79, 78, 77...
I'm counting backwards as I make my way through the secretarial pool and toward the elevator bank to the thirteenth floor of The Holt Building.
64, 63, 62...
Most buildings opt out of using the number thirteen when numbering their floors, but not The Holt Building. Atop every elevator bank, carved into a slab of marble are the words "We make our own luck."
I try to let those words sink in as the third elevator from the right carries me and the world's most important documents up to the thirty-third floor. Mr. Holt, the owner of not only The Holt Company but the building as well, is out of a secretary today. I lost out, drawing the short straw, which is why I'm the lucky soul who gets to deliver the updated contracts for Project V13 to him. Personally. I've never so much as seen the man up close, much less had a conversation with him. I'm also not an executive level secretary, so I don't even know how to interact with him properly.
32, 31, 30...
I'm going to say something stupid, I just know it. Oliver Holt has a reputation for being more than a hard-ass. He's impossible to please, difficult to communicate with, and incredibly private. At times he'll disappear from the office for days on end and only respond via email, only to return in a decent mood, which lasts for a few days, at most. But that hasn't happened in months and there's a reason he's short a secretary today. She up and quit yesterday without so much as any notice save for the sticky note on his desk that told him what he could do to himself.
18, 17, 16...
The elevator comes to a stop and the doors open. I step directly into what appears to be the reception area right outside of his office. The walls are a frosted privacy glass that appears a hint of a blueish green and the floors are a sparkly black marble. Dark, rich woods accent black leather and chrome furniture. The entire space is posh as hell, but the large wood desk that sits right in front of Mr. Holt's office doors is a disaster of epic proportions. Even the leather pen cup wasn't spared the tornado that must've blown through here with it on its side and most of its contents flung around the desktop carelessly. Mr. Holt is going to need someone to clean this up, and soon. Especially, before he has any meetings.
Mentally, I chant "not it".
5, 4, 3...
Lifting my closed fist to his door, I knock. And wait. There's a low grumbling coming from the other side of the closed door and some rustling, then a sharp, "Come in".
I don't want to go in, but I don't have a choice. Gripping the folder of contracts in my other hand, I take a deep breath and tell myself that I'm being ridiculous and there's no reason to be nervous.
2, 1...
I push my way into the room and survey my surroundings. It seems that whatever disaster hit the work station on the other side of the doors also hit Mr. Holt's office. The space is huge— with a lavish seating area, a reading nook, a wet bar, and an actual desk— the only indicator that this space is a real office. I've never been up here before, so while I'm trying to focus on the task at hand, my brain is totally distracted by the sheer size and luxury of the space. Still, I can see one thing for certain— Mr. Holt is nowhere around.
"Hello?" I call out to the man with the apparent anger problem, and hope he tells me to leave. But he doesn't. He doesn't say anything, nor does he show himself. I'm left to stand here, awkwardly, in the doorway. Finally, I realize how ridiculous I'm being. He welcomed me in, so I might as well just go on in and hand over the contracts and leave. Taking a few steps into the room, I'm careful to navigate around the white leather sofa cushion that's tossed on the floor as if it cost nothing. I could probably pay my rent for a couple months on the cost of that entire sofa. One of my coworkers was gabbing about how expensive Mr. Holt's office redo was. Even the thought makes me sick to my stomach, and I can't help myself. Turning around, I pick up the soft-as-butter leather cushion and put it in place on the sofa.
Once I start cleaning Mr. Holt's office, I can't help myself. With the contracts safely on his desk, I get to picking things up. I don't like messes, and hate seeing expensive things not being taken care of even more. I'm actively working on not thinking about what's led to this disaster, and instead, let myself become annoyed over Mr. Holt's obvious disregard for his personal space. The building has impeccable security, so there's no way this was a break-in. The other thirty-two floors are unscathed so this is, obviously, the after-effects of somebody's temper tantrum.
Once all the books are picked up and, at the very least, neatly stacked near the gorgeous wood floor-to-ceiling bookcases, I move on to the scattered papers. Doing my best to avoid seeing anything confidential, I quickly stack the papers in groups near where they landed in the explosion. I save the more delicate items for the end. A wine glass is tipped over on a rug near the reading nook. A random pair of cuff-links are in the high pile rug in front of the white sofa in the seating area.
"Mr. Holt?" I call out one final time, feeling absolutely ridiculous for having cleaned up his space. I'm probably going to be in a lot of trouble when I finally make it back down to my cubicle. I had one job and I mucked it up. My hands ache for something to do and when he still doesn't respond, I decide to clean up one last thing and then I'll leave. I'll walk away without touching another thing in his private space.
Across the room, in front of the wet bar, is a collection of baseballs shaped from crystal. A wide, wooden bowl sits, half on its side, atop the wet bar. A single crystal baseball remains inside. The rest are scattered on the edge of the nearby rug save for one that landed directly on the marble floor and chipped. As I pick them up, I notice the letter C etched into the crystal and smile fondly at Mr. Holt's chosen team. If he's a fan of the Cubbies, he can't be all that bad, I surmise. Just as I'm collecting the last of the baseballs and safely tucking them into their wooden nest, I remind myself of my promise to leave now that this mess is picked up.
I'm spinning around on my heel and marching back to the wet bar when I run into something hard and warm. Large, strong hands wrap around my upper arms to steady me, but it does no good. My hands are shaking too much and I lose my grip on the last two baseballs. They clatter to the floor, shattering instantly. When I look up to meet the eyes of the man who's got me in his grasp, I have to will myself to keep upright.
Furious icy-blue eyes glare down at me. There's something otherworldly about the way they project his anger. His jaw is all hard lines and definition. A strong, straight nose overlooks his full, parted lips. He's got his medium brown hair slicked back with product. And he's wearing a cologne that smells divine even though I can't describe a single note of the scent.
He's gorgeous.
And half naked.
My eyes trail down his chiseled frame. The only thing he's wearing is a pair of black slacks that are zipped, but not buttoned at the top. I have to bite my lip hard in order to keep myself on track. Angry boss, shattered baseballs. Anything but the sheer beauty of my angry boss with the shattered baseballs. Nope, not thinking about his incredibly muscled arms or chest. Or the six pack of abs he's sporting.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly, lacking a better apology or explanation for what I'm doing.
"No, you're not," he says in a deep, husky voice. "But you will be."
He moves too fast, I'm not even sure it's happening, but his mouth is on my neck. And it feels glorious.
A/N: Written in Blood is a fun little romp with vampires. It's meant to be a stress reliever for me, so there's no posting schedule and it is unedited. If you want to see what I'm doing off Wattpad, you can find me on www.jcemery.com, Facebook/jcemeryauthor, Twitter/jc_emery, Instagram/jcemeryauthor, Ao3/MooseGirl666, Fanfiction.net/2193385 and my published works here http://amzn.to/2fKtDFS, here https://books2read.com/u/m2XY1G, and http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/%22Jc%20Emery%22?Ntk=P_key_Contributor_List&Ntx=mode%20matchall
