Page 16 of Palm South University: Season 3
THIS SEMESTER IS GOINGto be different.
That’s all I can repeat in my head as I heave the large glass door open to enter one of the tallest buildings downtown, the building where my new internship is, the building where my new life begins.
My dainty, nude heels clack against the marble floor as I pass by the reception desk, smiling at the young man sitting behind it. His name is Christopher and he was the one who gave me my parking garage pass when I’d accepted the internship. He eyes my first-day outfit, throwing me a subtle thumbs-up with a wink as I strut past him with a wide smile toward the elevators.
On the outside, I look completely put together — pairing my favorite strappy Steve Maddens with the brand-new, navy blue Imporio Armani trench coat dress I begged Mom and Dad to buy me for this internship specifically. The sleeves of it are cuffed up to right under my elbow, and I love the way I feel with one hand in the pocket of it as my heels click across the floor.
I cinched the waist of it this morning with a thick, gold-plated belt, the deep V neckline of the dress dipping down to end only a few inches above it. My jewelry is simple, long blonde hair softly curled, and makeup natural. I don’t look nervous, not even a little bit. I look like I belong here, striding right beside the other young professionals, coffee in hand, ready to take on the world.
But inside, I’m completely freaking out.
I toss my half-empty iced coffee into a trashcan on my way to the elevators, casually hooking my damp palm around the base of my small purse as I unclasp it and dig for a mint. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous. Inevergot nervous when I pole danced, not even at regionals, so why does the first day of an internship have my knees unsteady?
Maybe it’s because I feel like I have something to prove this semester. There is no Hayden, no drugs, no Xavier, and — though this one actually hurts more than I admit — no Bo. It’d taken me most of the summer to realize that Bo leaving PSU wasn’t the end of the world, though it felt like it. In fact, in a way, I’m kind of grateful. Because for the first time in my college career, I have no distractions. I’m single, I don’t owe anyone a single thing, and I’ve landed an internship at one of the most reputable event agencies in South Florida.
The nervous energy flowing through me is almost palpable as I step into one of the six elevators, so I let out a long exhale as the doors start to close.
But then a dark hand reaches in to stop them.
The doors slowly slide back open, and when they reveal the man attached to the hand, I’m glad I got in one last calming breath because there’s absolutely no way I’m breathing now.
There’s only one word to accurately describe him: Pristine.
Everything about him is sharp — the edge of his short fade, the line of his nose, the angle of his cleanly shaven jaw. My eyes skate over every inch of him, focus shifting from his broad shoulders to the button of his charcoal suit jacket as he uses one hand to fasten it before stepping inside the elevator with me. He reminds me of Clinton, the same smooth skin and full lips, but Mr. Pristine is a little taller and leaner. I chance another glance at him as the doors begin to close, and he tugs his shades off, tucking them into the front pocket of his jacket before acknowledging me with a smirk and dark, intense eyes.
I swallow, eyes shifting to focus on the white light illuminating floor thirty-two as we start to ascend. I’m absolutely not looking at his reflection in the doors of the elevator. Totally not noticing that his eyes are still on me, roaming my skin the way mine just did his. And when his tongue sweeps his bottom lip subtly, almost so imperceptibly I’m not even sure I really saw it, my thighsdefinitelydon’t clench together under my dress.
I’m one-hundred percent cool.
Until he speaks, that is.
“So, you’re on an elevator with a complete stranger for approximately twenty-five seconds,” he says, the deep baritone of his voice filling the small space between us. I’m still staring at the way his suit tapers at his waist in the elevator door reflection. “Do you A, ride up in awkward silence, or B, tell this stranger why your hands are shaking.”
My eyes snap to his, and he smiles a little wider, knowing he got my attention. I watch him for a moment, his demeanor so cool and calm, and then I clear my throat, facing forward again. I have no idea what to say to that. And if I ignore him much longer, he’ll assume I picked option A. Which is probably the option Ishouldchoose, but after a few long seconds, I figurewhat the hell?Might as well get it out to someone, and why not a stranger?
And so, my nervous energy flows out like word vomit.
“Today is the first day of my internship for what I consider to be the best corporate event agency in Florida and I’m just… I’m nervous, which is weird for me because I’mnevernervous, like when I used to pole dance I never once got nervous before I went on stage.” I pause, eyes widening at what I’d said just as one of Mr. Pristine’s eyebrows shoots up to his hairline. “It was competitive pole dancing,” I clarify. “Like fitness.”
He’s still smirking.
Floor seventeen.
“Anyway, I’ve just had a shit year and this semester I’m determined to turn things around. I want to walk into this internship and impress every single person I talk to — boss, colleague, client, and everyone in-between. So, I guess I’m okay with the fact that my hands are trembling now, so long as they’re steady as stone when I start shakingotherpeoples’ hands.”
He nods, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he eyes me with what feels like respect as the elevator comes to a halt with a soft ding. The doors swing open, and I offer him one last shrug and a smile.
“Wow, that actually helped. Thanks for being the smokin’ hot stranger in the elevator,” I say, stepping off as he holds the doors open.
His eyes spark with even more intensity when I pass him, my arm grazing his jacket. “My pleasure. Thanks for choosing option B.”
I chuckle, giving him an awkward, small wave goodbye.
But then he steps off the elevator, too.
“Oh, and welcome to the best agency in South Florida,” he says, still smirking as he uses his badge to enter through the sleek metal doors under theOkay, CoolEvent Agencysign. I catch the door before it can close, mouth gaping wide, eyes glued to his back as he walks down the row of cubes.
“Hi!” a chipper voice says, snapping me back to reality. The voice belongs to a short, curvy girl around my age with dark blonde hair and freckles lining her cheeks. “You must be one of the interns. I’m Mykayla, the receptionist forOkay, Cool. I see you already met our CEO, so we can skip his office on the tour.”
“CEO?” I ask, voice a little squeaky as my eyes jet to Mr. Pristine’s back again. He turns his head just as his hand finds the handle to an office all the way at the other end, and damn it if he doesn’t smirk again as he pushes the door open and disappears inside.
“Yeah, that’s Brandon Church — Mr. Church to us,” she adds with a wink. “Come on, let’s grab some coffee and I’ll take you around and introduce you to everyone. Your manager won’t be in for another hour or so.”
“Fantastic,” I murmur. Then I follow her to the break room, all the while wondering why the universe hates me.