Page 3 of Save Me the Trouble (Country Love Collection #12)
Chapter Two
Grace
I was nervous, and I shouldn’t have been.
So what if he was a billionaire? So what if he’d chewed up the last three— more experienced —curators sent to do this job? So what if his good graces were the only thing standing between me and homelessness?
I could do this.
“Hello. My name is Grace Johnson, and I have a meeting with Mr. Crown,” I said with a smile, hoping the receptionist couldn’t tell how tightly clenched my teeth were.
As soon as I said his name, she eyed me up and down, snobbery practically dripping from her mascara. Seriously? Did every woman have their sights on him?
I wanted to tell her not to worry—I wasn’t here to see Mr. Crown in that capacity, but the thought of having to do that made me cringe, and my distaste for a man I hadn’t even met yet grew by leaps and bounds.
Instead, I suffered her unimpressed stare at my burnt orange cropped pants and navy and white spotted blouse—an outfit I’d taken far too long to decide on this morning. Message received. I was nowhere near Killian Crown’s league. But I wasn’t trying to be.
I didn’t want to look sexy, but I also didn’t want to look like a person who could barely afford ramen, let alone clothes that fit— I didn’t want to look like who I was .
So, I opted for the outfit I’d worn to my interview for my MBA program.
Professional but quirky. And as long as no one looked too long at my scuffed nude pumps, it would be fine.
“Of course,” she clipped and wrinkled her nose. “Someone will be right down to escort you up to his office, Miss…”
“Johnson. Grace Johnson,” I said with a smile, barely containing my eye roll before turning my attention to the lobby of Crown Corporation’s headquarters inside the modern Rainier Tower.
On the one hand, the black-and-white marble floors, the crisp obsidian furniture, and the striking window facade and modernity of the building threatened to swallow one whole.
But on the other hand…my head tipped up.
Suspended across the entire expanse of the ceiling were countless Chihuly chandeliers and glass ornaments that dripped with vibrant colors and designs; it was strikingly lively and fun compared to the modern monochrome of the floor and décor below.
I wondered if he’d had anything to do with the decor. Probably all the things that were dark and cold.
“Ma’am.” My head jerked at the receptionist’s sharp tone. She nodded toward the elevator, where there was a security guard stationed at the entrance to the bays.
“Floor fifty,” his deep voice rumbled even though he didn’t look at me as I walked by.
The ding of the elevator as it sped up past each floor was like a ticking time bomb.
The door opened. Boom.
Everything on the floor was crisp white—like the person who designed it wanted it to feel sterile. Cold. Like walking on thin ice. There was no color. No plants. No sign of life except for another assistant sitting behind the modern white desk, tapping away at her computer.
“Hi, yes, I’m here?—”
“Miss Johnson. Yes, I’m aware,” she interrupted me almost robotically.
“Mr. Crown is finishing up some things, but I’ll escort you to his office.
” Standing up, she tapped a button on her earpiece and said something under her breath before swiping her card to unlock the frosted glass door behind her.
Tall. Tight skirt. Brunette. An almost carbon copy of the woman downstairs. Mental note: Mr. Crown likes brunettes.
I popped a piece of gum into my mouth and followed her. At the end of the short hall, there was a small sitting room. Two plush navy loveseats sat along the walls, a coffee table in front of them, and a skyline view of Seattle out of the window.
“Mr. Crown will be with you shortly.”
I gaped, reaching for a “thank you,” but she was charging back to her desk before I could find it. Another scan of the room revealed one more rich, mahogany door with a sign on the front of it.
Killian Crown, CEO.
I plopped down on one of the couches with an ‘oomph,’ the soft cushions swallowing me up just as that marked door opened.
“Miss Johnson.”
My head swiveled to the man filling the doorframe, and my jaw went slack. If looks could kill… well, then I could understand why the female half of Seattle would fight each other to the death for this man.
I loathed him—every piece of his character that I’d picked up about him from Darcy and Embers. And I would continue to loathe him…after I took one single minute to appreciate how devastatingly handsome he was. One minute to get that shred of admiration out of my system.
From the very top of his rich brown hair that parted to one side, to the planes of his face that had more right angles than a square, down to the way his suit sculpted perfectly to his broad shoulders and trim waist.
But it was his deceptively clear blue eyes adorned with a narrow pair of glasses that ensnared my stare for longer than a second.
“Miss Johnson?” His voice embodied both indifference and impatience, and he pulled the frames from his face with two fingers and tucked them into his pocket almost like he’d forgotten they were on.
“Y-yes.” I stood quickly and stretched out my hand, realizing too late that I stood too far away for him to be able to shake it.
His eyes dropped to my hand and then lifted back up, a small smile teasing at the corners of his mouth for an instant before it disappeared. Smiles were the kind of luxury rich assholes couldn’t afford.
I dropped my hand to my side, knowing there was nothing I could do about the blush in my cheeks.
“It’s a pleas—nice to meet you,” I said, stepping forward like I could leave the stain of my failed handshake attempt behind me.
But in my eagerness to move on from one embarrassment, I created another.
My heel caught on the fancy white shag carpet, and all of a sudden, my balance was gone.
I tipped like the Leaning Tower of Pisa right for the coffee table when heat exploded in my hand, and I was pulled forward, straight into a rock wall—a rock wall that must have had molten lava flowing underneath the surface and smelled like sandalwood.
Oh, no.
I fought with my lungs to continue breathing as my pulse went haywire. Like a car that didn’t want to start, I tried to reset my racing heart with each attempted inhale, but it refused to turn over; it wanted to stay stalled and leave me flush against him.
“I-I’m so sorry,” I blurted out breathlessly.
I was really struggling to survive the encounter, meanwhile, he looked down at me like I was a fly that had just smashed into his windshield, and if I didn’t step back, he was going to squash me.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated and shoved myself back so forcefully, it was a miracle I didn’t send myself careening to the ground. “I’m Grace Johnson from Embers—your new profile curator.”
If you don’t fire me first.
“I know.” If possible, his expression darkened further, only emphasizing the annoyance in his tone. “I told Robin to reschedule.” And then he turned and walked into his office, leaving me gaping for a long second until the heavy door almost closed in my face.
Not today, Satan. My palm slammed on the wood, adrenaline blotting out the sting as I pushed it back open and strode in after him. I had this. I HAD to have this.
The huge partner’s desk in the center of the room dominated the space. Just like the windows dominated the exterior walls and the dark paint dominated the ambiance. It was a cave. A very expensive work cave for a man who wanted to be a recluse. A gorgeous recluse who dominated my senses.
He stood behind his desk, staring down at an iPad, his brows intently furrowed.
He knew I was standing here, right? Waiting for him?
I steeled my spine. “Well, I’m here now.”
My announcement made no difference; his attention didn’t even flicker from the screen. Plastering the most sickeningly sweet smile on my face, I walked right up to the leather chairs that faced his desk like interrogation seats in front of the executioner and nonchalantly took a seat in one.
That got his attention.
“I don’t have time for any interview today.” He pressed a button on his desk phone and picked up the receiver. “Send Mr. Walton in.” He hung up and glared at me. “You can email Robin your questions, and she’ll respond. Have a nice day, Miss…”
“Johnson,” I ground out, too fed up to do anything but blurt out, “You know, like slang for penis.”
He choked on his next breath, wheezing as the door to his office opened as Robin escorted inside an older man wearing a suit and round glasses and carting a briefcase.
Robin rushed forward, her chest practically leaping from her shirt to reach him. “Are you okay, Mr. Crown?—”
“Fine,” he growled, lifting a hand to prevent her from coming closer.
I covered my mouth with my hand, trying to hide my smile by pretending to rub my nose.
“I can escort you out, Miss…”
“Johnson.” I beamed at her. “You know, like slang for?—”
“That won’t be necessary, Robin,” Mr. Crown interceded quickly. “Miss Johnson, come with me. Robert, I’ll be right with you.”
He rounded the desk, and as soon as I stood, his hand firmly gripped my elbow, guiding me to the stand-alone bookcase on the side wall. With a gentle push, the Murphy door opened into an adjoining room that looked nothing like the office we’d just been in.
“Wait here,” he ordered with a low voice of displeasure.
“O—” The door shut “—kay.”
“Sorry about that, Richard…” His voice quickly dissolved the farther he got away from the door, and that was fine with me.
I had plenty to distract myself with.
My gaze roamed the smaller study.
Unlike the furniture in his office, the sofa and desk chair in here were well-worn. The leather held impressions from the weight of hundreds of ideas born in its seat.
This was where he worked. Not in the massive office behind the imposing desk in the commanding chair. But here. In a cozy, light-lit study, at a small desk that faced the windows, with pictures of flowers on the light blue walls.