Window Shopping(11)

She seems curious, but a little affronted. “What about this floor? It’s not appealing?”

“It is. If I can pull off the first window and Aid—Mr. Cook likes what I do, then I have an idea to draw people into this space, as well.”

Her eyebrow goes up when I almost call our boss Aiden. Does that mean he doesn’t ask a lot of people to call him by his first name? My stomach probably shouldn’t be doing a somersault over that. I shouldn’t be glancing over Jordyn’s shoulder toward the elevator banks and wondering if I’ll see him today, either. He’s such a dork. He probably says phrases like hunky dory and holy cow. Why was my first waking thought, what kind of kisser is that man?

Because he might be a massive dork, but he’s…surprising.

I never know what he’s going to say. But he always finds a way to nudge me…center. Instead of off-center. Whether he’s telling a story to pull me out of an anxiety spiral or purposefully sitting ten feet away so I’m not uncomfortable, those thoughtful moves have me daydreaming about my boss when no good—or bad—can come of it. Nothing can come of my tiny hint of curiosity, so I need to blow out that flicker of interest real quick.

Anyway, even if he wasn’t my complete opposite, I read the employee handbook this morning and members of management are, “strictly prohibited from fraternizing with employees,” so that’s that. End of story.

Good. Anything else would be ridiculous. I’ve only been out of Bedford Hills for a month. A lot of that time has been spent simply getting used to being in public again. Ordering coffee from a barista, making small talk with my neighbors, going to the grocery store. Super-basic things. A romantic relationship of any kind, especially with someone so vastly different from me, seems less likely than being abducted by little green men holding stun guns.

Jordyn opens her mouth to respond to my request, but it snaps shut, her eyes narrowing on something over my shoulder. I become aware of the sound of rolling wheels.

“Morning, Miss Jordyn.”

“This motherfucker again,” sighs Jordyn, raising my eyebrows. Didn’t see that coming from the flawlessly coiffed floor manager. She crosses her arms and leans to the side, pinning whoever is approaching with the kind of look a mother gives a toddler tracking mud through their living room. “Seamus. What did I tell you about wheeling your dumpster through my department?”

Turning slightly, I see she’s addressing a young man, around my age. A custodian, based on his gray jumpsuit and the fact that he’s wheeling a big container full of white trash bags. His head is shaved, but coupled with his fair, freckled complexion, it’s easy to tell he’s a redhead. He’s not holding back his open admiration for the manager, his expression openly longing.

“Sorry, Miss Jordyn,” he sing-songs, a heavy dose of Brooklyn drawing out his words. “You know I can’t pass up a chance to see your beautiful face.”

I stare, transfixed, as the brown of her cheeks turns richer. “You’re about to see the back of my hand, Seamus, that’s what I know.”

His answering laugh is carefree, as if she didn’t just threaten to smack him. “Did you have your coffee yet, my queen? I’m doing a run. Cream, no sugar, right?”

“For the last time, I don’t need you to get me coffee—”

“I’ll leave it in the break room microwave.” He stops on his way out the side door to sigh loudly, giving Jordyn one last, long look and shaking his head. “Just…damn.”

“Out!” she orders, pointing in the direction of the street.

With a final laugh, he goes, the door closing behind him without a sound. I wait for her to stop blustering under her breath, my bottom lip caught between my teeth to subdue a smile. “That was interesting.”

“That boy isn’t right in the head. Flirting with a woman ten years his age.” She stares after him. “He lives with his parents, for the love of everything holy. If he’d saved the amount of money he spends on my coffee, he’d have a palace by now.” She smooths the side of her French twist. “I’ve done nothing to encourage him either.” A beat passes. “I mean, there was that one time—”

“Oh, that one time,” I echo, forgetting to hide my smile. “The plot thickens.”

“The plot wasn’t the only thing thickening,” she mutters, tugging on the neck of her blazer. Shaking herself slightly as if to dispel her thoughts. “You can put the dress display on our floor, but I’m going to hold you to featuring us in that second window.”

“Mr. Cook will have to officially hire me first.”

“Well, then.” She inclines her head. “Better get to work, new girl.”





*



I take a deep breath and let myself plop backwards onto my butt, glancing around the storage room where I’ve spent a lot of my day. My most recent activity included painting an oversized corkboard hunter green and spraying it down with glitter. Then I decided it looked tacky and painted over the glitter. Fanned it dry.

How long have I been at this? What time is it?

After speaking with Jordyn, I went to Women’s Fashion and spoke to the manager there, consulting with her about which red dress to feature in my window. After we made our decision, she placed an order for more stock of that particular dress in anticipation of customers being lured in by the A-line silhouette, plunging neckline and ruffled sleeves (accessible, but adventurous).