Page 8 of A Christmas Maker

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“At least if I were gambling, I’d expect to lose the game. But life? It’s far harder than a game of cards.” - Bex

It’s fifteen minutes past ten. In my defense, I’ve been standing here glaring at the brass and gold spelling outWard Enterprisesin calligraphy on the glass. I can even see security through the transparent door openly watching me as if I’m going to suddenly rip off the nameplate in a herculean effort with my wimpy arms.

What did the man with a baton think I was going to do? Throw my purse and ruin the gold letters? As if I would lower myself to such childish activities. Although it did cross my mind for a brief moment.

Not the point. I’m a grown up now. I make adult decisions on a regular basis. I can stand being in the same room as King without degrading myself by taking off my shoe and throwing it at his face. It would be spectacular, but not worth the headache it would cause in the long run. Not to mention I have the power here. Whatever it is he’s wanting from me, it’s obviously not something that can be found through another person or means. Leverage tastes sweet as I square my shoulders, ready to relish in King’s defeat as I tell him no to whatever asinine concoction he’s found himself in with Thorin. I’m the rational, high achieving woman this time; I can be the adult who firmly states the word no to a personal enemy.

Am I confident enough though?my inner voice questions.

“Miss?” A man taps me on the shoulder, interrupting my internal monologue on if I’m really crazy enough to spend however long in a meeting with King Huntington-Ward of my own volition.

“Hm?” I turn to face an elderly man watching me with amusement.

“You’re blocking the door, dear.”

Shit. I am. I’m officially one of those assholes in New York who stop in the middle of the street to gawk at everything shiny and expensive. “I’m so sorry.” Forcing my limbs to move, I shove open the door and wait for the elderly man to enter behind me.

“First time being here?” he asks.

I blow out a breath. “It is. Are you a client here?”

The man smiles. “Actually, I work here.”

At his age? I’d be retired on some tropical island where it never freezes and there’s hardly any people around. “Well, my apologies if I’ve made you late with my staring.”

He smiles in earnest now. “The building doesn’t bite. Some people who work here do, but I doubt you’ll run into them. Do you need help finding where you’re going?” He pauses to glance down at his watch. “I have about five minutes to spare if you need directions.”

“No, but thank you. I’m actually supposed to sign into guest services and someone will tell me where I’m going.”

The old man winks at me before taking off, apparently satisfied that I’m not going to step back outside and block all the pedestrians. After another lone moment of gathering myself, I walk over to the gray desk off to the side where people in suits are milling about with brass nameplates to match the brass exterior of the main doors.There’s so much brass and gold.

I drum my fingers on the counter in front of me. No one seems to be paying me any attention now that I’ve finally stepped inside. My gaze travels to the people walking around the lobby, noting I’m severely underdressed to be here compared to others. I have on yoga pants and an oversized t-shirt and tennis shoes, my hair piled into a top knot, and my pink glasses perched on the bridge of my nose. I’m about as far from corporate attire as one can get.

Did I do this as a subtle ‘fuck you’ to King? Yes, I did. Plus, yoga pants are my version of armor. Some people use pearls or their nicest outfit, but after growing up in a world of pearls and suits with lapels, yoga pants allow me to stand out and be me.

“Excuse me,” I clear my throat, gaining the attention of one of the men in front of me. “I have an appointment upstairs and need to sign in.”

The young male blinks slowly at me and remains quiet long enough for me to wonder if I should ask in French if he doesn’t understand English. “We have a dress code here for any visiting parties.”

“Cool. Can you tell King that I won’t be making this meeting then?” Relief floods me. I’m definitely not going to go home, change, and drag my ass all the way back for a meeting I don’t even want to be part of.

“Uh,” he blinks rapidly now. “Did you just say your meeting is withKing?”

“You’re Bexley Hastings?” another man in uniform asks. He shoves the other man out of the way with his elbow while scowling. “She can dress however she likes. Mr. Huntington-Ward said to send her up no matter what.”

The relief escapes out of me as my shoulders tense on an exhale. Of course King would tell them to let me up no matter what. He clearly remembers my penchant for trying to weasel out of things I dislike.

The new man in uniform shoves a notepad towards me to sign in with, takes a photo of my driver’s license,I guess in case I murder the man I’m meeting with they can use my photo to give to the police, and hands me a lanyard with a pamphlet on where I’m supposed to go in the building. He even circles the conference room in red.

Unfortunately after departing from the lobby, I find it rather easy to navigate to the conference room. Several people pause to look at me, deeming my clothing far too lower class for them to stop and ask if they can help me. Never mind I probably make more than them in my monthly paycheck, but whatever. People will always believe the perception they have and not the entire view.

Then again most of my paycheck goes to insurance, bills, and paying off my loan at an alarmingly slow rate for the decent paycheck I make. Though I’m not naïve, I know my last name is the only reason I’m making what I do, gaining the clients I have, and opening doors to the ritzy side of life I don’t spend much time in. I shouldn’t have let pride dictate my choices in so many things, but those choices are already made and I have to live with the consequences.

Counting the number of conference rooms, I manage to get to number four where the door is left wide open. Inviting me to my doom. I strain to hear anything in the room, but the low voices on this floor all blend together. After taking another deep breath and blowing it out, I walk through the door into my personal nightmare.

Coleman ‘King’ Huntington-Ward looks far more masculine now than he did in college. I hate the way his beauty has only amplified with age. His dark hair is styled professionally, thick eyelashes frame his blue eyes, and a frown mars his handsome face. A woman steps forward, a warm smile showing, such a contradiction to her counterpart.

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