Hell on Heels(5)

I made no qualms on the reasons why someone wished to be a sponsor.

Sponsors made donations. Donations funded my charity. My charity saved people like Henry.

“We are not a hotel, Kevin, we do not take early check-ins. I’m a block away, so please give him a beverage should he so wish for one and I’ll be there shortly.”

“I could bounce a quarter off the man’s ass.” He groaned, ignoring me completely. It was not hard to imagine the image of my assistant with his lips pursed, biting down on a manicured thumbnail while sizing up a potential client.

Rolling my eyes, I took a left on West Cordova and picked up my pace. “You don’t play for the same team and his tie is worth more than your car. So don’t bounce our change off his backside if you want to keep wearing those shirts you can’t afford.”

“Someone’s bitchy with a side of rude this afternoon.”

Sidestepping construction on the sidewalk, I warned him, “Kevin…”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. The change will stay in petty cash, scout’s honour.”

“You weren’t a boy scout.”

Click.

Diva.





Three more blocks in four-inch ankle boots and ten minutes later, I fidgeted during my ascent to the thirteenth floor. I always walked to lunch, and I almost always took the stairs on my return to work. The Smiths weren’t a family that enjoyed traditional means of physical excursion, but my parents loved food, and if the way my hips flared was any indication, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. That being said, I liked the way my ass looked hugged in a pair of jeans, and I wasn’t giving up cake, so in exchange, I took the stairs regularly as penance, though not today.

Stepping out of the elevator, I glanced at my watch—1:14—and pushed through the double glass doors with Smith & Co Productions etched into the center.

“Thank God,” Kevin whisper-yelled from the perch he had assumed at the edge of his desk.

He was, and had always been, a client’s first point of entry into our offices. Situated to the right of the doors was his distressed white desk; the colour expertly complimented the pale yellow walls, as did the bright arrangement of September flowers Tina, the company’s floral guru, had placed in a teal vase at the corner of his desk.

Walking by, I motioned for Kevin to follow me while moving my attention to the waiting area in the center of the room. It was feminine, as was the rest of the office, with two grey armchairs parallel to the left wall, a fabulous printed ottoman in the center, and a vintage style white couch against the right wall. Above the seating area was a delicate and brilliant chandelier that was quite possibly my favourite decorative piece in the entire office. Below it, set on a gold tray in the center of the ottoman, was another one of Tina’s floral arrangements, though this one was bigger than the one on Kevin’s desk, almost twice the size, in fact, and equally as stunning.

The waiting room had floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed a fabulous view of downtown Vancouver, though currently I found it was obstructed by the back of two well dressed suits, one grey and one black.

The blond hair, which belonged to the man I recognized as Beau Callaway was being toyed with repeatedly as he spoke into the phone at his ear. I knew he was handsome from his campaign commercials and slew of appearances in the magazines, but standing in my pastel enthusiastic office, he seemed larger than I’d expected him to. It also appeared he was unaware of my arrival.

I noted vaguely that the man flanking his left seemed domineering, even from behind, and was not unaware of the added body in the room. His somewhat long brown hair was pulled into bun at the base of his neck, his posture was rigid, and he towered over the politician in a beastly way.

I found his presence unsettling.

Kevin was eagerly on my heels as I nodded a hello to Emma, one of our designers, who was currently on the phone in her office engaged in a heated debate about drapery from what I could tell. I ran a tight ship, though a friendly one, and one of the rules consisted of no gossiping in front of clients, hence Kevin’s eager pursuit of my behind.

There were two offices on either side of the seating area. To the right were Emma and myself, and to the left were Tina and Tom, as well as a staff room, equipment room, and bathroom.

My office was the only corner unit, and it was the largest by a margin. Two of the walls consisted of floor-to-ceiling glass, and the other two were heather grey, which were adorned with black and white photos taken at the first annual Halo Foundation gala.

“I’m ruined.” Kevin pouted, plopping down into one of the two patterned high-back chairs in front of my desk.

Fishing my cellphone out, I dropped my purse into the bottom drawer of the massive and incredibly overpriced desk, and placed the palms of my hands onto its distressed white surface.

“He’s so hot,” Kevin continued without delay. “I mean, I follow him on Instagram, but wow-ee! I want little blonde Abercrombie babies with him,” he rattled on, waving his hands in the air. “And Man Bun is like yum with a shot of dangerous, like you just know he’d wake up your neighbours. I’d like to call him Daddy—”

“Jesus.” I shook my head.

Kevin stirred, pulling his perfectly crafted eyebrows together. “What’s he doing here anyways? Are we planning one of his parties?”

Beau Callaway was notoriously known for hosting some of the best campaign parties.