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I can’t help rolling my eyes. Is it so hard to take a car? Does Nick have to constantly exist on a plane above everyone else in the world? Maybe if he joined us mortals on the ground some time he’d be a little more easygoing. I picture Nick in Times Square, wearing flip flops and taking a photo with Elmo, and can’t hold in a snort of laughter. The guy would never survive.
I check my watch. Over an hour has passed since we agreed to meet. Will he give an excuse? I certainly don’t expect an apology for keeping me waiting.
Still, behind my annoyance there’s a little surge of anticipation. Here we go again.
The helicopter flies toward a smaller elevated deck south of where I’m standing. I head that way, climbing a set of stairs that leads to a shadowed overhang. From there I watch as the helicopter floats to a gentle landing.
Nick gets out of the back, buttoning his dark gray suit jacket. He’s wearing dark sunglasses and the wind from the slowing blades is throwing his hair into ever-changing but somehow equally attractive variations of messy.
My own hair, pulled back in a severe bun, doesn’t budge. Unfortunately the same can’t be said for the hair on the backs of my arms; at the sight of Nick they all stand up.
How the heck does he manage to look so good all the time? I swear he wears those suits better than a runway model.
I glance in a nearby window at my own reflection. I look professional, and I suddenly wish that I’d dressed a little bit sexier.
No. Stop that, I command myself. This is a business meeting and also remember the fact that he’s an arrogant asshole?
Maybe my hormones are out of whack. That would explain these completely uncharacteristic thoughts. And if not hormones then maybe I can blame it on my horoscope, or melting ice caps in the Arctic, or the Asian markets. I’m not sure what it is, but I know for a fact that it’s forces are beyond my control. All I can do is try to weather the ride and keep a little bit of my dignity.
I start out of my thoughts when my phone rings. And unfortunately the helicopter has died down fully and can’t drown out the noise. Nick, his own phone pressed to the side of his head, turns on his heel and peers into the darkness I’m hiding in.
Shit. I missed my chance to pose by the railing somewhere. Instead Nick has to find me lurking like Gollum.
“Ms. Davis?” Nick calls.
I emerge, walking straight-backed in a way that I hope invokes confidence and not constipation.
“Mr. Madison,” I reply.
His eyes narrow at the sight of me, obviously taking in my wardrobe. But he doesn’t comment. Instead, he says, “You can just call me ‘Nick’.”
“Do all your employees call you that?” I ask.
“None of them do,” he replies.
“Then I’m not sure it’s appropriate that I do.”
A single thick, dark eyebrow arches. “You’re not an employee. You’re a contractor.”
He has a point. I flush slightly at the fuss I’m making right from the jump. “In that case, you may call me ‘Evie’,” I say.
“I may?” he asks. He’s fucking with me. The stern coldness of his tone hides a smile. I don’t rise to it.
I tuck strands of hair that aren’t there behind my ear, blush, and then raise my camera.
“I’ve been taking photos,” I say, lamely.
“What? No comment about how late I am?” he asks.
I tighten my jaw. He’s poking, waiting for a reaction. Don’t rise to it. Keep things professional. My best vengeance shall be giving him nothing to work with.
I cock my head and look steadily up at him. My gaze is as frosty as a January midnight. “No need to apologize. I’m sure something important came up and it won’t happen again.”
“I’m not apologizing,” he says. “Just surprised you’re not more upset about it.”
“Oh of course. How could I forget? They’re weakness. And lord knows we can’t have you looking weak.” Sarcasm drips in great gooey globs from my words.
Nick seems unfazed. “We can’t. If I let my guard down who knows what you’ll do to me.”
