Page 4 of Selfish Suit

I stop under the overhang, shaking rain off my sleeves as I mash out a reply:

Walking in now. Thank you for your PATIENCE.

This building is directly across from my job, and if I’d known that, I would’ve never accepted this order. I learned long ago not to accept any orders from the men on Wall Street.

They’re stingy with their tips, and they actually flirt with me as if I should be honored to deliver their food.

I push through the revolving doors, dripping all over the marble floor as I flash a weak smile at the security guard.

“Delivery for a D.S?” I’m just noticing there are only initials on the order. “Does that stand for Double Asshole?”

He gives a blank stare.

“Can you tell him to come downstairs and get his order, please?”

“You can take it to him yourself.” He waves me through the entrance. “Floor 61. The boardroom on the right.”

“Thanks.” I head to the elevator and catch a glance of myself in the glass doors.

Not one of my best days…

The ride up is deathly quiet, just me, the soft hum of the elevator, and the faint scent of pasta wafting through the bag.

The doors slide open to reveal a hallway of silence and black marble, and I head to my right where a matte black door waits.

I knock.

Nothing.

I knock again, even louder.

Still nothing.

Screw it.

I push the door open and step into a space that looks more like an art gallery than an office. Clean lines and glass walls peek out beneath huge silver-framed portraits on the far wall. Through the windows ahead, the Manhattan skyline stretches endlessly in the distance.

At the center of it all—behind a desk the size of my first dorm room—sits the man responsible for all the chaos in my phone.

Dressed in a dark suit and white shirt with no tie, he’s sporting a diamond watch and a clenched jaw I can see from his side profile.

I can also see that he’s too damn good to turn around in his chair.

“Sorry about the delay,” I say. “I had a lot of orders and traffic was brutal.”

He doesn’t move.

“Um, is it okay if I place your food on this table, or…” I usually like to give it to the person in hand so they can’t claim they never received it, but I’m about to make him my first exception.

“Hello to you too, asshole,” I mutter. “You’re welcome.”

“Excuse me?” He turns in his chair, and my stomach pitches.

“What did you just say?”

“I…” My breath catches. I’ve seen this man up close two times before—once in our company magazine, and once on a brochure when I was being written up.

Dominic Sutton.

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