Imperfect Storm

Chapter 2 The New Client.

Mr. Wrightson exited first. The car door swung open, revealing Owen's outstretched hand. I met his gaze, captivated by the depths of his blue-black eyes. He towered over me, a dark figure framed by the moonlight.  A familiar scent, his cologne, filled the air – a stark contrast to the cool night.

The restaurant's arched ceiling was so high that I expected to see one of those dancing angels. There was a relaxing atmosphere thanks to the dark walls and soothing lighting. There was no denying he had good taste. I sat down after Owen drew out my chair. The waitress came and offered us the menu, smiling as she asked if we wanted anything to drink. Owen ordered a beer, which surprised me because I didn't think of him as a beer drinker, more of a cognac snob. Glancing at the menu, I opted for a Coke.

"So, Ms. Scott, I'm curious as to how you got your driver's license," Mr. Wrightson said.
"My license? Well, just like anybody else," I replied, placing the paperwork on the table.
"You're funny," he said. "I'll sign with Gold Aroma. I hope this makes up for driving like an idiot."
I remained silent, at a loss for words. My mind flashed back to the day I nearly died.
"That was you?" I asked.
"Yes. Will signing this contract make up for my horrendous driving?" He clicked the pen he took out of his pocket.
"I don't want you to sign with me just because you feel bad about literally nearly killing me and then driving away like a coward."
"That's not the only reason. Hand me the documents, Meg."
"I can explain the clauses as you sign every one-"

He ignored me and signed.

"Send me a copy. I'll read it later, and my lawyers will inform you if they find any discrepancies," he said, sliding the signed contract over to me.
"Sure," I said.

Good lord. It looks as if this man is going to devour my soul with his eyes and melt my spirit with his smile.

"Cheers! To Gold Aroma. And Meg Scott."
I raised my glass "Cheers."
"Allow me to prove I'm not a coward?" 
"I think it might be a bit late for that."
"It's never too late. I can prove anything to you. Trust me!"
"Is that so?" 
"Yes. I came back. Made sure you were okay. Didn't I?"
"You did. Owen?" 
"Yeah?" He whispered, and smirked.
"I'm assuming the roses were from you?"
"Yes."
"Well, okay, thank you."
"You're welcome."

DOROTHY SCOTT speared a chicken drumstick with her fork, the crispy skin gleaming under the dining room light. Across from me, Mom chased a rogue pea around her plate.

"So listen to this," the clink of my fork against the china the only sound in the tense silence. "A man plowed through a red light and almost turned me into a concrete ornament. Then guess who showed up at the office the next week?"
Mom dabbed her lips with her napkin, her brow furrowed in concern. "What? Are you alright, honey?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. I was only in hospital for a day. No big deal. Anyway! We drove to a restaurant just four blocks away, and he signed the contract."
"Well, at least you got a new client. Have you seen him again since? What's his name?"
"No. We haven't spoken for a while. Lucy deals with his business mostly. His name is Owen Wrightson."
"Owen Wrightson, what a nice name."
I laughed. My mom doesn't have a single rude bone in her body. Even though my father cheated on her numerous times during their marriage, it never changed her.

Owen was still on my mind long after mum had left for some reason. My phone rang as soon as I got out of the shower.

"Hi, Hill."
"Ms. Scott?"

I took the phone away from my ear and glanced at the screen, which says, "Unknown." That should teach you to open your damn eyes!

"Sorry, who is this?"
"My name is Joe. Mr. Wrightson instructed me to pick you up."
"Pick me up? What for? It's nearly 10 pm."
"Ms. Scott,"
"I'm in my pajamas and ready for bed; please direct MR. Wrightson to my office if he has an urgent need to see me. Joe, goodnight."

The next morning, I emerged from a staff meeting which was as thrilling as watching paint dry. My ever-perky assistant, bless her enthusiastic heart, practically skipped in behind me.
"Meg," she chirped, "a Vanessa has graced us with her presence."
"A Vanessa, huh? Who is she? A superhero for parking tickets?" Send her in, I suppose.
A brunette woman strolled through the door, heels clicking a sassy Morse code message that probably translated to "CEO's office, babe." I rose with all the enthusiasm of a zombie encountering a tossed salad, extending a hand for a handshake.

Our firm's motto? "Clients are family!" – founder's words, not mine. Apparently, being the face of the brand means everyone wants a piece of Meg-time.
"Vanessa, welcome! Did we schedule a playdate? Because my calendar only shows a dentist appointments at the moment."
This Vanessa, decided to cut straight to the chase. "Just a heads-up, you're in over your head. People come and go, Meg, but Owen? He is going nowhere. Once he latches on. He never lets go."
With a final, pitying glance, Vanessa sashayed out, taking a significant chunk of my self-confidence with her.
Slamming my fist (gently) on the desk, I dialed Lucy. "Who was that enigma in stilettos?"
"Vanessa Gray, Ms. Scott. Apparently, Owen's assistant?"
"Assistant? Did a mail gremlin rewrite my email this morning? I sent instructions to Brenda, that's Owen's assistant. Not Vanessa. First rule Lucy: we don't do surprise assistants, especially ones with cryptic warnings."
"Noted, Ms. Scott. Consider Brenda reinstated as gatekeeper of the CEO's sanity."

AS GLEN PRES ENTERED HIS OFFICE, the atmosphere went from 'Netflix and chill' to 'interrogation room' faster than you can say 'corporate downsizing.' He slumped behind his desk, slamming the door with the force of a man who'd just discovered his entire sock collection had migrated to Narnia.  His face held the weary expression of a man facing a monumental domestic crisis. You know, the kind that hinges on whether the throw pillows are facing the correct direction. Apparently, Hillary, his pregnant wife, and my sister, had transformed into a hormonal hurricane ever since the baby stork decided to visit.
Glen, a human Ken doll sculpted by Armani himself, sported the kind of designer suits that could bankrupt a small country. His piercing blue eyes and blonde hair would make even the most confident man question his own masculinity. He was, however, undeniably good at his job - which, in this case, involved surviving Hillary's crazy rampage.  (My sister, Hillary, is basically a walking ball of ambition, so the whole 'opposites attract' thing is clearly a myth. Glen, bless his perfectly sculpted heart, has been playing Prince Charming since high school. But Hillary is definitely his Cinderella. A love like that does not come around often.)
"Mr. Pres," his assistant said, "you have an Owen Wrightson here to see you."
"Excellent. Send him in, and hold all my calls unless they involve a sock intervention."

When Hillary called to invite me for dinner, I was practically at my doorstep already.
As I pulled into their driveway, a fancy car - undoubtedly belonging to one of Glen's legal buddies - parked outside. I rang the doorbell, and the door creaked open in slow motion. Glen, with a smile that could sell toothpaste to a vampire, stood there, his gaze lingering on me for an uncomfortably long moment.
"Meg," he finally spoke, the words stretching after the solid 10 seconds of silence.