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But just as I’m about to wonder where the heck they have private meetings in this place, I realize that I’m wrong. There is a wall.
At the far end of the floor, taking up the entire north end of the office, is a glass wall. That wall divides the main floor from the boss’s office, while ensuring that he can see everything that goes on in his domain. I shiver slightly at the thought of working out here, directly under the all-seeing eye of the boss.
We stop at the secretary guarding Mr. Madison’s glass door, and I can’t keep my eyes from curiously flicking toward the office.
The black carpet runs from the doors to the boss’s desk, past dark leather office furniture and a long boardroom table made of some type of black stone. His desk is too far away to see clearly, but there appears to be someone sitting in a tall-backed chair, facing away from me and looking out over the city’s expanse.
Fashionista Boogeyman returns to us. “Mr. Madison will see you now,” she says.
“Great,” I say, reaching for the door.
“But just you.”
I stop, my hand dropping back to my side.
“Mickey is here to set up my presentation,” I explain. I’m useless with an AUX cord. An unpleasant vision of me red-faced and sweating, trying to get technology to work under Mr. Madison’s impatient eye dances through my head. “She doesn’t have to stay.”
Fashionista Boogeyman is coolly uninterested in the face of my panic. I’m sure she sees a dozen people, sputtering and bug-eyed, outside this office door every day.
“That won’t be a concern. Mr. Madison is not a fan of video presentations.”
My panic-stricken mind struggles to comprehend her words. Not a fan? Not a fan!? Fear and confusion don’t take long to turn into indignation. If Mr. Madison isn’t a “fan” of video presentations, then I would have appreciated a memo before I busted my ass for weeks making one. What’s the point of me coming all the way down here just to crash and burn because I have no presentation? Does my time not matter?
It occurs to me that maybe Nick wasn’t wrong about New York businessmen. This wouldn’t fly in Boston, maybe because people there still have some common decency left.
Well fuck it. I can wing it. And if this ends up being the worst presentation of my career, so be it. An extended vacation in New York isn’t worth the aggravation that’d come from working under someone so damn frustrating.
“I guess wish me luck,” I say to Mickey, whose sunny demeanor is definitely shaken by this surprise turn of events.
“You got this,” she says, but she says it a little less assuredly than she had in the hotel room.
Fashionista Boogeyman opens the glass door for me and, without a moment of hesitation, I stride purposefully into the office. I won’t be deterred by this sneaky strategy meant to throw me off my game. After I inevitably fail, I’ll end the meeting by giving this jerk a piece of my mind.
The walk to the desk didn’t look as long as it’s turning out to be. It feels like I’m walking for ages as I advance down the office. It also feels like I’m approaching a throne, which I suppose is how it’s meant to.
The desk itself is made from the same shiny black material as the rest of the office’s furnishings and is the length of a small car. Mr. Madison still hasn’t turned around; he’s still looking out across the Hudson, the city blanketed by stormy gray clouds.
I’m halfway to the desk when the lighting changes. At first I think it’s just an even darker cloud moving across the shrouded sun outside, but then I realize that the change is coming from behind me. I risk a glance around and see that the glass wall that separates the boss’s office from the rest of the floor is tinting black, obscuring the outside world. Leaving the two of us alone in the room together.
Yet another power move. I won’t be cowed. I quicken my stride until I’m standing before the desk and plant my feet solidly. I’m wearing five-inch heels that boost me to a height of six feet. I’ve noticed that being at eye level tends to get men to respect my opinions more. The additional confidence gained by towering over the world compared to my normal, average stature is an added plus.
As the seconds drag, it’s hard to keep my confidence up, though I give it my best effort. Mr. Madison is still facing away from me, the tall back of his black leather chair obscuring his face, but not his suited legs. They’re clothed in the very finest of charcoal-gray fabrics. His shoes are patent leather and freshly shined.
He knows I’m here, but the power moves are continuing. I’m not sure why I expected them to stop.
I roll my eyes at the back of his chair and inhale sharply in annoyance.
And freeze.
I’ve spent the past weekend enveloped in the memory of Nick’s distinctive scent. There’s no doubt about it. Right now, it’s more than a memory. I’m actually smelling it. Cinnamon and whiskey wafts tantalizingly from that black leather chair. From those suited, muscular legs. Holy shit.
“Nick?” The word bursts out of my mouth unexamined and definitely unplanned. Because a second of thought would have told me that acknowledging my surprise, of appearing thrown off by this unbelievable, wild turn of events could only be taken as a sign of weakness.
Thankfully, I’m not the only one who’s surprised. All pretenses drop, all power moves are forgotten. Mr. Madison, billionaire developer, CEO superstar, scourge of advertising agencies from coast-to-coast, whips his chair around in a flash.
Immediately I’m plunged back into deep pools of chocolate brown, and my second thought — that he must have known, how the hell could he not have known? — is immediately put to rest as my own surprise is mirrored back at me in them.
But only for an instant. For one second, Nick Madison allows his guard to drop. And then, just like the glass wall separating him from his employees, a dark shade is drawn and I’m back in the office of a merciless CEO.
