Page 33 of Broken Headboards
Chapter Thirteen
Tess
“Sorry, ma’am, this one’s full,”the man tells me, repeatedly pressing the button on the elevator panel, trying to get the doors to close again.
I look at him, hands folded over my chest, and grit my teeth as I recognize the logo on his polo shirt—Oakmont. Of course, instead of using the cargo elevators, reserved for specific shit like this, Austin had to make sure all elevators were packed with his furniture haulers right before the meeting started.
He knew everyone else would take the service elevator, and so he made sure that the ones meant for the residents were all busy. All just so he could mess with me. Of course, by now even the service elevators are all full, the employees from all the other companies going up and down as they haul their stuff.
I decide to wait for a bit, and try to squeeze myself inside of a service elevator, but none comes. Tapping my foot against the floor, I try every single elevator around me. Of course, none of them responds. To top it all off, I only have ten minutes left before the damn meeting starts. And I’ll be damned if I’ll show up late. I won’t give Austin the satisfaction.
The stairs it is, then.
I sigh heavily as I head toward the stairs, groaning as I make a mental count of the hundreds of steps separating me from the conference room floor. But I do it all the same, one step after the other.
By the time I get to the right floor, I already have a few locks of hair plastered to my forehead, my calves screaming from the effort. Think I’m being too dramatic? Well, you try climbing fifteen stories worth of stairs on your stilettos.
What I see when I finally get to the top of the stairs makes my jaw drop.
“That motherf—”
“What’s the matter? You look a bit disheveled, Tess.” I turn around on my heels to face Austin, and then my gaze returns to all the freaking pallets leaning against every single elevator door on this floor. Just to make sure there wouldn’t be a single elevator I could use, Austin waited till all the furniture was up here and then stuck the pallets against the doors, jamming them.
I wonder how many years a person has to serve for manslaughter.
“I should kick your ass right now,” I growl, glaring at him. He just shrugs, pushing the door open for me as I walk past him.
“Try and do it during the competition, will you?” He replies in an amused tone. “After all, we’re all civilized in here.”
Christ, is there a man more insufferable than Austin Randall?
As I make my way through the rows of seats, I realize that the place is completely packed. Apparently word got out that these competitions weren’t just boring presentations of furniture models, and now every single asshole living in Clarendon Tower wants to partake in the drama.
Just lovely that they all chose to appear today.
Yeah, in case you didn’t notice, my day isn’t going that well. I look as if I’ve just stepped out of a treadmill, my blouse plastered to my back, and my whole presentation had to be completely redone in under twenty-fours. Which means, of course, that Austin is going to wipe the floor with me.
Now, I’m pretty confident that my team can come out with a solid plan in a shortened time-frame, but there’s no way I can go toe-to-toe with a company like Oakmont under these conditions. Still, there’s no way around it—I still have to give it my best shot if I want this deal to happen.
Taking my seat at the front, near the executives of all the other companies, I purse my lips as Taylor eyes me warily. He’s probably wondering if I lost my mind and decided to go for a jog on stilettos right before today’s meeting.
“We’re all here now, then. Let the games begin,” he announces, a dramatic tone to his voice. Clearly, he enjoys this. “All of you performed amazingly last time we met,” he continues, and I notice a glint in his eye as his gaze meets Willis. Poor guy made a fool of himself last time, and I figure he’s going to do it again today. Well, better him than me, that’s for sure. “But today’s a brand new day, and all of you have a new chance at proving your mettle. As you all know, today’s presentation will be about the bedroom furnishings, with a specific focus on the design of bed stands and end tables.”
I notice a few of the other executives fiddling with scraps of paper, probably trying to go over some memorized speech, and I roll my eyes. These guys are more worried about the words coming out of their mouths than with the furniture they’re trying to pitch. No wonder the only serious competitors in this room are Austin and me.
I spend the next hour and a half suffering through all the presentations, and it doesn’t take me long to realize that Taylor purposefully left mine and Austin’s for the end. Like a good showman, he wants to dazzle his audience with a great finish. I wonder if banking is like that—you make up a lot of bullshit, throw a few spreadsheets up in the air while looking all cool and smart, and people just give you their money. No wonder the economy’s fucked all the time.
When it’s finally my turn, my presentation being right before Austin’s, I somehow manage to pull a fewoohsandaahsout of the crowd as I dramatically pull the white sheets covering my furniture. My nightstands are simple in their design, minimalistic even, and they have a coat of peach-beige lacquer that adds to it. Functional and elegant, they’d blend in with the furniture of any billionaire’s bedroom.
Against all odds, I start feeling confident as the audience claps it up. Maybe I still have a chance at winning first place again. As I return to my seat, I flash Austin a grin. I’m not entirely sure how, but I resist the urge to flip him the finger.
Strutting toward the raised dais where the board members and Taylor are sitting, Austin then spins on his heels to face the crowd.
“I want to start by apologizing,” he says, a solemn tone to his words. “I’ve been working long hours to bring my project to fruition, so if any of my fellow competitors saw me doze off during their presentations...I assure you, it has nothing to do with your performance.” His eyes focus on mine, and I immediately know that he’s picking on me. Of course. “Your projects are all interesting, although I have the feeling that some of you didn’t work on them for more than a day. But, of course, I know that companies likeDominamust have other pressing commitments.”
“Just get on with it, will ya?” I mutter under my breath, more than ready to pick one of my nightstands and throw it at his head. I’d be ruining a fine piece of furniture—an expensive one at that—but it’d be so freakin’ worth it.
“But I’m not here to bash all these hard-working people, am I?” He asks the crowd, receiving a round of laughter in return. If it weren’t for Ashley, who places one hand on my leg to stop me from doing something rash, I swear I would have start throwing bed stands everywhere.
