If I Were You [FEATURED]

2 - Alexandra

The phone receiver lets out a series of long beeps while I wait for the call to reach my associate, Josephine Wong, in Vancouver.

"Sorry, woman. Mobile network's shitty inside this venue. Turns out decommissioned churches don't bode well with new technologies. I had to look for a landline." I roll my eyes even if Jo cannot see my face.

"No problem. As I was saying, the site you visited last month has been bought in the meanwhile."

"Again? Fuck." My knuckles turn white around the handset.

When the agricultural farm I set my eyes on slipped through my fingers, I didn't mind; it offered nothing interesting except its location on the outskirts of town. But the land Jo's visiting is much more promising, with a river I plan to exploit--well, planned to exploit. Guess I should've bought it on the spot.

"The realty developer mentioned another property, a bit upstream. The pricing's ridiculously above the market, but I don't think you'll find another estate for sale on Fraser River. Not close enough to the city anyway."

Inside the narrow office I requisitioned from the terrified chef--her fault the venue she's working in has no decent coverage--a cheap plastic clock ticks seconds by while I settle on a plan of actions. "Buy it. At the asking price. Then call Martina to start working on plans ASAP."

Jo clicks her tongue to manifest her appreciation; I'm fast to make business decisions. My time is precious, and I got boatloads of money. Hesitation is futile.

"Will do."

For a moment I wonder if Martina Porowski will be able to change the plans she drafted for the missed opportunity. Then I remember she was at the top of her class when she graduated from MIT. I pay this American scoundrel well enough to know she has the skills to adapt.

I hang up and stand to stretch. How can the chef work comfortably in this ridiculous closet? My fingers brush the ceiling. Sure I'm six-foot-five, but this tiny room is suffocating. I can't even turn around without bumping my shoulders against the furniture.

With a grunt I pull myself out of the office and eye both sides of the corridor. Where's the reception hall? When she renovated this abandoned monastery, the damn architect must've forgotten to add signs. All the fucking hallways look the same; I got lost already four times today and have no intention of tramping the creepy dormitory again. Aren't all women supposed to be born with an exceptional sense of orientation? If that's true, Goddess forgot me.

Before I can pick a direction, a sharp metallic noise resonates in the room I'm facing. I furrow my brows. After a dozen seconds the corridor stays empty, and no other sound filters through the door. I shrug and start towards the left, but am halted in my tracks by loud, unrestrained wailing.

Fuck. Someone's crying.

Curiosity, tinted with worry, pushes me to enter the cold room and roam it until I find the origin of the bawl. A prostrated silhouette leans against a shelf, its frail shoulders shaking with every sob. Of course it's a man.

I kneel and ask, "Are you okay?"

The man's snivelling stops. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and turns to peek at me.

It's not a man; it's a boy. And a pretty one, by the by. His fair, milky skin glistens from the many tears he shed. A couple of them cling to his long lashes, adding to the sadness of his widened gaze. Though the color of his eyes holds nothing extraordinary, their expressivity pulls at my heartstrings. Never have I contemplated such openness, such candor. It's unsettling.

To avoid dwelling on their effect on me, I go on, "Hey, sweetie. What happened? Did you hurt yourself?"

To my great surprise anger flashes in those exceptional eyes of his. He raises his cute button nose up and snaps, "How old are you to call me sweetie? Are you an eighty-year-old grandma, or what?"

Well, shit. The kitten has fangs. Nobody has talked to me this way since long ago; people have a tendency to agree with everything a billionaire says. I pinch my lips to prevent a smile from forming, then answer, "I'm thirty. And you?"

"I became twenty-two in March."

Doubt must show on my face, because he gathers himself and stands up straight, his fists closed on his hips. Amused by his bravada I take my time to examine the curves I couldn't appreciate when he was sitting. His waist is narrow; if I wrapped my hands around it, my fingers would touch. Barely covered by a silk blouse his smooth, flat chest stills under my scrutiny. The black skirt he's wearing does nothing for his ass. It's a shame; even from where I am, I can see his glorious buttocks and know how round and firm they are.

Fuck. Don't lust over the boy, Alexandra. Get a grip.

My voice is strained when I let out, "Yeah, okay. You're twenty-two." Then, remembering why I entered, "Why were you crying?"

He gestures towards the floor and an empty silvery dish surrounded by tens of macarons. "I dropped a platter."

Though the sight of spoiled food tightens my chest, I wave dismissively. "No need to cry over them."

New tears shine in his eyes. "You don't understand. I'm a klutz. This isn't the first time." After a pause he adds, "But it's certainly the last one. Mrs. Hellannoying will fire me."

I frown. "Who?"

A lovely shade of pink covers his sharp cheekbones. "I meant Mrs. Helgadottir. The caterer. Our boss."

He thinks I'm a colleague; I don't deny. When he wraps his slender fingers around his arms, I offer, "Take my jacket."

The boy blushes and eagerly slides inside the warmth of my Louise Vuitton. He's adorable, swimming in my oversized jacket. I try not to think about his delicate vanilla fragrance and the fact it might impregnate the fabric.

Outside the freezer, in the fridge room, a voice startles us by exclaiming, "Florian, you silly boy. You dropped food again. Now I can fire your useless self, and neither my mother nor yours can prevent it."

An overweight woman passes the curtain divider and stomps inside the room. Her predatory gaze goes from the boy to the spilled macarons, then wavers when she spots me. "Who are you?"

Instant dislike churns in my stomach. I disdain her question and, shielding the frightened boy from her view, state, "I dropped the platter."

Author's note:

It took me a few days to polish the two main characters and their respective voices. I hope they're easy to distinguish.

As a result, Alexandra is pretty foul-mouthed... Still, she's a blast to write. Shorter sentences, less purple prose, openly pointing out gender stereotypes in this society.

But is she relatable despite her super-sexy-CEO status? Do you feel for her? Do you root for her to find whatever is missing in her life?
I'd love to hear your thoughts. Don't be afraid to comment, and, if you enjoyed this second chapter, to hit that Vote button!