No color . . . anywhere.
The walls are a muted grey. The floors are a sharp black, and the blinds that cover the windows are black as well. A few chrome touches here and there, but other than that, the space is very institutional with zero personal touch to it at all.
Rather depressing.
Well, that’s going to change.
“Everything is here for you. You are to meet with Mr. Westin at ten thirty. Just knock on his door. Until then, go ahead and set up your computer and iPad. Phone is already set to go.”
“Will IT be up here?”
Renita shakes her head. “Mr. Westin will give you instructions for a secure network he’s on. He is the only one with access to it. He doesn’t trust many people with his personal information, especially IT people.”
“Okay, but what if I have a computer problem?”
Renita places her hand on my arm. “Charlee, Mr. Westin is a very intelligent man. Top of his class at Yale. If there’s a problem with his executive assistant’s computer, he’ll be able to fix it faster than someone from IT.”
“And . . . I just ask him for help?”
“Yes.” She smiles. “He’s a very nice guy.”
So I’ve been told.
“Okay, well, thank you.”
With one more pat to my arm, Renita says, “You’ll be great. Welcome to Westin Enterprises.”
Renita takes off, leaving me to my devices. I take a seat in the very comfortable office chair and observe my desk. I open the drawers where I find one legal pad—yellow, yuck—and one pen with the company name on it. The bottom drawer is empty.
Looks like I’ll be hitting up Office Max after this and then my favorite stationery store in Brooklyn, because this desk is ill-prepared for my particular office flare.
I’m in the middle of plugging in my computer and setting it up when the door behind me flies open and hits the wall behind it. I nearly fall out of my chair from being so startled when the figure of Mr. Westin steps out into the hallway. He looks at me sharply and then at his watch.
“You’re a minute late.”
“What?” I ask, scrambling to stand. I light up my phone and see that he’s right. I’m a minute late. “Oh my Gosh, I’m so sorry. I was so caught up with figuring out which plug to use for each device that I completely—”
“Just get in my office.” He spins on his heel and heads back inside.
Ummm.
What the?
Grumpy. But giving him the benefit of the doubt—maybe he’s having a tough day—I ease up on my opinion, grab my pen and paper, and head into his office.
With one look around, I can tell already that the man means business and nothing else, because there isn’t one personal detail hanging on the wall or propped up on a shelf. Instead, his office is flanked by windows and covered up by a dark tint. There is one light on, and it’s his desk lamp, casting a yellowish glow on the very bright morning. And instead of furniture in the very large space, he has a desk, an office chair, and two armchairs in front of his moderately sized desk.
That’s it. His office is bigger than my apartment and there are four pieces of furniture inside.
What the hell is that about?
He sits in his desk chair and looks up at me when I just stand there, a few feet away.
He robotically motions to the chair in front of him. “Take a seat.”
“Okay, wasn’t sure if you wanted me to make myself comfortable or not. Is this how you usually want me to take notes? Sitting in front of you? Or do you prefer for me to stand at your door. Either I’m good with, although the door is quite far away and the echo in here might make it hard to hear, but if that’s what you want, then I’m totally—”
“Sitting.” He navigates through his computer with a few clicks of his mouse and then starts feverously clicking at his keyboard.
I watch him, his brow narrowing, his jaw tensing, his fingers working speedily over the keys while his determined eyes keep track of everything he’s writing. I’ve seen people invested in their work before, but nothing like the concentration Rath Westin has. If I wasn’t so fascinated by the way he can fully zero in, I might be a little insulted that he snapped at me to get into his office but then completely ignored me.
After what seems like a few minutes, he finally leans back in his chair and stares me down, pen in hand.
“Did you sign all your paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“The NDA?”
“That would be included in all the paperwork,” I say, trying to make it sound more funny and less snarky.
He doesn’t seem to find my tone funny at all. Instead he brings his capped pen to his temple where he very slowly massages his sensitive skin.
“The apartment. Did you get the keys?”
“Uh yes, it might take me some time to move in, but—”
“Movers will be there tomorrow. Make sure there’s nothing personal you don’t want seen lying about.”
He sits up and goes back to his computer where he spends a few seconds reading something and then once again, types out some sort of reply. His fingers fly so fast over the keyboard that I secretly imagine him as one of those keyboarding typing kitties who wear ill-fitting shirts and bob their heads back and forth while typing.
Thankfully, I’m able to hide the smirk that wants to peek past my lips from the thought just in time.
He leans back in his chair and asks, “Is your computer set up?”
“Uh, not quite. I plugged it in though.” I give him two thumbs up. “Looks like I’m winning so far this morning.”
His lips twist to the side, his eyes falling to the pad and paper in my hand. “Where’s your iPad?”
“Where I left it. On my desk.”
“Why aren’t you using it?”
“More of a pen and paper gal.” I hold up the boring pen and paper. “But I will say, I’m used to more colorful things and gah, my favorite pens are the Paper Mate felt tip pens. They come in all different colors and I love color coordinating with them. Do you have any?” I glance at his singular pen on his desk. Guess not. “Don’t worry, I’ll pick some up for the both of us. My treat. You know the saying, pen pals? We can bring a whole new meaning to it. Oh, do you know what would be fun? If we had a color we used for each day and then before every meeting, we tapped our pen heads together as an initiation to the meeting. That would be so great.” I take a note. “I’m getting supplies tonight. I’ll pick some up and then write out a schedule for what color to use. And don’t you even think I’m not going to let you get away with just manly colors. Oh no, Mr. Westin, you’ll be using pink just like the rest of us.”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares. “Use your iPad. That’s what it’s there for.”
I’m thinking he doesn’t want to use pink.
“Get your computer set up. You’re useless to me without that. How am I supposed to go over my schedule and what I need?”
Useless, wow, that’s . . . that’s lovely.
Can you hear the sarcasm?
“Well, you know, we can always talk about your schedule. I can take notes and then when we’re done, I’ll go finish with the computer. You really didn’t give me much time to prepare.”