Page 2 of Mr. Perfect

I shrug, my heart beating fast as they lower the airstairs. “The gym maybe. I might start teaching Zumba classes.”

Ming laughs. “Honey, please. The last time you took Zumba with me you sprained your middle finger.” She shakes her head with a chuckle. “Who sprains a finger in Zumba?”

“I fell on it wrong.” As I was flipping the instructor off for telling us to shake our money-makers like we mean it.

Brutus appears in the doorway.

“Shit,” I say. “Here he comes. See you later.”

“Later,” Ming says.

I take a deep breath, tuck my fancy pink clutch under my arm, and push through the glass doors of my office heading towards the jet. The airplane hangar is loud, busy, and dirty. I practically tiptoe across the bay, desperate to keep my second-hand hot pink Jimmy Choos from picking up any oil. I huff out a sigh of disgust. Why don’t we have a depot or something? A tiny concourse? This campus has a dry cleaner, a medical building, seventeen restaurants—not including the cafeteria in the main Atrium, which is free for everyone—three gyms, a tailor, an organic grocery store, and a wellness center that has a full-time staff of nail techs, hairdressers, and massage therapists.

Why don’t we have a concourse where guests can walk down a jetway into a nice climate-controlled building?

Breathe, Ellie. Focus on your job. Just get through today, put in your two weeks’ notice, and think about the future. I won’t be teaching Zumba, I was kidding and Ming knows it. I’m terrible at Zumba. No. I have big plans.

“Mr. Brutus.” I beam as the summer heat washes over me. Yup, I have a pool of sweat in my bra. When I quit I’m not going to wear a push-up bra ever again. “Mr. Brutus,” I say again as I get closer. “I’m thrilled to finally meet you!” He’s almost down the stairs when he sees me. My smile is so big. So big. And it should be. I’ve been practicing this smile for seven years.

“You’re late,” he says.

“I am?” Wait. He’s baiting you, Ellie. Ignore, ignore, ignore. “I’ve got the golf cart right over there for you. The covered one, so the sun won’t freckle your skin.” I keep a straight face for that remark because that’s the kind of professional I am.

He shoots me a disgusted look anyway.

Right. I walk over to the waiting cart, pull back the plastic cover that surrounds the little vehicle like a hospital oxygen tent and resign myself to sweaty tits.

No one uses the golf carts because we actually have a train that goes to the main building. Like, our own subway system. The campus here at Stonewall is so damn big—one hundred and fifty acres, to be accurate—we need a train to get around.

But Brutus refuses to use the train. I roll my eyes just thinking about it. Germs, he said. It’s not New York City, for Pete’s sake. It’s a private train on a private billion-dollar corporate campus.

Ming thinks he’s obsessive-compulsive and the germs are part of it. She read that online.

Whatever his excuse, it’s not enough to make me happy about being inside a rolling plastic tent in the middle of summer. I sigh loudly.

“Well,” Brutus says. “You’re cuter than I expected.”

“Excuse me?” Ignore, ignore, ignore, Ellie.

“You sounded so wound up on the phone. I thought you’d be some thirty-something matron. It’s a nice surprise,” he says, like that will dull the sting of the insult.

All he talks about when we get inside the mobile tent is the heat. Apparently he loves the heat and this plastic-covered golf cart is his idea of bliss.

“I’m very excited to hear you sing,” I say, pushing the start button on the cart. It hums to life and I press my designer shoe down on the power pedal, eager to get this over with.

“People usually are,” he says.

I nod, doing my best to smile and ignore. “I’ve got you all set up in the green room. There are plenty of snacks and drinks for you as you wait. And everything you asked for is waiting.”

“It better be,” Brutus huffs. “That’s why I came.”

I nod. Sure. That and the paycheck, which is outrageous, and the jet, which is nicer than his own, because I checked. And the fact that Daily E! is the highest-rated nighttime entertainment show for six years running. But sure, we can all pretend he came for the M&M’s and wool socks.

He starts coughing and breathing heavy like he’s suffocating. Maybe it’s this plastic sauna we’re rolling around in when it’s the middle of summer? “I hope you’re not getting sick, Mr. Brutus?”

But he’s too busy hacking and gasping to answer. “Brutus? Are you OK? Do you need some water?” I flip the little console box open between our seats and take out the bottled water I stashed there earlier. It’s a little warm, so there’s one more thing for him to bitch about.

The rock star waves the water off. “I hope,” he croaks out, “there are no peanuts in the green room today.”