Page 8 of Mason

The nervous flutter in my stomach returns as I approach the reception desk, where the blonde barely acknowledges my presence before pointing to the seating, as though this is my first crack at this. If only.

I carefully sit in a chair across from where I sat yesterday—change your stars any way you can—and instead of flipping through the business magazine with Mason Wood on the cover, I skim Forbes.

At five to eleven, I set down the magazine and take quick stock of my surroundings. Too nervous, I’d barely given it a cursory glance, but today the light and sun-drenched room begs for closer inspection. It’s devoid of color—all cream and beige, from the plush carpeting to the painted walls—aside from two abstract paintings that hang side by side above a fish tank. Two large Bala sharks weave between twin halves of a shipwreck that looks suspiciously like the Titanic. An antique pocket watch dangles from the stern. Actual prop from the movie or a clever replica? Hard to tell.

A glass cabinet at the far end of the room overflows with more Hollywood memorabilia—the volleyball from that Tom Hanks movie where he’s stranded on a desert island, some kind of green mask that is vaguely familiar, a silver C3P0 skull perched next to a replica of the Millennium Falcon.

I mentally catalogue the inventory, assessing how I might use it in conversation. Some kind of ice breaker or tension obliterator, a way to make Mason forget that yesterday I snubbed his offer, and today I’m begging for him to hire me.

The elevator door pings and I hold my breath, anticipating Mason’s entry. Will he furrow his brow at me? Scowl? Or will his smile be warm, welcoming, with the kind of pride I suspect a man of his nature gets when he realizes he’s right?

I don’t have a chance to find out, because the guy that steps into the lobby wears a UPS uniform and is throwing himself at the receptionist while she signs for some kind of package. My mind starts thinking about what could be inside the box.

I grew up on my mom’s old Nancy Drew mysteries, the adventures between those pages fueling my own curiosity. Mom figured I’d be some kind of investigative reporter—a real Katie Couric type—but then my “investigation” into where my Dad kept going every year outed his long-standing affair with a woman half my mother’s age. That was enough to turn me off any further amateur sleuthing. Some secrets are better left buried.

But Day trading holds a certain kind of mystery, an often unexpected outcome, for better or worse. You can never tell what will cause a spike in the markets, or force a trade. My adrenaline heightens. Maybe Mason didn’t see it yesterday, but I get a rush from that kind of challenge. Dad used to say I thrive on it.

But then, Dad said a lot of things I’m not sure I believe anymore.

At noon, I walk back to the reception desk. The blonde acknowledges me with a cool smile, and I try for a frost-melting grin. No dice. This chick is the ice queen. A shiver zigzags up my spine, and I wrap my arms around my waist.

“Hi,” I say, lamely. “I just wanted to confirm that my appointment was scheduled for 11 a.m. The line was a bit crackly and I may have misunderstood.”

She drops her gaze to the appointment book, where my name is written in with bold, black ink. “No misunderstanding.”

I nervously glance over at the clock like it’s the new elephant in the room. “I’m sure he’s running behind. It’s just…” My voice trails off. “Never mind.” I snag one of the breath mints from the dish perched on the edge of her desk and peel off the wrapper. “I guess I’ll just go back and wait.”

She gives the unwrapped candy in my hand a pointed look.

I pop it in my mouth and crinkle-crinkle-crinkle the paper until she holds out her hand with an exaggerated sigh. The wrapper is clammy from my sweat, and I don’t even care. Professionalism be damned. I squish it into her palm and head back to the seating area, swinging my hips a little as I walk.

This time, I grab the copy of People tucked under the more serious magazines. Mason Wood isn’t on the cover of this publication either, but I find him on Page 6, his arm slung around some model’s thin shoulders. She’s grinning at the camera—and he’s smoldering. I mean, it’s like he’s staring at me from the page, and I’m loathe to admit it, but it does something to my insides. I get this tingle between my legs, and suddenly I’m worried that I should have worn underwear. I mean, who doesn’t wear panties to a job interview?

Sure, I wanted to avoid ugly panty lines, but now I’m wondering if it was such a good decision.

I turn the page to break the connection, but there’s another shot of him, this time without the model. He’s in a navy suit with thin white pinstripes, and his crisp shirt is unbuttoned to his mid chest.

My throat constricts. Yeah.

Without even realizing it, I swipe my finger across the page, lingering over his glistening, muscular chest. My cheeks burn. The elevator pings, and I look up. It’s not Mason, either. Just another delivery guy, this one in a bike helmet and spandex shorts.

I slam the magazine shut and stand, eyes quickly seeking out the restroom. I spot it to my left and go inside, splash some cold water on my face and then touch up my makeup.

Fresh towels line a basket perched on the granite countertop. An orchid bloom hangs over a generous sink basin flanked by an assortment of fancy soaps and lavender scented lotions, creams, and sprays.

After lightly freshening up, I go back into the lobby where the minute hand on the giant clock over the reception desk clicks toward 2 p.m. Annoyance and anxiety flickers through me.

Why is he keeping me waiting this long? Why not just refuse to see me at all?

I stroll back to the reception desk and wait for the blonde to look up. She regards me with mild amusement. “Yes, your appointment was scheduled for 11 a.m.”

Blood rushes to my head, and I bite back a sarcastic response. “Duly noted,” I say, thinly. “But, it is now 2 p.m.” I point at the clock with an aggressive finger poke.

“I’m afraid Mr. Wood is running behind today,” she says with obvious enjoyment at my discomfort.

What isn’t clear is for how long I’m supposed to hang around. “Should I make an appointment for another time?”

She stares at her manicured nails like they’re prized artifacts from the Louvre and shrugs. “You could, though I can’t guarantee how soon I could fit you in. He did want me to assure you that he’d be here soon.”