Chapter 5 ATTRACTION

"Is she here yet?"

Pat glanced up from her computer screen, her features contorted into a visage of concern as she endeavored to decipher the meaning behind my words. Two decades of dedicated service to the company had etched lines of experience and loyalty onto her face. Despite my persistent attempts to elevate her position within the organization, she remained steadfastly content in her role as my personal receptionist.

There was a gentle kindness that emanated from Pat, a generosity of spirit that endeared her to all who encountered her. Yet, beneath her amiable demeanor lurked an inexplicable fear, a palpable tension that seemed to grip her in my presence.

Twenty years of professional rapport had failed to assuage her apprehension. Despite my efforts to foster an environment of trust and respect, Pat remained unnerved in my company, her pallor betraying a deep-seated anxiety that puzzled me. Perhaps it was the weight of authority that I unwittingly wielded or some unintentional intimidation that emanated from my demeanor. Whatever the cause, Pat's unwavering dedication and unspoken trepidation were a perplexing juxtaposition that continued to intrigue me.

The few times she heard me scold my employees during meetings didn't help with that.

"Who, Mr. Harry?" she asks, pinching her eyebrows as her eyes take a look of thoughtfulness.

"Miss. Nancy Toms. She goes by Nancy."

Even her name has a taste on my tongue. How is that even possible?

"I don't know, Mr. Harry," Pat sighs, standing up from her chair behind the counter. "I didn't see anyone come in today and even if she did, she won't have an ID to enter this part of the office."

Yeah, she won't. I forgot about that.

As I rub my jaw in slight irritation, my gaze drifts to the clock hanging behind Pat. Its hands indicate that it's well past the agreed-upon time. Surprisingly, rather than succumbing to annoyance at her tardiness, a curious feeling washes over me – a peculiar blend of anticipation and disappointment. Deep down, I find myself secretly wishing for her arrival.

There's an inexplicable allure to Pat, something about her that captivates me despite her knack for testing my patience. It's as if she holds a mysterious charm, one that draws me in even when I should be frustrated. Our dynamic resembles that of a cat toying with a mouse – a game of wits and banter that I secretly relish.

In hindsight, I realize that I would have preferred the game to prolong. The back-and-forth, the tension between us – it's strangely exhilarating. Perhaps it's the unpredictability of our interactions or the subtle thrill of the chase that keeps me hooked. Whatever it is, I find myself oddly drawn to the idea of extending our playful exchange, eagerly awaiting the next move in our intricate dance of push and pull.

Deeply troubled by my racing thoughts, I find myself unable to remain still, compelled to pace back and forth in the confined space of my cubicle. Restlessness consumes me, manifesting in the rhythmic tapping of my foot against the carpeted floor. My hand rests on my hip, while the other gently strokes my stubbled chin, a subconscious gesture reflecting my inner turmoil.

My gaze is fixated on the glass doors, scrutinizing every passerby in hope of catching a glimpse of her familiar figure. Yet, despite my fervent longing, there is no sign of her presence. The emptiness of the hallway mirrors the void in my heart, amplifying the ache of her absence.

Each step I take echoes with the weight of unanswered questions, each turn accentuating the uncertainty that gnaws at my soul. Time stretches endlessly, measured only by the erratic beat of my anxious heart. How I yearn for her to materialize, to dispel the shadows of doubt that cloud my mind.

Yet, as I continue to pace, a flicker of determination ignites within me. I refuse to succumb to despair; instead, I cling to the hope that she will soon emerge from the depths of the corridor, her presence a beacon of solace in the midst of my turmoil. Until then, I will continue to pace, seeking refuge in the repetitive motion, a physical manifestation of my unwavering longing.

"One interview and she's already got to you, brother?"

I turn at the sound of the voice. My brother or more like my mirror, Van is leaning against the wall beside Pat's semi-circular counter. He is dressed in a black button-down and jeans, his one foot resting against the wall as he crosses his arms over his chest in amusement.

Unlike Nancy's pretty face, his manages to piss me off within seconds, and the fact that he is my identical twin who looks every inch like me pisses me off even more.

"Shut up," I growl at him, taking another look at the double doors. "What are you doing here?"

"Sarah called and said that a new employee was joining. I didn't want to miss your first interaction." Van smirks, turning to Pat. "What do you think, Pat? Won't it be a show?"

The fifty-year-old lady just shrugs, ignoring his presence as she focuses on her computer screen again.

"Leave, Van. No one wants you here. It's too early to go pissing people off."

As I rest my hands against the steel railing, peering down to see any sign of my new assistant, my brother walks towards me leisurely, hooking one finger in a pocket of his jeans.

"Try to be warmer, brother," he says as he rests his elbow on the railing and leans against it. "Sarah also said the girl's pretty. Maybe she's the one for me."

I move my eyes to him at his words, seeing in them the absolute fun he is having while toying with me.

"She's an employee and you better keep your hands off her if you wish to remain with your limbs intact," I warn him.

He looks at me gravely for some time and then begins chuckling to himself. "So was Jeannie, brother. You had no problem bending the rules for her."

I clench my fists at the mention of his ex-girlfriend. Jeannie was the one who cut off our last thread of brotherly affection for each other. I know that no matter what Van pretends to feel, he still feels violated by that night.

Before I can reply to his taunts, the double doors open. I jerk my head towards it, sighing in relief when I spot the familiar face of Miss. Toms stepping inside. She is in plain clothes, looking as professional as any of my other assistants. But unlike them, I find myself completely taken over by her look.

Wearing a deep red pencil skirt and a white blouse, she has her hair down in smooth waves, the length of them reaching her waist. Her lips are a deep red, the same color she wore yesterday during the interview. For someone I am supposed to despise, she is making my job rather difficult.