Chapter 4

Well, I won’t be caught dead so underdressed again—least of all with the dear Mr. Ellinwood around. This is what I get for thinking a one-night stand was a good idea. Serves me right. My mother would kill me, my father would disown me, and yet I plunged headlong into this catastrophe with enthusiasm usually saved for my studies. Celebration gone wrong, that’s what it was. But there was nothing wrong at all with him—just me. I’m the pathetic one who so cluelessly walked into this disaster, thinking I knew what I was doing.

I certainly don’t intend to be seen by him and his colleagues and their power suits looking so ridiculous. The moment I walked into the building I was out of my league. Whatever education I may have garnered, it did not prepare me for these people. I’m like orphan Annie meeting Daddy Warbucks for the first time—so very out of my depth.

Kelli picks me up almost as soon as I walk through the door of my apartment after a hasty and desperate call begging for her shopping expertise. If anyone can make me look good, it’s Kell. She always looks like a model, and while I’ve never cared to put so much thought into my appearance, I’m finally most appreciative of her gift for beauty. She will be thrilled. She’s been waiting for four years now for me to jump on her bandwagon of good taste. It’s not as though I have bad taste; I’m studying to be a designer after all. It’s just always been an expense I couldn’t afford, and I chose my studies instead. I thrift shopped, bargain-bin dove, and coupon hoarded my way into a wardrobe that worked … just not up to par in a place like Foster’s.

Two hours later, we’ve had dinner and found me three tailored jackets, four new pairs of slacks, five blouses, and a new pair of pumps. Every last piece can be mixed and matched, and if I’m lucky, I won’t ruin anything before the end of my time at Foster’s, for I surely can’t afford to replace any piece of my new wardrobe. It isn’t terribly expensive clothing but more than I typically spend. As it is, I spent nearly a month’s rent on these clothes, and it will be hard enough to get by until I graduate and can get a job making actual money, or more likely, run home to my parents broke.

Exhausted, I quickly hang all of my new garments in my closet and collapse into bed, but I don’t sleep. Instead, I think about him. I never imagined I would see him again, and as much anxiety as the idea of tolerating his presence for the next few months causes me, I’m also excited. He makes me nervous, especially now. It was one thing to give my body to this man, who knew nothing about me and would never see me again, but now he’ll be around all the time. He knows my name, and he’ll be witness to me fumbling my way through this new and terrifying chapter of my life, and when it comes to fumbling, I tend to be great at it.

Dressing the next morning, I am marginally more confident than my previous day left me. I’m still terrified of running into him, but at least I feel better about my appearance; it’s a start at least. Entering the building and finding my way to my cubicle, I’m happy to find a man from IT already at my desk, getting me logged on and up and running. Once he’s gone, I log into Outlook and explore the different programs. They use one of the most robust programs on the market for design, and the oversize, wide-screen, high-definition monitor is amazing. I worked with software and hardware of this caliber at Columbia, and I’m relieved I’ll at least know my way around the applications of Foster’s even if I can’t find my way around the building without throwing myself headlong into boardrooms I’m ill equipped to handle.

After I’ve had time to familiarize myself with my cubicle, a bubbly but quite nerdy young woman pokes her head in and introduces herself as Bridget. She’s sweet, and she’s the first person I’ve met here I’m not intimidated by in some way. Bridget shows me around some more, and I discover the two buildings that make up Foster’s serve to divide the two divisions of the firm. The long hallway that contains the accounting department, payroll department, and human resources links the two renovated warehouses. The opposite building from the one I’m located in is devoted to the architects of the firm, including Mr. Foster, Jordan, and most of the other principals. Our building is reserved for the interior design division of the firm. Only one principal comes from the interiors department, and like most combined architectural and interior design firms, the management of projects falls squarely on the shoulders of the architectural division. More or less, interior designers rank lower on the totem pole than architects—perhaps a throwback to the division of the sexes from years past. How this translates to me, I will be working with and trained largely by the interiors division, but any project I work on will be managed and at the very least overseen by the architects.

As I pry information out of Bridget on our way to tour the sample room, I hope my interest sounds casual.

“So I met some of the principals yesterday and Mr. Foster. Will I be working for any of them do you suppose?”

“Well sure, but you’ll be managed by Vera, and trust me, she won’t let you get too involved with the architects.” A slight stab of disappointment even as relief washes over me.

“So which architects work with the intern?” I must sound like an idiot, overly eager for information, but Bridget seems not to notice.

“Residential is a good place for interns to start, and that is led by Strahm. Commercial usually doesn’t involve interns too much; the scale is just too vast for an intern to really dig into during the course of half a semester, and then there’s Mr. Ellinwood. He heads up restoration. Frankly, it’s a great place for interns to work, but he never allows interns on his team—doesn’t like working with them for some reason.” Now it’s a shade of hurt that passes over me—just another ridiculous emotional response that makes no real sense whatsoever, but there it is. I won’t be working for the good Mr. Ellinwood. I should likely be happy about this. I acted like a blithering idiot when I ran into him in the boardroom; I cannot fathom having to constantly tolerate his presence that seems only to make me quake in my cheap pleather boots.

As we enter the sample room housed in the corner of the second floor off the main catwalk system, I forget instantly about Mr. Ellinwood, or at least I stow him to the back of my mind for the time being. I’m in heaven. There are worktables aplenty, and walls and shelves, and bins of everything from wood samples, finish samples, flooring samples, paint samples, and fabric samples. There are light boxes set up around the room, and project boards lining an entire wall with various samples affixed. I could live here, and as I pass by a rod of fabric swatches, letting my hand pass over the expensive fabric, excitement runs through my body. Some of these fabrics cost more than a thousand dollars a yard. I am definitely way in over my head, but I don’t mind drowning in it here. The room is so vast, but also organized to a T. It’s for the use of all designers, and where most projects end up. Every vendor in the world wants their product to end up in a room like this where it can be easily picked and chosen for one project or another, and there is never a shortage of new product samples coming in. And that is where Bridget comes in.

She is the office and inventory manager. It’s her responsibility to ensure all the samples stay in workable usable organization. She is the organization that keeps this part of the company moving smoothly. The fact she is friendly and easy to talk to makes me like her all the more.

When I finally return to my desk after exploring and daydreaming in the sample room for half an hour, my instant messaging notification box is lit. When I open it, I still, my heart starts racing, and a warmth floods through my groin.

“Meet me in the lobby at noon. Lunch.” Bossy jerk.

“I don’t eat.” Two can play at this game, but even as I type, my excitement builds and a smirk pulls at my lips. He may have caught me off guard the day before, but with the safety of my cubicle walls, the internal e-mail system and an entire building between us, my confidence is quite healthy for a change; it doesn’t hurt I’m now dressed appropriately for Foster’s. That alone is worth the few hundred dollars it cost me.

“Damn Catholics at Lent. Well I do eat, and you can watch me.” I smile at his sarcastic response, and as the minutes tick off the clock I check my mirror, check my hair, straighten my clothes, but I feel good about my appearance today. I’m wearing a black pencil skirt with my knee-high boots, a new silver-and-black striped fitted blouse under a coordinating gray jacket. I’ve pulled my hair back in a knot that sits at the side of my neck, and loose strands fall over my opposite shoulder. I at least look like I belong here, even if I don’t actually belong, and as I grab my deep, structured, red, patent-leather tote—borrowed from Kell of course—I’m confident.

I enter the lobby, and he’s already waiting. It’s chilly out today, and as he helps me into my belted peacoat, his fingers brush across my shoulders. Even through the fabric of my suit jacket and blouse, there’s a prickle where his touch has innervated my skin. I follow him from the building to his car, already warm and waiting at the curb. As he opens the door for me, and I sink into the warm leather seats, I’m taken back to Friday night. I can still see his hand stroking my thigh as he steered his car easily through the downtown Chicago traffic. Now, however, he keeps his hand to himself and his eyes on the road as he pulls from the curb.