Page 2 of Wrecked

She checks her computer screen and nods as she hands me a clip-on badge. “Wear this in the building. Mr. McIntyre’s office is on the twentieth floor, in the executive suite. It’s clearly marked. Look for the glass wall.” She points behind herself to abank of elevators. “You can go on up. His admin’s name is Mrs. Hughes. Check in with her first.”

“Will do.” I clip the badge on my shirt. “Thanks.”

As I walk past her desk, I catch her following me with her eyes. I get that a lot from women.

Sorry, sister. You’re barking up the wrong tree.

I take the elevator up to the twentieth floor and step out. Right across from me is an impressive glass wall, just like she said. The wordsSHANE MCINTYRE, CEOare etched in the glass door.

I catch sight of an older woman with short white hair smiling as she waves at me from behind a desk. I walk inside.

“You must be Mr. Harrison,” she says with a bright smile. “The security desk downstairs called to say you were on your way up.”

“Yes, ma’am. I have an appointment—”

She laughs, the sound soft and light. “Oh, please. Call me Diane. You’re right on schedule.” She points to a partially open door to my left. “That is Shane’s office right there. He’s expecting you, so go on in.”

I nod. “Thank you, ma’am.” She’s about to say something when I correct myself. “I mean, Diane. Is it okay if I leave my bag here with you?”

“Of course, dear. You can set it down right where you are.”

When I reach the CEO’s door, I pause a moment to take a deep breath and center myself.Relax, you’ve got this.Then I knock.

“Come in!” calls a male voice.

I push the door open and walk into an impressive corner office. The man seated at a desk in front of a huge bank of windows overlooking N. Michigan Avenue is younger than I expected. I’d put him in his mid-thirties. With short brown hair,a trim beard, and bright blue eyes, he’s a damn fine-looking man.

I feel so underdressed seeing that he looks like a million bucks in a charcoal gray suit and a white dress shirt open at the collar.

I take another deep breath. “Mr. McIntyre—”

“Call me Shane, please.” He waves me into the room. “We don’t stand on formality here. You must be Sam.”

Shane stands and extends his hand over his desk. I step forward, and we shake.

He gestures to the pair of black leather chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat, please.”

As I sit, I scan his desk, trying to get a better feel for him. The desk top is clean and uncluttered. In addition to a laptop, there’s a large calendar blotter, an ashtray filled with paperclips, a plain black stapler, and a coffee cup filled with ink pens. On the walls of his office are a series of impressive photographs of Chicago, featuring everything from the nighttime skyline to Wrigley Field to The Bean in Millenium Park and the iconic Lake Shore Drive that meanders along the shore of Lake Michigan.

Looking perfectly relaxed, Shane leans back in his black leather office chair. “So, Sam.” He meets my gaze directly. His eyes are a surprising shade of bright blue. “First of all, thank you for your service.”

I nod. “Thank you, sir.”

He smiles. “That’s not necessary. Shane will be fine.”

“Right. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

He chuffs. “Yeah, I remember.”

“You served, too?”

Shane nods. “Marines.” He grins. “I’m tougher than I look. Now, let’s get to the matter at hand. Do you think you’d be interested in personal protection, namely being a bodyguard?”

I nod. “I would. I think I’d make a good bodyguard. I have all the skills listed in your job opening.”

Shane frowns. “I’m sorry about your accident.”

Of course, that would have to come up.