STEP BY STEP (3 page)

“Are interns not allowed in meetings?” I
asked as I took a seat across from her and slung my purse over the back of the
chair. “I noticed I was the youngest person in that boardroom. “

“Generally, no,” she answered with a
careful cadence. “I didn’t think you were going to speak up and draw attention
to yourself. I’d asked you to take notes, remember?”

“So it’s bad to speak up around here?” I
was confused. “Isn’t that what you do in the real world? You communicate and
brainstorm and-”

“It’s different here,” she said. “Preston
– Mr.
Woodfield
– sort of rules with an
iron fist. Don’t speak unless spoken to. We’re all peons regardless of our
fancy titles. That sort of thing.”

“And you guys all put up with that?” I
asked, my hands on my hips and my voice raised in slight disbelief. I was
beginning to realize some things never changed. He was still a jerk. A sexy
jerk
, but a jerk nonetheless. “He can’t treat you guys like
you’re dogs. You’re highly educated, talented, seasoned professionals.”

“Try telling him that,” Monica huffed,
her eyes rolled as if she’d tried many times before. “It’s sort of best to lay
low and fly under the radar around here. The last thing you want is Mr.
Woodfield
to know who you are.”

“I’m not a afraid of him,” I huffed,
crossing my arms and leaving out the fact that I’d known him since he was
twenty and thought he knew everything about everything.

Monica looked at me as if I’d just
blasphemed in her office.

“You still love what you do though,
right?” I asked, searching for an ounce of reassurance that my entire world
hadn’t just crumbled apart.

Monica pursed her lips and stared off to
the left as she thought long and hard about it. “Some days, yes.”

A shrill tone sounded from the phone on
her desk, and Monica swiped up the receiver mid-ring. “Yes, Tiffany? Okay. I’ll
send her that way.”

“What?” I asked. The look on her face
spelled trouble already.

“Mr.
Woodfield
wants to see you.” She spoke as if she were delivering the most ominous news
she’d ever heard. Her red lips parted, as if she almost wanted to apologize,
but instead she pointed to her door. “Sixth floor. Check in with his
secretary.”

“Am I being fired from my internship?” I
asked, my jaw dropping as I stood up and collected my things. I wondered if he
still was going to pretend like he didn’t know me.

Monica shrugged, her demeanor softening.
“He’s a wild card, honey. I hope not, but I don’t know. You just never know
what’s going to set him off. I never should’ve brought you to that meeting. I’m
so sorry.”

My eyes burned hot for a moment, but I
forced the sensation away. I wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of
seeing me weak, especially not Preston.

You’re
smart
, I reminded myself
as I marched to Preston’s floor.
You’re
talented. You know who you are. Don’t let anyone take that away from you.
You’ve come too damn far to give up this easily.

Monica’s words echoed in my ear, and with
every step I took towards his secretary’s desk, fear of the unknown coursed
through my every vein.

“Hi, Ruthie,” I said, remembering her
from the meeting an hour earlier. “I’m here to see Mr.
Woodfield
.
Mirabelle Baker.”

Ruthie smiled through crinkled blue eyes
as she picked up the receiver and called him. “He’ll be right out. You can have
a seat over there.”

I took a seat in an extra cushy leather
waiting room chair next to a babbling marble fountain and a stack of shiny,
glossy magazines as I waited for Preston to come out.

I waited five minutes. Then ten.
Eventually ten minutes turned into twenty, and anxiety began to settle in. I
crossed my legs to stifle my foot from twitching, but it only made it worse. I
grabbed one of the magazines from the table; a trade publication called Market
Bits.

The man on the cover looked familiar, and
I squinted and pulled it a little closer to my face. He was wearing a jet-black
suit with a red tie and had the most arrogant of smirks across his face as he
sat perched on the edge of his shiny, mahogany desk. It was Preston, and the
caption read, “The Next Big Thing.”

Well
done
, I thought.
No wonder his head’s still so big.

I chuckled, audibly, and flipped the
magazine to the article. My eyes hungrily scanned over the five-page spread
dead-center
in the publication, resting when they reached a
page full of various photos of him. If he
wasn’t
so
busy being an arrogant ass, he’d actually be quite attractive. Okay, so he was still
very attractive, but his personality was ugly. I could only pray he didn’t have
a girlfriend. Guys like him never found anything – or anyone – to
ever be good enough for them.

According to the spread, Preston attended
Duke on a full-ride scholarship and earned two degrees: one in advertising and
one in marketing with a psychology minor. Just like me. He worked for a couple
of firms just outside the city before buying out the flailing
Halston
firm for a mere pittance and turning it from a
withering, sad little company into one of the next big things in the world of
advertising. And he’d done it all in just five years.

I didn’t read a single thing about his
personal life. The guy must eat, sleep, and breathe advertising.

“Interesting article, Ms. Baker?” A man’s
voice startled me as I the magazine flew from my fingertips and landed on the floor
by a pair of shiny, black patent leather loafers.

Compose
yourself, girl!

“Yes,” I replied, my eyes locked into
his. The way he stared at me put a quiver into my voice. I thought about adding
something about how fascinating it was and how impressive it was that he saved
the
Halston
firm, but I knew he’d see right through
me. Preston didn’t seem like a man who appreciated a good
ass-kissing
.

“Come,” he said as he wagged his finger
at me and pointed towards his office at the end of the hall.

Two enormous doors were pushed open,
beckoning us forward towards a shiny, polished mahogany desk that sat front and
center. Behind the desk were wall-to-wall windows overlooking the city. Even
for a sixth floor office, he had breathtaking views overlooking the George
Washington Bridge and the Statue of Liberty.

“A girl could get used to this view,” I
marveled as my eyes took in the sights. Puffy white clouds filled the perfect,
robin egg’s blue sky outside. Sun trickled in and warmed the dry, January air
just enough.

“Have a seat, Mirabelle,” he said.
Apparently he had no time for small talk.

For a second I almost forgot I was
possibly in trouble for speaking out during the meeting. I swallowed the lump
in my throat as my palms prickled with sweat and I forced a confidence smile
across my lips.

“Do you know why I called you in here?”
he asked. He took a seat in his overstuffed, brown leather chair and scooted it
up to his desk. His tie, an intimidating shade of scarlet, was pinned neatly to
his starched button down shirt. His dark brown hair, perfectly combed and
parted on the side, had not a single strand out of place.

“I don’t,” I replied, my hands folded
neatly in my lap.

He sat back in his seat and stared, as if
he didn’t know what he wanted to do with me. I thought about what Monica said
and how everyone put up with the way he treated
them
.
If he was going to make my life a living hell for speaking up and putting my
education to good use, then I didn’t want to work for him anyway. I didn’t
deserve that. Then again, an internship at
Woodfield
and
Halston
on my resume would pretty much guarantee
a job at any other firm in the country upon my graduation.

“That meeting Monica brought you to this
morning,” he said, his eyes intense and piercingly blue. “You shouldn’t have
been there. It was for ad execs and account managers only.”

“Oh, okay,” I replied with raised
eyebrows. I didn’t see what the big deal was. It wasn’t like we talked about
anything too sensitive. “My apologies. I had no idea.”

“Why weren’t you in the intern
orientation this morning?” he asked. I felt as if my father was scolding me,
only Preston
Woodfield
wasn’t much older than thirty.

“I wasn’t aware of the orientation,” I
said. I flashed an innocent smile and crossed my legs. I refused to let him
break me over something so
piddly
. “Monica said she’d
make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

“Monica,” he said with a chuckle as he
stared off into space. “That Monica. She’s a real handful these days.”

What
did that mean?

“Monica’s been great so far,” I said. My
positive attitude was nearly award winning, and I prized myself for it.

“You’ve been here, what, two hours?” he
asked with a rude huff, but I didn’t let it shake me.

“Two very interesting and educational
hours,” I corrected him. “With all due respect, I learned a lot at that meeting
this morning. I really liked just diving in like that, even if it wasn’t
protocol. Thank you for letting me stay and participate.”

“You’re right, it wasn’t protocol,” he
said, his hands folding into an upside down “V” as he concentrated on my face.
I couldn’t help but notice his ring-less left finger and the lack of personal
photos around the room. He truly was a Douchebag with a capital D. Again, not
much had changed besides the fact that he was hot as fuck.

“Again, I’m very sorry,” I
repeated,
only I made sure to hold my shoulders extra high.
“I really didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I guess I’m confused as to
why that warrants a personal meeting with you in your office?”

His face twisted into a calculated smirk.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re not going to be working with Monica
anymore.”

My heart sank. Was I being fired? My
breathing grew labored as my mind jumped to the worst possible scenario. My
fingers gripped the buttery leather of my satchel, and my body was urging me to
jump out of my seat and get the hell away from that asshole.

I had no words. I sat, paralyzed, waiting
for him to explain.

“You’re going to be working with me from
now on,” he said. His hands, which were previously calculating and
intimidating, fell gently into his lap. His eyes, which were cool and menacing
a second before, now held a small yet noticeable glimmer of hope.

“Oh, wow,” I said with a sliver of relief
in my voice and a million emotions flooding my mind. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“What, did you think I was firing you?”
he said with a smirk, but the way those words so easily fell off his tongue
were a little too close for comfort, like he’d said them a million times
before.

I shrugged, giving an ambivalent response
before changing the subject. “So what would you like me to do today?”

He shifted his weight in his chair before
standing up and walking around to the front of his desk. He leaned against it,
our knees nearly grazing, and crossed his arms. “Mirabelle, I’m putting you on
the Johnston account.”

“What?”

Was
I dreaming? Did Preston
Woodfield
just give me my own
account on my first day of my internship?

“Do you need me to repeat myself?” he
seemed annoyed. He was a cut-to-the-chase kind of man with very little time for
theatrics.

“No,” I said. “I heard you loud and
clear. I’m just shocked. I wasn’t expecting this at all.”

He reached over to the phone and buzzed
Ruthie. “Ruthie, set Mirabelle up in the office next to mine…Yes, Sapphire Hart’s
old office…She’s going to be working directly with me until further notice.”

My
own office?
I
tried to stifle the ridiculously enormous grin that was aching to come out and
show itself for
all the
world to see.