Lexa
When the meeting was almost finished, the Vice President of Sales & Marketing, Brooke Brenner, paused.
Her red hair was perfectly curled and she wore a fitted black Chanel dress that hugged all of her fake curves and complimented the matching black stilettos that gave her five inches.
"Any questions, thoughts, or concerns?"
Heads glances around the room. I could tell, like me, we were all itching to get the hell out of here and go to lunch.
Quiet, sex God Caleb Miller cleared his throat.
He spoke. "I have a thought. We know this clientele. They're high end. The Credence Golf Course is down the street from Arbella. We could collaborate with them on the grand opening day. See if they'll donate a round of golf to our VIPs, or at the bare minimum, they can have a presence on site—maybe sponsor something. I think if we're selective and thoughtful about including a few luxurious vendors in that community, it will help not just sell this product as a home, but as a lifestyle. It could help to secure deposits and sales on day one."
My jaw dropped. Where the hell have you been Caleb Miller? I'd always had a thing for the strong silent type. He'd been a statue the whole meeting. Turns out, he was strategically planning something useful and creative.
Heads around the table nodded in appreciation at the great idea. Rumors were that one of the members on the VIP list was a professional golfer. There was no way Caleb could've known that since it was his first day, but I loved where his head was at.
Brooke frowned. Always afraid to be upstaged and outsmarted, she said nothing at first, wearing her sour lemon scowl. "That's great," she said finally.
Caleb beamed, the crow lines around his eyes when he smiled made him even more handsome.
"But from a planning perspective, it's a nightmare. Two weeks isn't enough time to re-brand our celebration e-blasts and flyers. And it certainly isn't enough time to re-plan the event, which I've had planned for months." She rolled her eyes and laughed, as if she'd been talking to a petulant child.
Caleb's face grew pale.
Brooke raised a waxed brow. "Maybe for the first couple of weeks, listen instead of speaking, hmm?" With that, she strutted to the meeting room door, flung it open, and walked out. The sound of each heeled footfall were like cold slaps to the face.
The rest of the room filtered out but I stood frozen. I didn't know him but I wanted to help—do something, say something that would help soothe the burn he'd publicly received in front of his new peers.
When the meeting room was empty, save for the two of us, he finally stood. Unlike before he didn't look at me. He ripped a piece of paper from his notebook, balled it up, and stopped at the door near where I stood. He tossed it into the basket.
He was taller than I was. Over six feet. I looked up and gathered my wits. "Don't worry about her. It was a brilliant—"
"Don't," he said coldly. There was a disappointment in his voice that deflated me. He genuinely seemed disappointed in himself but for what? For having a great idea shoved away by a petty, overbearing marketing manager that wouldn't know authenticity if it slapped her in the face?
He passed through the door, so close to me that I got a smell of Caleb Miller. Soap and sandalwood flooded my senses.
Anger rose in my throat. Someone needed to put Brooke in her place. And more than that, give Caleb a rundown of the stupid politics and petty people that weighed down the homebuilding industry, clasping onto their reputation and position like life jackets, terrified to have them taken away.
There were good, kind people too of course. But this place was a bubble. Or in Brooke Brenner's case, the sun—a fiery ball of hot gas with lethal flares that burned if you got too close.
I stared down at the crumpled ball that were Caleb's meeting notes. I tapped my foot. It was in the trash and should certainly stay there...BUT, it was on top and practically begging to be looked at. How could I be certain that he didn't just accidentally drop it? Okay, I knew better but I liked to think that my curiosity was one of my best traits. It was what kept me employed, knowing everything about everyone, facts that could help you stay proactive, instead of reactive.
Impulsively, I stuck out my arm and retrieved the white ball and carried it down the hallway, back to my desk outside of my President's corner office on the second floor. It burned in my hand, real or imaginary, and I was alight with curiosity over the type of note-taker he was. He didn't strike me as a bullet point kind of guy. His suit said bullet point, but his messy hair and worn shoes said long flowing sentences and cursive.
I unfolded Caleb's page and stared. My pulse quickened. They weren't notes or marketing plans at all.
My chest swelled as my eyes danced across the page, full of bold, black writing in all caps. The letters weren't neat, in fact they were messy, some letters weren't formed properly, as if he'd hurried to get them down before they left his head.
the sweetest scent
of the crimson flower
weaves its way
into my head
my senses shift
I yearn to taste
the sinful fruit
of dew-kissed lips
a seed of desire
takes root within
fed by passion
the most beautiful flowers
have thorns
Poetry? The notes he focused on through the two hour meeting was actually poetry? It was...beautiful. And very hot. And completely unexpected.
I closed my eyes, running my fingertips over the rumbled page and thought back to the meeting, picturing everyone back in their places. Was Jenny in crimson? I didn't know why but the possibility stirred a heat in my chest that I wasn't used to. No, Jenny was in blue. Brooke had worn black. The escrow girls were both in their black Milan Group company sweaters.
Something stirred in me, behind my ribcage, in my soul.
I had been the only person in burgundy. Burgundy was a shade of red. I mean, it wasn't exactly crimson, but it was a hell of a lot closer than what anyone else in that room had been wearing.
I gulped.
Was this poem about me? I wanted it to be. No one had ever written me poetry before, and that poem was intense. I smiled with a flutter of excitement over the possibility, but it didn't last.
"Don't." The single word he'd said to me, resolute and distant, brought me back to reality.
The woman in crimson couldn't be me. Hell, it was probably a metaphor or something, which meant it could have been anyone he was writing about. Probably his girlfriend, or his wife. I was digging for clues that weren't there.
I chuckled at how easily I'd gotten carried away with the idea that a guy I'd seen for ten minutes was writing love poems about me.
Wait til I tell Ash about this, I thought.