The walls showcased their most successful games, as well as candid metal-framed photos of employees smiling or laughing into the camera. Iris found herself smiling back. Some of the photos had been taken decades earlier, judging by the hair and clothing of the people in
the pictures, including a much younger Sherry Parks.
Were Anderson Adventures employees really that happy? Perhaps if she’d worked for a company like this one, she wouldn’t have left her job to start her own firm on a leap of faith.
“I’m sorry I took so long.” Sherry reappeared with what looked to be a twenty-ounce mug of coffee.
“Not at all. I appreciate your trouble.” Iris took the hot drink from the receptionist. “This is one big mug.”
“The Andersons love their coffee. And they assume everyone else does, too.” Sherry returned to her desk.
The fondness in the woman’s voice implied a positive employee morale. A good sign.
Iris settled onto one of the guest chairs. “That’s a lot of pressure on whoever makes the coffee.”
“Whoever gets here first makes it. That’s usually Foster, Tyler, Xavier or Donovan.” Sherry settled onto her chair, pulling it under the desk. “After that, whoever pours the last cup makes the next pot.”
Very egalitarian. It was a credit to these high-powered executives that they didn’t wait for the staff to make the coffee. And the fact that Tyler Anderson—the vice president of product development—regularly arrived at work early enough to make the first pot explained how he could have responded so early Monday morning to the proposal she’d submitted Sunday night.
Iris took a sip. “This is delicious. Who made it?”
“If it’s good, it wasn’t Van. Everyone complains his coffee tastes like antifreeze. He says, if they don’t like it, they should get in earlier.” Sherry paused as they both laughed. “But the coffee goes pretty quickly. It’s nine o’clock. That’s probably the third pot.”
Iris’s eyes widened. “You weren’t kidding about their coffee addiction.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” A strong baritone resonated throughout Iris’s nervous system. “Ty Anderson.”
Iris looked up—way up—to the tall, dark, handsome man who’d stopped in front of her. This was the vice president of product development? She was definitely being played. The only way a desk jockey would look like Idris Elba was if he came from central casting.
His features were silver-screen perfect. His high forehead and bright ebony eyes indicated a keen intelligence that one shouldn’t underestimate. His squared jaw signaled a stubbornness that would be a challenge. His full, well-shaped lips implied a subtle sensuality she shouldn’t even think about.
Iris stood, taking his large, outstretched hand. His warm skin sent a shock up her arm. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Anderson. I’m Iris Beharie.”
“Ty. This way, please.” He stepped aside, releasing her hand to gesture in the direction from which he’d come. “Sherry, thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Ty.” The Doris Day double gave him a fond look.
Iris settled the strap of her black briefcase onto her left shoulder and hoisted the mammoth coffee mug with her right hand. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Sherry lifted her hands, crossing her fingers. “Good luck.”
Iris tossed Sherry a grateful smile before following Tyler down the hall. His broad shoulders were wrapped in a white jersey. His long legs were covered in chocolate suit pants. She jerked her gaze from his butt and looked around the office suite. Tyler stopped beside a frosted glass door and waved her inside. She glimpsed his name and title on the silver frame beside the threshold.
“Have a seat.” He closed his door, then waited for Iris to claim a chair at the small glass conversation table.
“Thank you.” Her palms were sweating again.
His office was big, bright and painfully neat. Project folders were staggered in a metal filing system on his silver-and-glass L-shaped desk. His black leather chair was tucked under his table. One of the twenty-ounce silver-and-black coffee mugs stood beside his computer mouse.
Her office would drive him nuts.
Tyler also seemed obsessed with time. His large desk calendar was covered with notes. Dates were crossed off the wall calendar opposite his desk. Project timelines were pinned to a board behind his chair.
Frightening.
Iris noted his minifridge, microwave and radio. Was he preparing for a lockdown?
Tyler came around to join her at the conversation table. Rather than watch him fold his long, lean body onto the smoke-gray padded seat opposite her, Iris distracted herself by pulling a writing tablet and pen from her briefcase.