Perfectly Imperfect(12)
The ride to work, like always, is uneventful. The ascent to the floor of Logan Agency’s offices has my pulse spiking. I try to mentally prepare myself, but when I step off the elevator and into the glamorous lobby, I lose every ounce of careful preparation. Like a sixth sense, I just know she’s here. As if Ivy’s very being has left her twisted vines of evil behind with every step she takes.
Why would he bring her back? God, really, I can be so stupid. Why wouldn’t he bring her back? She’s his pride and joy.
“Hey.” I jump when Kirby’s voice calls out to me from behind Mary’s desk, the floor’s main receptionist. Mary, an older woman who has been with the agency from conception, gives me a kind smile and wave before lifting the ringing phone from the cradle.
“What’s up?” I ask, shifting the weight of my purse and giving Kirby a small smile.
“You look pretty, Will,” she praises.
“Thanks.”
“You know, don’t you?”
“That she’s here?” I ask. Kirby’s eyes soften before she nods. “I know. It’s okay, Kirb. I’m not worried about it.”
Lie. Big freaking lie.
“What can I do? I can start a small fire in the break room? We could be out of here before you ever saw her face. Run off to Mexico? Drink those yummy tropical drinks until we pass out in a drunken stupor?”
Despite my unease, I laugh. “Nothing you can do. I just need to get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid. Who knows, maybe she’s going to be happy to see me.” I laugh; the sound hitting my ears is as fake as it feels coming out.
“We could quit,” she continues. “I wouldn’t mind being a kept woman and staying at home all day,” she jokes, trying to lighten the dark mood that has settled over me.
“You would be bored out of your mind, and I wouldn’t be able to pay my bills.”
“Right, well … it’s a suggestion. If you want to run, just pull the fire alarm or something … I’ll follow your lead.”
“I love you, Kirby Quinn.”
“I know. And I love you back, Willow Elizabeth.”
Might as well get this over with. I give Kirby a hug and walk around the corner to begin my walk down the west wing of our offices. This side, the whole west end of the floor, belongs to my father. One long, narrow hallway full of pictures of the popular signed models he’s had over the course of the agency, no doors, and dim lighting with little spotlights on each picture. The other wing of our floor, being the meat of operations, is full of offices, studios, and chatter from all angles. But not here … nope, this hallway is long and silent.
That is until I hear her high-pitched giggles carrying down from the open door of my father’s office. I reach the end of the hallway and walk around to my desk tucked in the corner. I always thought its placement was my father’s way of placing me away without actually losing sight of me. Keeping me close, but far away at the same time—which really makes no sense because, from the way his eyes go hard every time he’s within a few feet of me, I’m not sure why he would even want to have me around. Hell, I’m not really sure why he even gave me a job to begin with.
My area is basically just the outer room to his huge office. I have no windows and the only natural light is from the glow of his office of glass. All the lighting around me is dim. What isn’t coming from a few strategically placed lamps comes wholly from his office’s walls—even when set to the fog privacy setting. His whole office takes up the back half of the room, paneled in floor-to-ceiling glass on my end and the one inside his office. But like now, when he has the fog-like setting turned on, those glass walls make this room almost dungeon like. My desk takes up the right side of his outer sanctum. The other side of the room has two chairs, one leather loveseat, a sleek glass coffee table, and one longer console table against the far wall. A huge television flashes pictures of the talent he’s held or holds under the Logan Agency’s name. The room my desk is in is used only for clients to sit while they wait for him to call them in.
That calling always being done by Ivy when she worked here. In recent months, since Ivy hasn’t been around, he’s actually let me take more of an active role as his secretary. But I’m sure that now that she’s around, I’m going to be back to being a wallflower, stuck answering phones and gathering his coffee and meals.
Cinderella probably had it better than I do.
Storing my purse in my desk, I sit down and power up my computer. I can hear them laughing as I sort through the emails from overnight and make note of all pressing issues. Checking the calendar for today’s scheduled meetings, I frown when I see a huge blank spot on the lunch hour with a notation I’m to have lunch catered and arriving no later than noon for three people.
“Willow!” My father bellows through the intercom, spiking my already frayed nerves.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get me my coffee,” he demands before severing the connection. I hear him through the opening in his office door as he slams the receiver down, grumbling his complaints.
After a few deep breaths, I stand and walk through the doorway behind me and into the small kitchen area housed in our wing for him and his clients’ needs. How hard would it be for him to just walk to his door and speak to me like a human and not some robot slave?
I plop the K-cup in the machine and wait while the water heats before it starts spitting coffee into his mug. Making sure I measure out the correct amount of sugar—no cream—I walk back through the doorway, careful not to spill the hot liquid.