Ms. Gayle clapped her hands with delight. “Great! I’ll get on that right away. You just make yourself comfortable in here. I wrote your computer log-in right there on the sticky note on the monitor and put anything else you need in the desk drawers. I’m sure Porter will be ending his call soon. He’s right across the hall. Oh, you’re going to love him! He’s the best. A real standup guy and the nicest associate I’ve ever worked with!”
I gave Ms. Gayle a wry smile. I highly doubted that I’d love this guy. I didn’t know that much about him. After weeks of internet sleuthing, I couldn’t find a decent photo of Porter. Despite being one of the senior most architects at the firm, there were no updated photos of him on the Riddle and Robinson website. Coupled with his sparse social media pages, filled with covers of vinyl jazz records and artsy shots of food—so many shots of food—I figured either the guy was trying to keep a low profile, or he hated taking photographs. The only thing that I knew for sure about Porter Harrison was that he attended undergrad at Hampton, like I had. He apparently had a keen eye for design; the guy had won a few awards over the years. So had I. Mr. Riddle said he’d hope that we could “cultivate a great working relationship” based on those commonalities alone. I wasn’t sure how easy it would be. I had hardly been the social butterfly at Hampton. I didn’t know many people. I’d kept a relatively low public profile within our industry, refusing to mingle outside of work. Besides, I wasn’t here to make friends and get close to anyone. I’d made that mistake once before.
I was just trying to repair the damage and get back to the job I loved. After months of being rejected by every other architectural firm in town, this opportunity with Riddle and Robinson was more than a job. It was an answered prayer.
Ms. Gayle made her way toward the door, but quickly pivoted on her heels. “You know, with a name like Ari, I thought you’d be a guy. Or Jewish. Well...you could still be Jewish. I’m not one to pry about religion. Either way, it’s nice having another woman around here.” With that, she closed the door behind her.
I sat in my sterile office, tapping my fingers on the table and occasionally glancing at the time on my watch. After logging onto the computer and putting away my things, I glanced across the hall. Squinting, I could only see the back of Porter Harrison’s head through the partially opened blinds of his office door. Dude was really taking his sweet ass time. Was he the prince of the firm or something? If there was one thing I hated more than being late, it was being entitled. I couldn’t and wouldn’t work with another entitled jerk.
Twenty minutes later, an out-of-breath bike courier carrying a bag from a high-end department store knocked on the door. The tall, skinny white guy with black skater hair that peeked from underneath his helmet warily gave me a smile. He gripped the items with his fingerless gloves as if his life depended on it.
“Ms. James. Here are the things you requested. Are these sufficient?” He stood pensively, waiting for me to inspect it.
I opened the luxury shopping bag and peered inside. I was confused. Had they switched my bag with someone else’s? I was sure I had not requested Tamara Mellon pumps. These shoes were at least $250. The blouse was a plain white button-down in my requested size. It, too, was perfect. Wait? This blouse was a $300 Eileen Fisher. Good lord. I gulped, thinking about how that was going to come out of my first check.
“It’s great. What do I owe you?” I asked as I went to my desk to pull out my Mastercard. Between this and the renovations to my house, I was going to eat ramen for the next month.
“No need for payment, Ms. James. It’s been taken care of. As well as the tip.” The courier exited my office as swiftly as he had appeared.
That’s weird. Architectural firms had personal shoppers and accounts for associates? I had really come up in the world.
I quickly tossed my heels in the trash, ripped off my torn pantyhose, and slipped on the new heels. They were the perfect fit. I eased off my dirty shirt and tossed it into my tote bag, stuffing it all back into the large industrial bureau behind my desk. Just as I was buttoning the fresh shirt, relishing the feel of the material against my skin, my door flung open without warning.
A male voice boomed. “Ms. James. I’m so sorry for being late this morning. I...”
I turned around....
God must be auditioning for Def Comedy Jam.
Ms. Gayle’s “You’re going to love him” was a gross understatement, which included no mention of how handsome this man was. Christ! She could have warned me that Porter Harrison looked like the missing brother in a Michael Ealy/Jesse Williams doppelg?nger set of triplets. He had sparkling green eyes, and a chiseled jawline framed by a faded beard hid a slight dimple that framed his wide, inviting, bright smile.
Or maybe I imagined that. I couldn’t be sure. Having someone walk in on you in a state of undress makes one disoriented.
I hurried and covered myself, holding my shirt together so tight I feared I’d rip off a button.
“Oh, dear God! I’m so sorry!” Porter squinted, closing his eyes tightly, unsure of where to look while his face was turning a bright shade of apricot.
“Well, can you turn around, please? So, I can finish changing my shirt.”
“Oh sure. Do your thing!”
Porter turned quickly to face the corner of the office while I quickly buttoned my shirt and tucked it into my skirt in record time. I prayed the zipper would hold under the increasing pressure building up in my midsection. I could see why the man didn’t have a photo on the company website or social media. He was too fine for public consumption.
I inhaled a deep breath before responding in my most professional voice. “Mr. Harrison. You may turn around now.”
My mouth went dry as I took in his alarmingly good looks. It was a face that I would steer clear of under all circumstances. There was no way that this man was real, standing in front of me. Dude had the looks of an Instagram model. An impeccably dressed man, Porter wore a tailored gray suit and maroon tie. Too focused on his eyes, I almost missed when Porter extended his hand to me. I wiped my sweaty, quivering hand on my skirt and extended it toward him.
Porter, realizing that he was still holding my hand a beat too long, finally let go. “Wow...you’re here. I mean. Sorry. Don’t get up. I’m so sorry for the wait. I was on a call and I couldn’t get them off the phone. Forgive me, Ms. James. Let’s sit.”
I slid back down in the chair nearest to me, unsure if I was melting or just obeying. “Ari. Ari is fine,” I stammered. His voice had a twang that reminded me of candy-coated paint jobs, bayous, and Texas heat. A sweet, sticky heat.
Porter smiled a smile that was toothpaste-commercial ready. “Ari it is. Just call me Porter.”
He sat down in the chair next to me. My skirt was so tight that I knew crossing my legs would cut off circulation and lead to my death. A death witnessed by this handsome man in the well-tailored suit.
Porter continued. “Mr. Riddle has told me such great things about you. Your work is top-notch.”