Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
What the hell?
Someone has to work in this building.
So I go down, go outside, stand on the front vestibule and look at the map. Then I squint up at the building. Look back down at the map. Look back up at the building…
Why is this so complicated? Finding the office should not be complicated.
I spot a man sitting on the concrete railing on the far end of the vestibule. He’s in the shade. Under the protection of a massive maple tree. He’s about my age—very handsome. Shirtless, though. Which throws me for a moment, especially since his chest is very nice. But then I see he’s wearing sweat shorts and there’s a t-shirt thrown casually over the railing next to him.
Perhaps he was jogging.
This is when I realize he’s caught me staring at him. Some men might smirk at this, thinking I was checking him out, which I might’ve been, but it was innocent. I’m just trying to piece him together.
But he doesn’t smirk. His expression doesn’t change at all. And we stare at each other like that for several moments before he breaks the spell and reaches out with a hand.
A flat, open palm.
Which is weird—until it isn’t.
I walk over to him and hand him the map.
He takes it without a single word, eyeballs it for one second, then hands it back and points behind him.
I lean to the side, look over the railing, and discover a garden-level door with a crown of ivy climbing over it.
Elevation. It not only applies to up, but also down. “Oh.” I feel foolish. “Thank you.”
He says nothing. Just stares at me. And I don’t know what to do here, so I smile, turn away, walk down the stairs and around the corner of the railing, then down another level of stairs to the office that has a shingle outside proclaiming this to be the place of business of one Silas Mercer.
I don’t like to feel foolish, so this feeling lingers as I step up to the deep green lacquered door. I pause here to breathe. It’s dumb to let this tiny mistake get to me, but I can’t help it. I just hate being surprised. I should’ve looked harder for the office. I should’ve assumed there was a garden level. I should not have let a half-dressed man reveal this door to me like it was a secret.
One more breath and then I tip my head up, open the door, and step inside.
It’s overly warm. Clearly no AC. But there’s a fan oscillating on the corner of a messy wooden desk. It’s an old-fashioned fan made of dark gray metal and the arc it travels goes just far enough on each side to rustle the papers on the desk.
It’s pointed at the door, which means it’s pointed at me, and it feels good. So I let out a breath and look around. It looks every bit the way a garden-level office in a place called the Institute should look. Bookcases filled with aged tomes line the walls. A smattering of small oil paintings depicting long-dead people are propped up on high windowsills. And the wood floors are well-worn and creaky. “Hello?” There’s no one here. But a moment later I hear some banging down a hallway. “Helloooo?” I call louder this time. “Mr. Mercer?”
The banging pauses and a beat later he calls back. “Have a seat, Ms. Ryanzski. Be right there.”
There are two chairs in the room—identical, but on either side of the desk. I choose the one closest to me and sit. That’s when a yellow envelope on the desk catches my eye. There is a white label centered at the top with ‘Nova Ryanzski’ printed in black.
I look over my shoulder at the hallway on instinct, a heartbeat away from snatching that envelope up and looking inside, but I stop myself.
You don’t do that anymore, Nova.
Here’s a fun fact about me—my internal monologue has an accent. It’s kinda British, but then again, it might just be snobby. I don’t know why, but it truly is a fun fact.
“Ah, sorry for the wait.” I’m jolted to attention by the voice of Silas Mercer as he enters the room. His accent is also kind of snobby. In fact, it’s very similar to my internal monologue, which made me warm to him immediately.
He’s out of breath and his starched-white dress shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He pushes them down his forearms and reaches for cufflinks on the closest bookcase. “The AC is out. As you can tell.” He nods to the ancient fan. “I’ve got a handy side to me, so I was giving it a go. But, unfortunately, the motor has expired in a very final way. I’m sorry. We could go outside if it’s too warm for you in here.”