Tara came over to me as I was picking through the plain rice cakes and little packets of something called chickpea butter.
"I have a marketing meeting," she told me. "You need to prep conference room 25-T."
"Sure," I said, taking the pasta out of the microwave.
Tara looked disgusted as I stirred the neon-orange food. "You aren't a good fit for this company. If I were you, I would consider finding somewhere else to work and bowing out gracefully."
"I am going to prove that I am an invaluable member of this organization," I bluffed. Truth be told, I figured Mace would have me out of there by tomorrow evening. "I'll have that room ready to go," I told her.
I grabbed my bag and filled a container with trace paper, card stock, and boxes of pens and markers from the supply closet near Mace's office. Balancing my bowl of breakfast pasta on the plastic container of brainstorming material, I walked to the conference room. Except I couldn't find it.
"The map says it's supposed to be here," I muttered. I set down the container and sat down on it, taking bites of pasta and contemplating the floor plan that had been included in my welcome packet.
"What are you doing?"
"Hey, boss!" I said to Mace. He walked around my impromptu seat to stand directly in front of me. I had to crane my neck up to see him. I tried not to make a comment about how my head was strategically at crotch height to him. Probably best to keep that to myself.
"Just trying to find a conference room."
"You're eating pasta."
"Wanna bite?" I asked, offering the bowl to him. "I think it's organic. I bought it at that hippie general store down the way."
"I told you only healthy food is allowed in this facility."
"Pasta is healthy!" I told him.
He held out his hand.
"Seriously?"
"It's company policy," he said, half smiling at me.
I put the bowl in his hand, and he tossed it into a nearby trash can.
"That was my only bowl!" I yelled at him, running to the silver bin.
"Don't," he ordered, grabbing me and wrenching my hand back just as I was about to stick it into the large metal trash can.
I stared up at him, feeling apprehensive. I didn't think Mace was the physically violent type, just the glaring, broody type who loomed around corners and broadcasted his disapproval.
"It's a compacting trash can," he said softly, releasing me. "It could have crushed your hand."
"Oh. Well, thank you for saving my hand." I swallowed. "You should probably not have those things just lying around. Sounds like a liability issue."
"There's a huge sign on the front of the trash can"—he pointed—"and one on the wall behind it. It's never been a problem until now."
"Great. As always, it's been a productive conversation, but I have to prep a conference room."
He stood there silently as I picked up my box, said a little prayer, and picked a direction.
"This seems right," I said, feeling sweaty as I walked away from Mace. My body echoed with the sensation of his large hand on my arm and the heat from his body.
I looked at the door numbers in the short hallway. Where was the conference room? I turned a corner and saw Mace standing there expectantly. Fuck. I was right back where I started.
"Are you lost?" Mace asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.
"Nope," I said. "Just enjoying some exercise."
