Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 95311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
"It has been an adjustment," she answered cryptically.
She hated how he stared at her, like he was seeing parts she didn't often share with people. Like in fourth grade when she cried in the middle of class when she couldn't find her homework, or when she slapped Sam when they were thirteen and he stuck his tongue in her mouth, or how she wore high heels on a first date and tripped going into the coffee shop, or that time when she froze at karaoke when she thought she had finally gotten the courage to get in front of the microphone.
Elliott ran a hand over his face, the roughness reminding him that he had forgotten to shave. Again. "If I have been too hard..."
Hannah held up her hands, palms out toward him, "Mr. Michaels," Hannah shook her head, "that is not the case. It's a good challenge."
Her formality bothered him. He knew he had no right to think that. He demanded respect and obedience from his employees so it was only natural for them to address him by his last name. And, of course, the disastrous night in her office and the awkwardness that followed it didn't help. But here he was, trying to engage her and she was putting a wall up.
Hannah wondered why he sighed that way, the way she did when her car needed a jump when she was already running late. A sigh that sounded so defeated. She looked at him then- really looked at him, something she wasn't certain she had ever really done before.
He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes suggested many nights without enough sleep. His face was scruffy again, like something had kept him too distracted to remember to shave. He looked slightly out of place, all unkempt and exhausted in a two-thousand dollar suit. Like a mechanic at a funeral.
It was like looking at your mother when you are teenager and seeing the wrinkles and frown lines, the white hairs, and the age spots when all your life you had always seen her as flawless.
She wondered about him then. About his life outside of the walls of EM. What he was like at home. What did he do with his time? Did he watch people make fools of themselves on national television? Did he watch shows about history, or politics? Did he get mad at the news? Did he like to read? Listen to music?
Hannah couldn't imagine someone who didn't listen to music, who didn't love it and feel like it made even the most devastating life a little better. The first thing she had bought for her office was a stereo system that was always on when she worked after hours.
He looked like a classics fan; instrumental, maybe jazz, or a hint of the blues. Or maybe even Old Blue Eyes. After all, who didn't like Sinatra? She wondered about his musical guilty pleasure. Did he listen to country tunes about getting drunk and pick-up trucks? Did he nod his head to rap lyrics about female body parts and all the things you could do with them?
She was smiling at that, almost laughing.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, unable to help himself. She looked so amused.
Hannah's head jerked. Caught. "Music," she admitted. He didn't need to know the whole truth.
Elliott's eyebrows drew together and his lips twitched like he was about to smile. "Music," Elliott mused, "interesting change in topics."
"Well," she said, moving away from the awkwardness of the situation and toward the door, "someone's got to keep you on your toes. I, ah, have to get back to work."
She was gone quickly, leaving Elliott to wonder. Music? How had she made the leap from office talk to music? And why was music so amusing? He knew it was something she was passionate about. As soon as five o'clock rolled around and the phones stopped ringing, he heard her stereo turn on. It was low enough that he could hear the sound, but not make out the lyrics. She seemed to have a love of singer-songwriters with their poetic lyrics and acoustic guitars.
Sighing, he hit the intercom button on his phone into her office. He heard a crash and a string of cursing. He must have surprised her. It never occurred to him to use it before.
Hannah came through the door, a haphazard stack of papers in her hand, looking almost
murderous. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was starting to escape from its ponytail. Why did she always wear her hair up? She made no attempt to speak, simply raised an eyebrow as if to say 'what do you want from me now'.
"I have an event I need you to plan."
"An event," Hannah repeated, somewhat excited at the prospect but knowing she was overwhelmed already with work.