Lena

 

 

 

"Hold the door!"

My voice echoes through the brightly lit hallway, but the asshole treading heavily down the corridor in front of me seems oblivious of my presence. His long strides show no regard for the person stumbling behind him. He’s tall, with neatly trimmed brown hair swept to the side, revealing an undercut on his left. His broad shoulders are hugged by a well-fitted dark suit, which leads me to assume that he must be one of the attendees at the convention I'm serving at this weekend.

His ignorant behavior toward me only manifests that assumption. As soon as I noticed the glass door in front of us, I tried my best to catch up with him, so I could slip through right behind him. It's one of those heavy, fire-safety doors. I can tell by the way he plows his body’s weight into it when he opens it. It’s one of those doors that are a pain to open under normal circumstances, let alone for a petite woman like me who is carrying half a dozen boxes full of sandwiches and donuts.

"Please!" I repeat. "Hold the door!"

The jerk doesn't even stop for a second. He doesn't turn his head, or make any other indication that he has heard my desperate pleas. He rams the door open with a strong push, and as I realize I'd be stuck in this damn corridor like an idiot if I don't make it through the door with him, I start sprinting.

Have you ever made a decision and regretted it the moment you acted on it? This turns out to be one of them. The second I start running, I realize it’s a bad idea. I'm carrying a pile of boxes stacked so high on top of each other that I can barely look over them. They’re not heavy, but their delicate contents shouldn't be tossed about the way they are now. I'm also not used to running in heels. I always wear them when I'm working, but my job usually doesn't require me to sprint.

I amble awkwardly, stumbling towards the door, almost tripping over my own feet as I try to keep the boxes as steady as possible. I'm almost impressed by my last minute decision to turn my back to the door as it is about to close on me. Still balancing the shaking boxes, my back meets the heavy glass door, causing me to exhale audibly as the air is forced out of my lungs. A frantic curse escapes my lips, and when I try to push the door back open while simultaneously maneuvering those damn boxes in my arms, he finally turns in my direction, just in time to watch me collapse to the floor, tripping over my own two feet as I try to catch my fall. One, two wide, clumsy steps and I'm met with resistance.

My surprised shriek is accompanied by an angry growl as I clash into a solid human wall. I realize with horror that the boxes are no longer safely tucked in my arms. Instead, their lids are flipping open as they fly through the air, the contents fleeing their cardboard prison. It's one of those horrid moments that passes in slow motion. I'm howling in despair as I gape at my food sprawled out on the floor, the food I've spent so much time preparing, the food that was supposed to earn us a handsome profit. We are famous for our sandwiches, and the organizers asked specifically for me to cater and serve today's convention meal. I've taken so much care in preparing these goddamn things. How could I be so stupid as to risk sprinting just so I could get through this fucking door a bit faster?

"Fuck!"

The thundering male voice cuts into my shocked thoughts with brute force, stirring my insides with the sheer volume of his words. I flinch, noticing only now that I'm down on my knees, hovering right next to the open boxes and the sprawled-out food – and directly in front of his feet.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he yells again, each exclamation growing louder. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

I tear my eyes away from the mess littering the floor next to me, and tilt my head back to look up at him. There are two things that strike me equally in that moment, but evoke completely different emotions. The first is that this man is gorgeous. His looks would make me weak in the knees, even under normal circumstances. His strong jaw is dappled with dark stubble that matches his extravagant hair style, and his hair falls noticeably longer on one side of his face than I originally thought. His eyes are darker brown than his hair and framed by thick eyebrows and unusually long lashes for a man.

I find myself wondering what he might look like when he's smiling. It's hard to imagine based on his current facial expression, because right now, he's displaying the exact opposite. The angry glare he's angling down at me is closely related to the second observation that hits me like a hammer. Before my acclaimed sandwiches hit the floor, they made a little detour on his chest. The proof is the ugly blotches staining his suit jacket, the white shirt he's wearing beneath it, and the silver-colored tie he's wearing.

"Fuck!” I repeat his curse, but in a much lower voice.

"Fuck, indeed!" he snaps at me, extending his arms to the side as if he wanted to give me a better view of the damage I caused.

"Look at this!" he yells. "This is fucking ruined! What the hell were you thinking?!"

"I... I'm so sorry!" I stammer in a moot attempt to appease him, as I clumsily gather myself up from the floor. Despite his fury, I expected he would help me get up, as any gentleman would, but he doesn't make a move. Instead, he takes a step back from me, as if he feared I could inflict more stains on his clothes by simply standing too close.

"Look at this shit!" he barks at me again, his dark, angry eyes glaring. "What the hell were you trying to do? Who runs like that while carrying boxes full of greasy food? What kind of idiot are you?!"

His rage is palpable, even when he stops yelling at me. His dark brown eyes are flickering with rage, revealing a violent temper that scares the shit out of me. I hate being yelled at, and I suck at dealing with situations like this.

"I'm so sorry," I repeat weakly. I lift my hands in an apologetic gesture, as if he was about to charge at me. "Please, I didn't mean to-"

"What did you mean to do?" he cuts me off. "You ran right into me, like a fucking moron!"

"Excuse me!" I retort, now finding myself fueled by rage. "I called out for you to hold the door for me, but you didn't-"

"And that gives you an excuse to throw your disgusting sandwiches at me?" he interrupts me again. "What the hell kind of excuse is that?"

Tears are threatening to flow down my cheeks, rendering me nearly helpless to stand up to him.

Disgusting sandwiches. That fucking hurt.

But I have to keep my shit together. I want to yell at him, just like he's yelling at me. I want to insult him, to make him realize that none of this would have happened if he had just turned around and held the door open for me like any proper gentleman would have. I want to curse at him, call him names, treat him the same rude way he’s treating me.

But I won't.

I won't, because it wouldn't do any good. It would only hurt my good name and reputation – and that of the diner. I'm not just representing myself tonight, not just plain little Lena.

"I am sorry," I say again, my lips trembling as I try to calm myself. "It's my fault, and if you want, I can help you clean up, and-"

"Fuck this!" he stops me once again mid-sentence, spitting out his vehement words at me. "This is just what I needed today! Just what I needed!"

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, not minding the tears that now stream down my face. It can't be helped. Tears come naturally to me when I find myself in stressful situations. Fighting them is futile, and I should know that by now.

I stand defeated, the darkness behind my eyelids shielding me from the stark reality of the current situation. Just for a moment. Just long enough to gather the strength to face this damn mess.

His disgusted huff pulls me back to the present, and when I finally open my eyes, it’s just in time to see him turn and stalk away from me.