I’m confident right up until I reach his office building itself. 1200 Main Street. Stopped there, in front of the hundred-foot reflective tower, just looking at it makes my heart feel like it’s falling from the top floor. What in hell was I thinking coming here? Me, with my cute, little cooking app idea—Allan Dane is probably going to laugh me all the way out of this fancy building.
Still outside, by the doors, in the reflective wall of the building, I glare at my reflection. Me in my try-hard, black pinstripe suit and too-bright red lipstick, just who did I think I was exactly? Martha Stewart?
I walk in anyway, my hands so tense they feel like they might crack when I touch the revolving door. Ridiculous as this attempt is, I have to try.
Even now, I can’t get the image out of my head: the snarl-faced nurse shoving the spoon in my dad’s unwilling mouth.
And that was just one incident. I’ve seen myself how, since I’d been forced to put my dad in there, he’s gone from bad to worse—and he’s now almost completely unresponsive. Yes, Dad isn’t just getting neglected, he’s actually getting mistreated—and the only way I can get him out of there, the only way I can afford to hire a caretaker to help with his illness, is if I can get a break, and an investor for this app. More than that, this app could help people cook themselves, not have to rely on overpriced restaurants for a nice meal. Yes, this app isn’t just about me; I have to at least try.
I walk across the white marble floors, up to the clear glass elevators. A quick glance at the directory reveals that Allan Dane’s office—AD Enterprises—is on the penthouse floor. Great—I’m afraid of heights and afraid to death of what I’m about to do. A fitting yet terrifying match. The glass box elevator arrives quickly and is nearly empty. Once I get on, it rockets off quickly and smoothly, as if it isn’t ascending what’s apparently forty-seven floors. The farther it rises, the more fearful I feel, my stomach doing flip-flops in the suddenly stuffy-seeming box. All around me, floor after floor falls away, little specks of people flick by, and I ascend to my best chance and worst fear yet.
At the top floor, the elevator lets out a melodious ding and its doors slide open, revealing an airy oasis of more white and one smiling receptionist. Even she matches, with white-blonde hair, light blue eyes, and an almost-blinding smile that stretches into its full form at the sight of me.
Tentatively, I make me way up to the massive marble “AD”-labeled desk.
“Hello, I’m—”
“Here about the business proposition, correct?”
Her smile stretches even wider, and I nod. She sweeps her manicured nails over to the left.
“Last door down the hallway. Mr. Dane has been expecting you.”
The hallway is short, because, as I soon see, Allan Dane’s office is huge. His door is parted, and as soon as I knock on it, his voice flows through it.
“Come on in.”
At the sight of me, he smiles. Somehow, he looks even more handsome than yesterday, and with that cocky half smile of his, I’d swear he knew about my humiliating dream last night too.
“Please, take a seat.”
He gestures me to a pair of white leather armchairs near his desk. As I take a seat in one, instead of staying behind his desk, he comes over and sits down on the other.
I inhale deeply. The air here is cleaner, clearer here, almost as if...
My gaze upward reveals it: the spread of plants, hanging, snaking around the ceiling pillars from one end of the massive room to the other. A ceiling of plants and a back wall of windows—the whole place is beautifully airy, intimidatingly well-done.
As I’m entranced by his office, Allan’s alert eyes flick over my body, apparently entranced by me.
I cross my legs, then switch my leg cross. The app, my business proposition, is what I should mention first, but instead, without thinking, I blurt out, “How did you know?”
Allan cocks a dark brow.
“Know what?”
“That I’d come today. That I’d come at all.”
A slight smile.
“I’d like to think that I’m a good read of people.”
“But yesterday I was more set against coming than I was of coming.”
Allan shrugs, puts one arm on his armrest, then the other.
“There’s not many people who can turn down a good opportunity.”
I put my arm on the armrest, then freeze, and forbid the other arm from following suit.
“I don’t know if this is a good opportunity—or a good idea, even. You haven’t even heard my project.”
A smile flickers over Allan’s face as he nods.
“You’re right, of course, I haven’t. But the other day I did see, despite your obvious fatigue, that you were driven, which is something I like. It’s hard to find these days, people who really believe in something.”
Before I can respond, he continues. “And, of course you may be entirely right; this may not be a good idea at all. I’m sure you’ve heard of my less-than-stellar reputation, and lately in particular I’ve been especially... active.”
It’s strange. As he says the words, his expressionless face almost looks sad.
“You don’t seem as bad as I’ve heard. And you’ve certainly been polite so far.”
At my words, Allan shakes his dark head, smiles an ironic half smile.
“Oh, just give me time...”
His gaze slides to me, and he chuckles. I feel my heart falling. Maybe this was a mistake, a big, humiliating, horrible mistake. After a minute, he falls silent, shaking his head again.
“I’m sorry. It’s just...” He lets out another amused chuckle. “I’ve been chatting you up as if we’re old friends, and all this time I never got your name.”
In spite of myself, I find laughter tumbling out of my lips too.
“It’s Eva. Eva Lynn.”
Grinning, he takes my outstretched hand with both his big hands. His handshake is gentle, cool.
“Allan Dane, as you already know. For better or worse.”
Leaning back in his armchair, he lets out an approving noise as his eyes slide over my body once again.
“Yes, Eva, that getup of yours is certainly something. How about you tell me about yourself, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Fighting the blush making its way onto my face, I inhale, then exhale.
“As you can probably guess, my project has to do with cooking. A cooking app, in fact. It’s—”
“Stop right there.”
My legs tense up so much it feels like they’re fused into one limb of tension.
Allan Dane waves his hand, shaking his head with a shrug.
“I said tell me about you, not your project. First I want to know about the creator, then the creation.”
At my blank look, he continues. “I want to know about you, Eva Lynn. Your hopes, your dreams, everything about you and more.”
I manage a nervous laugh.
“Everything’s a whole lot.”
Allan Dane cocks his head at me.
“Try me.”
So, I do.
“I have a degree from the Institute of Culinary Education, born and raised in New York City. I live with my roommate and best friend, Angel, and our dog, Popper. I... My favorite color is purple.”
Allan Dane nods at me to go on, still apparently unsatisfied. So, I talk on, finding myself babbling before long, about my work, about Geno. “I’ve worked at Picklebucket for three years now, cooking and teaching cooking classes under Geno. He means well, but as time goes on and my cooking skills improve, he’s becoming more and more possessive. I’ve never been good at working for other people, but this app isn’t about that—about finally being my own boss. It’s about helping people—making fine dining more accessible to all, and helping my people, Angel, Popper, my dad. I know it sounds silly, and it won’t in any way affect your investment, but you asked to know about me, so I’m telling you. If it were just up to me, I wouldn’t be here; I think getting you to back me is a long shot at best, and a humiliating disaster at worst. I’m doing this for my family, my friends, and whoever could benefit from this app, which I think’s a lot. It works by having the user enter a list of ingredients in their home, and then generates a—”
“Excellent.”
Now Allan Dane is standing, and I’m reeling.
“That’s... it?”
“I know everything I need to.”