietly against the wall as Vera instructed will be no problem. The expansive table is taken by Foster, the principals, and all the senior-level managers, including the toxic Vera. As she sees us enter, she glares at me but waves me to her side. I have no choice but to pass right by Jordan on my way to Vera, less I circumvent the table in a most out-of-the-way manner, and as I approach the table, rounding the end toward him, his gaze follows me. Vera is sitting two seats down from Jordan on the same side of the table, and when I approach, she speaks.