Dare Me(3)
Holt Hamilton. The sexiest man I’ve ever seen and the Vice President of Jackson-Hamilton Aviation—basically my boss. Standing at least six-foot-three, he could be Henry Cavill’s twin brother. With striking blue eyes and dark hair that’s styled back off of his face, he’s the perfect combination of businessman meets runway model. His cut jawline is accentuated by one very perfect dimple on his left cheek.
His athletic frame is highlighted by his custom-tailored suit that hugs each and every curve of his shoulders, arms, and waist, showing every muscle the man owns as he leans against the side of the elevator. Today he’s wearing a charcoal suit with a blue shirt and striped tie. The blue shirt makes his blue eyes stand out against his tan skin. I catch myself staring and quickly turn to face the doors of the elevator.
“Morning, Ms. Phillips,” he says with a tight smile. He shoves his cell phone into the pocket of his suit jacket.
Again, my heart is racing. “Mr. Hamilton.” I nod and keep my eyes on the digital display showing the floor numbers. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, I silently count as we continue to rise. Only thirty more. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
“How are you settling in?” he asks, his voice deep and commanding. I half-turn to speak to him and catch his smirk, but he quickly composes himself and adjusts his tie.
“It’s going well. I submitted the final orders for both planes that were overdue. Mr. Jackson emphasized those were priority.” I raise my chin confidently, but my heart continues to race with nervousness.
“You closed both orders?” he asks, surprised. “As in, you got both clients to agree to every last detail?” He looks skeptical. These particular clients were a nightmare. I knew when I accepted the job that I’d have demanding clients, but those two were the cream of the crop.
“I did.” Another confident nod.
“Huh,” he mumbles, giving his head a little shake. “So how’d you do it? Rachel had been working for months with those clients, and they wouldn’t agree to anything she recommended. She tossed their client portfolios on my desk the day she resigned and swore we’d never close the deal on those planes.”
I try to contain my smirk. “I get to know my clients, Mr. Hamilton. I make an effort to really understand their likes and dislikes—their personal preferences. What excites them. What motivates them. Not just shove today’s best-selling aeronautical features down their throats. I work with them and, in the end, they trust me and my recommendations—we’re a team.”
“It’s that easy?” He cocks an eyebrow in amusement.
I cock an eyebrow. “It’s that easy. Payments are finalized and in the Jackson-Hamilton account, Mr. Hamilton. Planes are scheduled to be delivered to both clients in the next ninety days.” I rub my sweaty palms down the sides of my pencil skirt.
He stares at me silently, just chewing on the inside of his cheek when the elevator finally slows to a stop. The doors open and Holt reaches out and places his arm against the open door so as to not let them close on us, but in doing so, places himself shoulder to shoulder with me. Too close. So close I can smell his body wash and his minty breath.
I quickly step out of the elevator and into the lobby of Jackson-Hamilton Aviation and begin to walk down the hall toward my cubicle, the opposite direction of Holt Hamilton.
“Nice work, Phillips,” he says from behind me.
I smile and race to my desk, internally high-fiving myself.
“What’s put that shit-eating grin on your face?” Zay asks.
Isaiah, or Zay, as I’ve been told to call him, is our private sales coordinator. He works alongside our customers to determine what type of plane they need. Once they agree on the bones of the structure, he tosses them over to me, where I work with the client to customize and build their dream plane. Kind of like Pimp Your Plane, only it’s not reality television; it’s my job.
I’m the interior designer. I get to work with clients on the “fun part” . . . although, to be honest, it’s a difficult job. Our customers are premier, the elite—celebrities, Fortune 500 companies, and CEOs. Even royalty. I work with people all over the world. They want the best for the least amount of money, and it’s my job to make them happy while making Jackson-Hamilton Aviation some serious money in the process. No sale is complete until I submit all the final details back to Zay and payment has been received, then the planes are customized.
I shrug and slide my sleek laptop into the docking station, powering it on. Zay sits on my desk, bumping his shoulder into mine. “Talk to me, Phillips. That look on your face. What put it there?” Zay has the best smiles. His perfectly straight, bright white teeth stand out against his dark olive skin.
“Nothing.” I try to hide my smile, but I’m failing. “I’m just in a good mood. It’s Friday, We received payment on the Zamora and Dubai planes.”
He smacks his lips before he speaks. “Well, good. Then you’ll be joining us for an impromptu happy hour after work tonight.”
I turn in my chair and smirk at him. “I’m not sure I’m ready for another happy hour with this group.” I twirl my hand around the small workspace that holds all of our cubicles.
I actually work with the nicest people I’ve ever met. We’re an eclectic bunch, with Zay bringing the spice. He’s half-Mexican and half-Caucasian and the epitome of the term “Latin lover.” Then there’s Emery, your classic hippie; mid-thirties with essential oils lining her desk, a cup full of some herbal concoction, and a foul mouth to boot. She’s honest and sincere and the matriarch of our little group. Of course there’s the token gay man, and that’s Rowan. He’s sarcastic and witty, and if he weren’t twenty years older than me and gay, I’d find a way to make him love me. He’s kind and nurturing and has the sense of humor and quick wit of Jimmy Fallon. Rounding out our little group is a spitfire named Kinsley. At twenty-five, she’s only two years older than me and the closest in age. Everything she says or does is borderline inappropriate, and we love her for it. Our group is fun and sassy and Human Resources’ worst nightmare.