“Well, I can’t be sure, but in normal elevators some floor numbers are skipped. Like thirteen.” Maylin pointed to the buttons for twelve and fourteen.
“Yeah.” Still not sure where she was going.
“In buildings in certain Asian communities, any floor number containing the number four would be missing too.” She pointed to the four button on the panel. “So this wasn’t a Chinese submarine.”
Huh. Learn something new. “The number four an unlucky number?”
She laughed. “A lot of people are superstitious. Pretty sure that’s a cross-cultural thing. In Chinese superstition, the number four sounds like the word for ‘death.’ I don’t consider myself particularly superstitious, but in an exceptionally tall building, going to one of those floors does give me a cold chill. Maybe I’m not quite as Americanized as my stepmother despairs.”
Having knowledge of one’s ethnic roots gave a depth to a person. He envied her. Growing up, his mother’d put most of her effort into making them the All-American family with little to no emphasis on where she or his father’d come from. After his parents died, he’d spent his time in the foster system with only the name Diaz and a mirror to tell him about his background. His identity had been built with his own two hands in the service, then with the Centurions.
After a moment, she shook her head. “Ugh. Speaking of my stepmother, she also thinks I watch too many of those police procedural dramas on television. She might be right, and I hate admitting that, but after watching those, the idea of having one of these elevators in your company building totally makes sense in my brain.”
“You like watching those?” Along with Asian dramas and Japanese cartoons. Funny how unreal those shows were, and yet reality could be even less believable. Then again, if the average public found the things he’d seen in real life entertaining then he’d consider the human race doomed. He’d seen some sorry examples of what people were capable of.
She had her eyes on the floor light indicator, watching the slow progression upward. “Sometimes. There’s usually a marathon of one series or another going on and I like to watch while I’m experimenting with recipes in my free time.”
The elevator finally came to a stop and the doors opened to an atrium of polished dark marble. No insignia marked the floor or walls. As they crossed to a set of glass doors, only a small removable plaque marked the office space as Centurion Corporation. “You messing with ingredients for your business or for home?”
It was fun to watch her in a kitchen. Always in motion, taking charge with a confidence he found irresistible.
The receptionist inside had seen them coming and the magnetic lock disengaged with an audible click. He reached out and pulled open the glass door, motioning for Maylin to precede him.
She answered as she walked by, her tone calm and still conversational. “I look for new recipes to add to my themed menus, but they’re usually made to serve a small dinner party. Scaling up to catering for between fifty to a few hundred isn’t always simple math. There’s practicality in food prep to be considered and approaches to presentation. Plus, deciding whether it can sit out as long as it would need to for a buffet. And every once in a while, kitchen chemistry can be unexpectedly exciting.”
He snorted as they approached the reception desk. “You make it sound like pots explode.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her shrug. “Not saying they don’t once in a while. There’s also the occasional fireball.”
Huh.
“Hey, Diaz.” The young man at reception looked to be about sixteen. In reality, he was in his midtwenties and had been deployed with the Air Force as an officer once before deciding to move to the private sector. Caleb was doing his training with corporate before coming out to the Seattle branch to train with his new squadron. Officer training in the military had given him polish, the Centurion Corporation would give him seasoning. “We’ve been expecting you. Just need your associate to present a valid photo ID and sign in.”
Maylin gave Caleb a smile as she pulled out her real driver’s license. From over her shoulder, Gabe gave Caleb a warning glance as he caught the kid trying to get a better angle as Maylin leaned forward to sign on the electronic signature pad. Seriously, it was both attractive and infuriating the way she was unconsciously tempting. At least Gabe had confirmation her effect wasn’t exclusively on him.
Caleb snorted as he assembled and handed her a plastic visitor badge with a label affixed to it displaying her name and identifying Gabe as her escort, all business now. “Here you go. Wear this someplace visible at all times. It’s only good for the day. Red hatch marks come up on it after eight hours.”
His ability to do his job and remain unintimidated by the older Centurions without insulting anyone was part of the reason he had a good future with them. He knew his stuff, got along with everyone, accepted each of them with their relatively dangerous quirks. Good man.