Window Shopping

None of them make me see what they’re describing. Especially Minnesota Jonathan.

And that’s a problem.

Because Lonnie is my last meeting, besides Stella, and she’s nowhere to be found. The row of chairs outside of my office is empty for the first time since I started interviewing at noon and I’m beginning to lose hope that she’ll show.

I finish the interview with Lonnie, letting him know we’ll be in touch, either way. Now I sit, drumming my fingers on the solid pine of my desk. Restlessly, I pull her application back up and look for hidden messages, of which there are obviously none. It would be ethical to call her and ask if she’s coming, but it’s not something I would do for any of the other applicants, so I force my hand away from the phone.

With a sigh loud enough to wake the dead, I roll away from my desk and stand, taking about ten times longer than usual to pack everything into my leather briefcase, just in case she’s running late. I drop my phone and stoop down to get it—and that’s when I see a flash of something in the gap between my desk and the floor.

Am I crazy or did something just move outside of my office?

Quickly, I straighten to my full height, but find my doorway empty.

“Stella?” I call, grateful Leland isn’t here to make an A Streetcar Named Desire joke, because he’s definitely the type.

Getting no response, I come around my desk and walk out onto the empty main floor just in time to hear the stairwell door open and close. Who is taking the stairs down from the tenth floor when there’s a perfectly good elevator?

The universe sends me another one of those here-comes-a-challenge skin prickles and I start to jog in the direction that the person (or possible ghost) just disappeared. I yank open the door to the stairwell and listen for footsteps, hearing a quick pattern of them below.

“Stella,” I say again, my voice echoing off the concrete.

The footsteps stop abruptly. Several seconds pass.

“I changed my mind,” she finally answers. “About doing the interview.”

Oh boy. I forgot how much I like her voice. It’s got a sweet, smooth tone to it and she probably hates it like hell. “You’re allowed to change your mind,” I say, weighing my options. I don’t want her to leave. But I can’t exactly barrel toward her in a stairwell that looks straight out of an M. Night Shyamalan film. “Wow. My office looks like the North Pole. It’s lit up within an inch of its life. You’d have no idea we were sitting right on top of a portal to hell.”

I hear an intake of breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but I’m not getting my hopes up.

Damn. Too late. They’re up.

“You might have mentioned you were the general manager when we met outside,” she says with a hint of bite in her tone.

“If I’d done that, you would have been more diplomatic and less refreshingly honest.”

“What a nice way of saying judgmental.” She releases a slow huff. “No, I would have been exactly the same.”

“You’re right. You would have,” I say to the girl I can’t even see. “Can we go somewhere less soul-crushing to talk? I’ve got peppermint bark in my office with your name on it.”

She groans. “I can practically hear the bow tie in your voice.”

“It’s a Mrs. Claus theme today. That woman doesn’t get enough credit for holding down the fort.” I know it’s a risk, but I start to descend the staircase, slowly, like a serial killer. “Maybe we could spitball about a window dedicated to Santa’s better half. What do you say?”

“I say you really can’t be serious about interviewing me. Hiring me.” There’s a shuffling sound, like those black boots of hers on the concrete landing. Hell, she wore combat boots to a job interview. There’s no way not to smile about that. “Look. Is this…some kind of window dresser casting couch situation? If so, I’m going to knee you in the jewels as hard as possible, even if I have to get on a stepping stool to do it.”

“And I would deserve that ambulance ride.” I continue down another five steps, watching her shadow move on the stairwell below me. “That’s not what this is.”

“So what is it? You don’t seem the type to play a joke this elaborate on someone, but then again, I’ve been away a while.” A beat passes. “Which you now know. Obviously.”

The flutter of nerves in her tone makes me swallow. “Yeah.” I round the bottom of the staircase and she comes into view, leaning against the cinderblock wall of the landing six steps lower than me. And there’s no mistaking that she’s the source of the chest tug I’ve been experiencing for the last few days. I’m like a metal detector beeping over a silver dollar.