When four o'clock rolls around and I haven’t done more than answer some emails and tweaked some social media posts for one of my long-standing accounts, I slip away to one of the meditation rooms.
Instead of meditating, I pull up Marion Davies's movieMarrianne. I watch some clips. I mull. I research. I watch an interview with James Earl Jones talking about his own journey.
By the end of the day, I don't feel any closer to a solution. And, frankly, after listening to James Earl Jones speak, I feel a bit stupid. Maybe we all do when faced with the thoughts and ideas of someone that brilliant.
I'm still mulling over my options, lost in my own thoughts, as I pack up my tote bag and head home, only to find myself alone in the elevator with Reid.
How I managed to step into the elevator with one of the most good-looking men in the western hemisphere without tripping over my feet is beyond me. But I'm extremely grateful for my good luck on that front.
He smiles at me as the doors shut. His black hair is so lustrous the overhead lights cast a little shiny reflection off it, and his eyes sparkle with warmth as he smiles directly at me. Hot Jim ain’t got nothing on him.
My belly is somewhere on the floor when he nods at the bank of buttons in front of him. “What floor?”
I open my mouth. My brain fizzles as I meet his intense, dark gaze.
He quirks an eyebrow, and I snap my mouth closed, swallow, and try again.
I'm parked on the first floor in the garage beneath the building. G-1. Simple enough.
Yet I know without even opening my mouth that I'm going to trip over that damnwasound at the beginning of one.
I snap my mouth closed, trapping inside a scream of annoyance. Instead of speaking, I step closer to Reid, edging past him to push the button myself.
The elevator is big enough that he could step back, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches out at the same moment to push the same button, and for a second, our hands brush. Our fingers tangle.
I jerk my hand away, stepping back as the elevator lurches into motion.
“My bad!”
For some reason, those words come easily.
Of course they do. Because the only thing that is possibly more embarrassing than a stutter is overusing 90s lingo.
Reid chuckles.
It's a gentle sound.
My gaze jerks up to see him looking down. His head is ducked, his hands are in his pockets, and his smile seems ... rueful?
He looks up from under a fringe of dark lashes. “I'm the one who should apologize.”
“For,—” Thewasound trips me up again, but this time, without the time pressure, I choke it out. “—w-what?”
His gaze meets mine. “I'm sorry I make you nervous. Matt keeps telling me I need to be less intimidating.”
I blink, unsure how to respond. Unsure how to process the idea that Reid is apologizing to me. That Reid seems to have doubts and insecurities of his own.
A moment later, the elevator opens, and we both step out. Reid stops by a car near the elevator, parked in one of the primo reserved spots.
As he clicks open his door, he says, “Can't wait to see your presentation on Friday.”
What? He ... what? Reid Forester looks forward to something I do? Reid Forester knows who Iam? I want to reply with something witty and clever, like I'd seen Marion do all afternoon in those clips where she faked the confidence and masked her stutter. But did I have it in me?
I nod mutely and hurry off to my car.
The last thing I needed today was to fail to make small talk with my boss, who I may or may not be tremendously embarrassing to in approximately eighty-one hours, by devolving into a wordless heap.
As if our interaction in the elevator wasn't already awkward, me trying harder and failing would be humiliating.
