Craving The Player (Amateurs In Love Book 1)(25)
Oh. “Okay.” I inwardly cringe at my simple reply before squeezing the strap of my purse with a tight grip and waiting for Cole to lead the way out of my office.
When we both step into the empty hallway, I close my office door and turn back to see him waiting for me. The troublesome nagging in my head becomes quite a nuisance as I feel my palms begin to sweat. Sending him a reassuring look that I know I believe myself, I follow him to the elevator.
“So, Sierra. How do you like it here? Any complaints?” he asks when we reach the shiny silver doors. I reach forward to push the down button before stepping back and casually wiping my palms on my skirt.
“It’s been great. Everyone’s super nice.”
“Glad to hear it. Sometimes the pressure gets to be too much for some of our new hires. I think they expect it to be an easy job.”
I nod along with his words. I can see where that idea would come from. Back when I first told my parents that I was planning to spend four years getting a marketing degree, they were a little underwhelmed. Although, I think it stems from them wanting me to follow in their footsteps and want to ‘save the world’ or so my father would say.
My parents both spent decades of their lives on humanitarian missions in third world countries. A job that I’m positive they love more than Clare and I. It’s also a job that has been the root of several family disputes over the years. It’s easy for them to look down on us for not wanting to do better for the world, putting ourselves and our own careers first. Because of that, we don’t spend a lot of time together. We never have. The only difference now is that Clare and I are grown up, meaning there’s nothing to force us into seeing our parents like there was when we all lived in the same house. Nobody puts the effort in, and our family remains distant. I’m sure that’s how it will always be. I can’t see that changing for anything.
My parents fear what they don’t understand. And they don’t want to learn any different.
The elevator doors slide open with a quiet ding and we walk inside. I feel tense, rattled from my thoughts. I’m frustrated with myself for letting my parents get to me, but will myself to let it go when Cole settles beside me, the elevator doors closing.
“I’m really thankful for this opportunity. I don’t plan on wasting it,” I say, confident in every word that I speak.
He meets my gaze. “That’s what I like to hear. We’re lucky to have such a hard worker on our team.”
My lips tug up, my cheeks flushing from the compliment. I stare at my closed-toe black heels and bite back my squeal. It would seem that all of my hard work is finally going to pay off. Let’s hope that I don’t fuck it up.
Chapter Eleven
Sierra
I wish that the pit in my stomach had shrivelled up and died the minute we walked inside of our destination—the fancy Italian restaurant a few blocks away from the office, Paninaro’s, I think it’s called. However, I still feel like I could hurl over at any given moment. The pungent smell of parmesan cheese and breadsticks burning my nostrils doesn't overly help the situation either. The salad I had for lunch churns and churns, forming a tsunami of lettuce and tomatoes in my belly.
I jump, startled when a warm palm touches my lower back. The contact is unwanted and unnecessary. I freeze as if on instinct and struggle to keep my hands from shaking and clamming up.
"In the corner booth," Cole mumbles, his voice husky and much closer than it used to be. I can feel his breath on the shell of my ear. My blood runs cold and I struggle to swallow past the boulder in my throat. Forcing my lips to tilt up in a sorry excuse of a smile, I give a brief nod.
Looking ahead, I focus on two tall, well-figured receptionists—the ones I’ve become accustomed to finding giggling together in the break room every morning, holding tall plastic cups full of some sort of frothy liquid. Tonight they sit in a sleek, black booth directly in front of me.
Across from them sits the CMO of Taylor Marketing, Clark Brenton. He wears an easy going smile, his sharp features completely relaxed. It’s easy to tell, even from a distance, that he’s extremely confident and self-assured. And I'm sure having two stunning women sitting just a few feet away, completely enamoured by his chiseled jawline and unique, aqua-coloured eyes helps with that as well. The two women look about ready to do anything this guy asks of them with a pleasant smile and an excited, “yes, sir.”
"Hey, Clark." Cole greets his boss like you would an old friend when we reach the large booth, his loud voice—firm yet somehow lazy—grabbing the table's attention. "Ladies.” He grins at them both and I’m sure his white teeth sparkle beneath the warm lighting.
The two women turn to stare at us—or me, rather—eyebrows raised with silent judgment. I lift my hand and wave when I feel my anxiety near its peak. They’re expecting me to introduce myself, but I can’t seem to speak, still too focused on the heat radiating from the hand glued to my back.
Two sets of perfectly lined eyes stare at me with a sort of vacancy that urges me to drop my hand back down. My cheeks flush a deep red, feeling a rush of rejection shoot through me.
“Hi,” I squeak, mentally slapping myself in the face.
Frustration like I’ve never known nips at my spine. My career is the one place, the one thing that doesn’t make me nervous or anxious. I’m damn good at what I do. I can stand in front of an auditorium full of executives and spectating companies and not blink an eye—because I love my job. But I’m acting like an idiot right now in front of two of my bosses all because I’m a little flustered by a simple hand on my back? How embarrassing.