“I understand,” Ivy replied, dropping her gaze. “I was wrong to make that comment.”
Emma relented upon seeing her acquiescence. “You don’t understand yet. But if you’re very, very lucky, maybe you’ll last long enough to understand a little more than you currently do. Now pick up the tray, carefully. Very carefully. Do not spill a drop or allow anything to shift even the slightest. Walk slowly, and follow me.”
They left the pantry and retraced their steps back towards the offices from which they’d come.
Ivy walked slowly and carefully, watching the tray to make sure it was steady, and keeping her eyes glued to just the area surrounding her as she moved.
More than anything, she just didn’t want to screw this up.
Her brow was sweating and she felt perspiration breaking out all over her body as she heated up from the stress.
Even walking seemed difficult, and she felt like her shoes were suddenly on the wrong feet.
“Okay, we’re here,” Emma whispered reverently.
She pointed to a large, opaque glass door. And then, wordlessly, she held her badge to the sensor and it lit green. There was a click and Emma opened the door, allowing Ivy to enter.
Staring into the large conference room, a sudden blast of terror nearly overwhelmed her.
The room was large, with white and gray walls, a few large modern art paintings on the walls, and a huge gleaming black table, surrounded by black leather chairs.
Sitting in the chairs was a mixed group of men and women dressed in crisp suits. They looked like her judges, jury and executioners as they turned to stare.
At the head of the table, facing her, was Cullen Sharpe.
Him.
He sat there, his eyes locked on her as if he’d been waiting for her and her alone. “Come in,” he said, raising his hand and waving her over with one quick, efficient gesture.
The conference room was even colder than the orientation room had been, if such a thing was possible. She could feel the arctic air blasting her shoulders and head from the vents above.
All eyes were still upon her as she walked across the carpeted floor, her feet feeling as though they were walking through a morass of glue. Or mud.
Yes, I’m walking through mud.
She tried to focus on just getting to him and putting the tray down, but his magnetic eyes created such a sensation of panic that she couldn’t even look in his direction.
Her senses were on high alert. She could smell wood, oil, polish, the scent of leather.
Her ears picked up the sound of the air humming through the vents, and the slight rustling of paper as one of the meeting attendees riffled through a binder.
And then there was Cullen Sharpe, sitting there as she finally approached the end of the table and leaned forward to put the tray down in front of him.
He gave her a tiny smile, the corners of his beautiful, pink lips turning up just a slight fraction as he watched her. And this small smile was so befuddling to her that she forgot momentarily what she was doing.
She focused in on those lips.
What would it be like to have those lips touch your lips? Your neck?
Your breasts?
“Careful,” he said, trying to warn her, but it was already too late.
She tilted the tray too far forward and the coffee cup fell on its side. Although it took but a second for it to happen, time slowed down. She watched, horrified, as the black liquid emptied, some onto the tray, more onto the polished table—and even more hot coffee splashed directly onto Cullen Sharpe’s thigh.
It stained his dark trousers a darker color.
Dropping the tray onto the table with a clatter, she cried out. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”
She watched his expression and it didn’t change, not even a flinch of pain, as the burning hot coffee splashed his leg.
“It’s fine,” Cullen told her, his voice calm and totally at ease.
“Let me get something…napkins…” she was nearly hyperventilating from mortification.
Cullen smiled again, this time even wider. “Most of it got on the table and the floor,” he lied. “It barely touched me.”
She’d seen that a great deal of it went on his leg, but for some reason he was trying to make the spill seem not as bad as it was.
“I’ll get you another coffee,” she said, her voice desperate.
I’m as good as fired. I just burned the CEO’s leg. He might need a skin graft.
Ivy’s mind was racing as she tried to rewind time and take back what she’d clumsily done.
“It’s all right,” Cullen assured her. “Please use the napkin to clean up as much of the puddle on the table as you can and then bring the tray with you when you leave.”
“Of course. Sorry. So sorry.” She wanted to run out of the room. Just flee the scene and not to look back.
But something held her in place. She took the napkin from the tray and used it to soak up as much of the coffee as she could. Very quickly, the napkin was soaked through and there was still liquid on the table.