Lust, Lies, and Forbidden Ties ✵ h.s.

✵ two ✵

     There was a piece of me that hated being late.  I always arrived on time, which was technically five minutes before I was supposed to be somewhere.  So, in this case, being a few minutes late was already stressing me out.  The elevator ride took longer than anticipated because on the way down six flights, I was pretty sure we made four stops.  That was infuriating to me, but I knew there was nothing I could do about it now. 

I did my best to find the room the photoshoot was in.  Most of the spaces with closed doors on this floor were small offices, but I finally found the doors I had been searching for.  I knew that once I was inside, I would try and find someone I knew.  My least favorite thing about this job was sometimes having no familiar faces even though I was pretty good at speaking to strangers.  Taking a deep breath, I pushed one of the doors open, barely having enough time to glance around when someone completely bumped into me.  My heart started pounding as coffee spilled all over the both of us.  Thankfully, it was all iced, but I was more concerned about my bag as I heard the other person speak a different language. 

"Mi stai prendendo per il culo." (Are you kidding me?) 

My attention was still on my bag as I started freaking out over the fact that all of my most important belongings were inside.  The cups and drink carrier were now on the floor, and I was near shaking with worry.  Opening the bag quickly, I turned on my phone, thankful it still worked before opening my laptop.  There was coffee all over it, and I groaned when it didn't turn on, the person who had bumped into me clearing their throat. 

"What? Can't you see this is clearly not a good day for me?" 

His eyes were green, and I could tell he was not happy with me in the slightest bit.  His gaze was intimidating, my eyes lingering on his for only a few seconds before I glanced anywhere else.  Standing up quickly, my height only reached a little past his chin, forcing me to look up at him.  Tucking my hair behind my ear, I tried not to think about how cold I was with spilled iced coffee dripping down me, or how worried I was about my laptop that didn't work now. 

"You have to apologize to me," he spoke, his accent very obvious, and very British. 

"What? You bumped into me.  I don't have to apologize to—" 

"Maledetti Americani." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Bloody fucking Americans.  What the fuck do you even do here? You obviously aren't good at your job, and you just spilled that coffee all over my new loafers, and I—" 

He stopped talking when I tried my best to hold in my laughter.  Everything about him had been intimidating until the moment he mentioned, and was clearly angry about, loafers.  Of all things, that was what he was upset about? My nine-hundred-dollar laptop wasn't working anymore, and he wanted to scold me about his shoes? That was incredibly ridiculous. 

"Why are you laughing?" he scoffed.  "This isn't some joke.  You should have to pay for what you just did to—" 

"Hold on.  Let's just take a second ... hi, I'm Finley Amato, the girl you bumped into."

Normally, if I ever started off on the wrong foot with someone, being kind and introducing myself to them made it better.  Holding out my hand for him to shake, he simply stood there, his arms now crossed over his chest.  I was still holding my hand out for him to shake, but he made no move to accept the gesture.

"Alright.  So, you're just some rude foreigner."

"Wow.  Non sai nemmeno chi sono." (You don't even know who I am.) 

"You really have to stop switching languages.  I only speak English, and I can communicate some Spanish." 

"Can you? ¿Qué acabo de decir?" (What did I just say?)