Restoring Jordan (7 page)

She smiles her precious sweet smile, and my cock stirs in response. I spend the meal taking a page from Mark’s book, asking her question after endless question about growing up in Iowa. Not only did she grow up in a small town but she also graduated in a class of less than thirty students; I had no idea that was even possible. Admittedly, I grew up in the city. She was an officer for her school’s chapter of the National Honor Society—nerd, and she was heavily involved in music and band—double nerd. But nerd or not, I’m drawn to her more and more with every passing divulgence.

When she turns the tables, I put on a brave front though I’m nervous of her delving into my life. We cover my private school upbringing in Chicago, the fact I’ve made my home in the same neighborhood I grew up, the fact my parents now live in France and only care to talk to me once in a blue moon, which is only marginally more than they cared to speak to me when I was a kid; I’m the epitome of latchkey, and as her sadness registers on her face I regret being so honest. I don’t want her pity even though it sends a warmth through my body. When she asks if I’ve ever been married, I tell her the truth, and though the question was hers to ask, she looks shocked when I tell her I have. When she asks why we divorced, with a hesitant look on her face and a nibble of her lip, I respond I’d rather not talk about it. And when the embarrassment reaches her face, I regret not forcing myself to open up more, and I reach for her hand and apologize.

By the time our meal is over, I want her more than I did just this morning. She was supposed to be a one-night stand, a booty call as she described it. What the hell have I allowed to happen?

Working with Jordan has become challenging and incredibly arousing. He has no problem telling me if he disagrees with one of my decisions, but his feedback is genuine. He doesn’t disagree just to disagree, like the good Vera seems intent on doing; rather, he gives me honest opinions and justifies them. If I make a decision he agrees with, he’s quick to let me know, and I’ve decided he’s shortchanged himself and every intern that has passed through Foster’s by refusing to work with them.

After our time at the warehouse, drafting and plotting the spaces I would be working on, we moved on to the samples room. The next week was spent together, building the palette and color scheme and creating the boards to present to Mark. The furniture will be largely custom or vintage and has required a number of trips to local antique stores and an upholsterer as well, and each time we leave the building to some new destination, my body courses with excitement for our time alone. I crave it and look forward to it with constant want.

Jordan has told me I’ll be the one pitching the scheme boards to Mark, and I’m terrified. Not only will it be my first pitch like this but I’ve also been given one more reason to worry about the meeting. On our last trip to the construction site, Mark cornered me when Jordan was away and asked me to dinner. I turned him down quickly, and while Mark kept his composure, his demeanor suggested resentment for the remainder of our time at the site. I was happy to be away from him when Jordan finally returned and we left for the day, and now on the night before I’m to pitch my concept for the model condo, I’m all nerves. Mark makes me nervous, and having been forced to reject his advances isn’t helping things.

*

She looks terrified. Hell, I’m terrified for her. She worked hard on the designs, and as much as I want to do this pitch and save her the terror she so obviously feels, I want this for her. She deserves the credit. Her taste is impeccable. Most designers, especially those straight out of school, tend to go über contemporary. Bringing an intern into restoration is a great way to introduce them into the historical art of design, and while it’s my fault this avenue hasn’t been opened for our past interns, I also have to concede it has its importance. How many times has a newer designer been assigned to one of my projects just so I could replace her for a more seasoned designer because she lacked the ability to visualize the style of the period? And yet I’m the one who closed that door to every up-and-comer entering our building.

Watching Adeline now though is just painful. She is practically jittering next to me in the passenger seat, and as I touch her hand she jumps, before looking at me with warmth and appreciation in her eyes. I take my hand away quickly, wanting to hold the touch, but not wanting to overstep this line.

As Mark ushers us into their conference room, we are met by three other men who have joined him. I take my seat at the table and introduce Adeline to them. I’ve worked with all four of these men for years, and for the most part we’ve had an amenable working relationship. Adeline takes her place at the head of the table, and in a voice just a bit too quiet for the room, she speaks. She stumbles over her words on more than one occasion and trips on the leg of the easel her boards are propped on, and more than once I catch her gulping air while we discuss some random architectural detail that doesn’t concern her. Every sign of her nervousness hurts in my chest and leaves my conscious begging to rescue her. But the worst comes when her presentation is over, and it leaves me ferociously defending her.

When Mark starts questioning her cabinetry choice, which she’s chosen perfectly and with my full support, I don’t think much of it. Opinions differ in this field, and it certainly isn’t the first time Mark and I have disagreed, but it doesn’t stop my guts from clenching and my hands from fisting in response to Adeline’s worried expression. I step in quickly and pacify the situation. One change is nothing, and certainly not worth Adeline’s concern. But when Mark continues to punch one hole after another in her presentation, often interrupting her response just to hurl another ridiculous insult at her work, my fury builds.

Adeline is still at the head of the table, doing her best to defend her design while being open to change, but Mark is being an asshole, and every time I step in to take the heat off her, he ignores me completely and attacks her once again. Within moments, I’ve taken my place beside her at the head of the table. Mark’s eyes are on her, and I’m confused, furious, and ready to beat him to a bloody pulp. The other men in the room are witnessing the exchange with confusion as well, and as things get more heated they step in to calm Mark. He’s not only attacking Adeline’s design but also my choice to bring an intern onto their project, and when the conversation has gotten heated to the point of Mark muttering “bitch” under his breath, that’s when I turn to the three other men who are watching Mark with gaping mouths.

I growl at them between gritted teeth in fury. “I suggest you get him the fuck away from her, now.”

When they pull their collective eyes from the spectacle that is Mark, they take in my deadly expression and waste no time ushering Mark out the door. Turning to Adeline, I take in her expression. She’s holding it together, but tears are threatening to spill over, and in a shaky voice laced with desperation, she begs, “Please get me out of here.”

My hand moves to her elbow as I gather her boards in my hands, and I lead her to the nearby elevator. When the CEO catches up to us and stops the elevator door from closing, I stop him as well. “We’re done here. Call Foster if you have any questions.”

He stands back from the elevator and allows the doors to close. I have no idea what to say to Adeline. Quite frankly, I have no idea what has just happened, and I’m still stunned into silence. I want to touch her, I want to hold her, but she’s staring at the floor, and the regular sniffle of her nose and the finger that dashes away the occasional tear tell me everything I need to know about how she’s feeling.

She’s silent on the way back to Foster’s, as am I, and when we finally arrive I drop her off at the door. She says nothing to me as she climbs from the car, and as much as I want to check on her once I’m parked and inside, I want to see Foster far more. I was the one who put her in this position, and had I known she’d come under such heavy fire, I’d have never put her up there.

I vent for the better part of an hour, yelling a good portion of the time, but it’s unnecessary. Foster is as pissed as I am our intern was subjected to this type of treatment. He’s decent and kind, and Adeline is beyond lucky to be in this place in that regard. There are plenty of firms that would make assumptions about the quality of her work based on nothing more than her inexperience, but not Foster. He can see the boards as clearly as I’ve laid them out on his desk. They’re impressive for any designer, least of all a student. She didn’t deserve this, and I don’t understand how this happened. A week ago, the man couldn’t take his eyes off her, and in the space of mere days he’d decided to torture her and destroy her in front of me.

When I finally make my way to Adeline’s desk, she’s gone for the day. When Vera catches me at Adeline’s cubicle, she stops. Vera does nothing but flirt with me when we’re alone, and even the meeting last week wasn’t enough to dampen her attempts. I can’t stand Vera and have paid her no attention for the three years she’s been at Foster’s, but she just doesn’t get the hint. When she asks if I’ll be coming to the Q1 dinner that night, I have to thank her for the reminder. I hate these damn dinners we have at the close of every quarter to celebrate just how profitable and super awesome we are, but a sudden and swift relief passes over me at her question, and I ask one of my own.

“Will Adeline be there? I need to speak with her, and I’d rather not wait until Monday.”

Vera’s smile is tight and her expression is cold, but she responds quickly. “Oh, yes. I made sure to invite her.” The smile that passes her expression is vindictive, and I worry perhaps Adeline has more enemies than just Mark, but I will see her tonight and the tightness in my chest releases with this knowledge.

“We’re having our Q1 dinner tonight at Architectural Artifacts. You’re expected to attend.” And as Vera starts to move away, I stop her quickly.

“Is this for the design group or the whole firm?” She stops.

Looking back with her trademark sneer of hatred, she responds. “It’s the whole firm. Frankly, I have no idea why an intern should come; it’s not as if you bring any real benefit to this place.”

Without another glance, she turns to leave, and I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to find Bridget. I’m a bundle of nerves at the prospect of spending the evening with the better part of the firm, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to dress for such an occasion. Finally discovering Bridget has left for the day for an appointment, I hesitantly approach Vera’s office, hating I’ll have to speak with her intentionally.

I knock on her door and wait for a response. “What!” Good, at least she’s in her normal Vera-bitch mood.

I peek my head in and she glares. “How should I dress tonight?”

She lets out an overly exaggerated sigh of exasperation before responding. “Jesus, Adeline. Can’t you even dress yourself? Any old dress will do.” She smirks a completely sarcastic and cruel smile at me, and I slink off.

Jordan hasn’t come to find me or contacted me since depositing me at the curb in front of our building, and I have no idea how to feel. He was furious when Mark was grilling me and challenging my every design decision, but at the same time, my design was rejected. He must be upset. I’ve made a fool of us both, and while I have no doubt Mark’s rejection of my design had more to do with my rejection of him, I’m still responsible. I’m inexperienced,
green
as Jordan made clear, but my time here is limited, and I’m rated brutally. This one rejection could seriously affect my credit for this internship, and that would be a devastation I’m not sure I can endure.

Jordan will no doubt be at this dinner, and I’m torn between wanting to see him and fear of seeing him, but it’s been made clear I am expected to go, so whether I’m prepared to deal with the fallout of this afternoon or not I’m just going to have to suck it up. Vera’s given me no real time to prepare, which leaves me to my own devices as far as what to wear, but at least it’s just a dress—any old dress as Vera clarified.

I choose a fitted dress that falls a few inches above my knee. It’s a midnight blue and strapless. I pair it with silver strappy sandals and hope the weather stays warm enough to get me through the evening. When I hop the ‘L,’ my appearance gets more than a few attentive stares, and as I’m finally let off near enough to my destination, I’m relieved to be away from the crowd. I’m too dressed for the ‘L’ crowd or to be walking the street alone at seven thirty in the evening, but as I enter Architectural Artifacts I realize however overdressed I was for the ‘L,’ I’m in no way dressed for Foster’s. That bitch! Evening gowns and black-tie tuxedos as far as the eye can see greet me upon my entrance, as do the curious eyes of most of Foster’s employees. They look me over, judging and dismissing me as I stand by mortified. Not one woman is dressed in anything that doesn’t sweep the floor, and here I am in a short dress.
Fuck!

It takes no time at all for me to run into Jordan, and when I do he looks me over from twenty or so feet away. He stares uncomfortably. He’s noticed how poorly dressed I am for the occasion, and as his brow furrows when he finishes looking me over, he swallows over a lump in his throat. Moments later, Vera stumbles up to him and places a hand on his arm. She is smiling adoringly, and she is very obviously drunk. She looks nothing like her normal cruel and cold self. She’s flirting, and she’s doing it well. She is dressed in a long, flowing, rusty-brown satin gown. Her hair is back in a chignon at the nape of her neck, and her bangs are swept perfectly to the side. She’s nearly as tall as Jordan, and as I watch them, wanting to look away, I can’t help but think they look perfect together. She’s just as harshly beautiful as he is. I managed nothing more than curling my long, boring locks into loose spirals, and while I pinned the hair around my face back with multiple jeweled pins, it’s hardly dressy and sophisticated—very much like my dress. I may look cute, but I sure as hell don’t look beautiful like the pristine couple in front of me.