“Judith,” Miguel says to me, “are you going to be much longer?”
I take my eyes off my boss and return to my breakfast. I swallow my coffee. “Finished!” I answer.
An hour later, after making copies and completing the paperwork for another contract, I head for my supervisor’s office.
“Here is the final contract for the Albacete branch office.”
“Thank you,” she responds while eyeing the documents.
Following protocol, I remain standing until she gives me my next assignment. The telephone rings, and before she can even look at me, I’ve answered it.
“Mónica Sánchez’s office. This is Ms. Flores, her assistant. How may I help you?”
“Good day, Ms. Flores,” responds a deep male voice with a slightly foreign accent. “This is Eric Zimmerman. I’d like to speak with your supervisor.”
On recognizing the name, I quickly respond, “Just a moment, please, Mr. Zimmerman.”
Hearing me, my boss drops the documents and, practically tearing the receiver from my hands, smiles charmingly into the phone.
“Eric, how wonderful to hear from you,” she says. She continues after a brief silence. “Of course, of course. Oh, you’re already in Madrid?” Then she lets loose a laugh that’s faker than a euro with Popeye’s face. She whispers, “Of course, Eric. I’ll wait for you at two in the lobby and we can get something to eat.”
She hangs up and stares at me. “Get me an appointment with my hairdresser in half an hour. Then make a two o’clock reservation for two at Gemma’s Restaurant.”
Five minutes later, she shoots like a rocket out of the office and returns an hour and a half later with her hair even more lustrous and beautiful and her makeup retouched. At quarter to two, I see Miguel knock and enter her office. Oh my God! I don’t even want to think about what they might be doing. After five minutes, I hear laughter. At five to two, the door opens and they both exit.
“Judith, you can go to lunch now,” my supervisor says. “And remember, I’ll be with Mr. Zimmerman. If I’m not back by five and you need anything, call me on my cell.”
As soon as the evil witch and Miguel leave, I sigh with relief. I let my hair down and take off my glasses. Later, I pick up my things and head for the elevator. I get on, and the doors close. Suddenly, between the sixth and fifth floors the elevator jerks, then stops abruptly. The emergency lights come on, and Manuela, who works for a messenger service, starts to shriek.
“Oh Mother of God, what’s going on?”
“Calm down,” I respond. “It might be a blackout, but the lights will come back on soon.”
“How long is it going to take?”
“Well, I don’t know, Manuela, but if you freak out, it’ll make things worse, and it’ll seem like an eternity. Just breathe, and we’ll have lights again in no time.”
Twenty minutes later, there are still no lights, and Manuela, along with several girls from accounting, is panicking. I realize I have to do something. I don’t like being stuck in an elevator any more than they do. It overwhelms me and makes me sweat. But if I panic, it’ll be worse. I pull my hair up off my neck, holding it in place with a pin. Then I give Manuela my bottle of water and joke around with the girls from accounting while I pass out strawberry-flavored gum. It’s getting hotter in here, so I take a fan from my bag and try to cool off. It’s so hot!
Just then, one of the men leaning against the elevator wall takes my elbow.
“Are you all right?”
Without looking at him, and continuing to fan myself, I respond, “Uff. You want the truth? Or should I make something up?”
“I’d rather the truth.”
Now being playful, I turn to him. Suddenly, my nose collides with a gray sport coat. He smells very nice.
I immediately take a step back to see who it is. He’s tall. I only come up to the knot on his tie. He has brownish hair, leaning toward blond. He’s young and has clear blue eyes. I don’t recognize him at all, and seeing as he’s waiting for my response, I whisper so only he can hear me.
“Between you and me, I’ve never liked elevators, and if they don’t open these doors really soon, I’m going to lose it,” I say, still fanning myself. “Believe me, you don’t want to see me like that. I start foaming at the mouth, and my head spins like the girl from The Exorcist. It’s quite a scene.” I’m getting more agitated, but I’m really trying to calm down. I ask him, “Would you like a piece of strawberry gum?”
The funny thing is, he takes it, opens it, and sticks it in my mouth. I accept, a bit surprised, and without knowing why, I unwrap another stick and do the same to him. Grinning, he accepts too.
I look over at Manuela and company. They’re overwrought, sweaty, and flushed. To keep my own hysteria in check, I attempt a conversation with the stranger.
“Are you new at the office?”
“No.”
The elevator jerks, and everyone starts screaming. I follow suit. I grab the man’s arm and twist his sleeve. When I realize what I’m doing, I immediately let go.
“I’m sorry . . . so sorry,” I apologize.
“It’s OK, no big deal.”
But I can’t calm down. How can I calm down when we’re trapped in an elevator? I feel a burning sensation on my neck. I open my bag and pull out a small makeup mirror. I check things out and start to curse.
“Shit, shit! I’m getting hives!”
The man looks at me, surprised. I turn and show him.
He nods and I scratch.
“Don’t do that,” he says, taking my hand. “It’ll make it worse.”
He bends over and blows on my neck. Oh God! He smells so nice, and it feels so good! Two seconds later, I realize how ridiculous I must seem when I moan.
What am I doing?
I cover my neck and try to change the subject.
“I was just going out for lunch, but the way things are going, I probably won’t eat today.”
“I imagine your supervisor will understand and will let you come back to the office a little later.”
This amuses me. He doesn’t know my supervisor.
“That’s quite an imagination.” Curious, I ask, “Your accent is . . .”
“German.”
That doesn’t surprise me. We work for a German company, and there are Germans in and out all day long. But I can’t help myself, and I look at him with a malicious smile.
“Good luck in the Euro Cup!”
He shrugs. He’s quite serious. “I don’t care about soccer.”
“No?”
“No.”
Maybe it’s because my family, friends, and I are huge fans, but I’m always surprised when somebody doesn’t like soccer. I swell with pride over our team and mutter, “Well then, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
He comes close to my ear again, giving me goose bumps.
“Win or lose, we accept the final score,” he whispers to me.
He takes a step back and returns to his prior position.
He must have heard what I said. I turn around so I don’t have to see him. I glance at my watch: it’s quarter to three. Shit! I’ve lost most of my lunch break, and now I won’t have time to get to Vips for my favorite club sandwich. I guess I’ll just stop at a bar on Almudena Street and grab something quick.
Suddenly, the lights come on, the elevator renews its trajectory, and all of us trapped inside applaud.
Curious again, I turn to look at the stranger who was worried about me. In the light, he is taller and sexier, and he’s still looking at me.
When the elevator reaches the first floor and the elevator doors pop open, Manuela and the girls from accounting stampede like wild horses, screaming hysterically. I’m so glad I’m not like that. The truth is, I can be a little boyish. My father raised me like that. When I step off the elevator, I’m taken aback to see my supervisor standing there.
“Eric, for the love of God!” she says. “When I came down to meet you for lunch and got your
text saying you were stuck in the elevator, I was so worried. What a nightmare! Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine,” responds the man who was talking with me only moments before.
Suddenly, my head is swirling. Eric. Lunch. My supervisor. The person I just told my Exorcist bit to and whose mouth I shoved a piece of strawberry gum into is Eric Zimmerman, the superboss? I blush a bright red and refuse to look at him.
God! I’m so ridiculous. I want to get out of here as soon as possible, but then someone grabs my elbow.
“Thanks for the gum, Miss . . . ?”
“Judith,” responds my supervisor. “She’s my assistant.”
The now-identified Mr. Eric Zimmerman turns to me. “Then it’s Miss Judith Flores, right?”
“Yes,” I respond like a fool—like a total fool!
My boss gets tired of not being the center of attention and grabs him possessively by the arm, pulling on him.
“What do you say we go eat, Eric? It’s late!”
I lift my head and smile. An instant later, that impressive man with clear blue eyes steps away, but just before going out the door, he turns and looks right at me. When he finally disappears, I sigh and wonder why I couldn’t have just stayed quiet in the elevator.
3
The first person I spot in the cafeteria the next morning is Mr. Zimmerman. I notice him glancing up at me, but I pay him no attention. I have no interest in greeting him.
When it comes to bosses, I’ve always thought the greater the distance, the better. And this one’s a smart operator. The truth is, the man makes me nervous. I sense he’s watching me, studying me, from behind his newspaper. When I peek—wham!—I’m right. I down my coffee. I have to get back to work.
I end up running into him several times during the day. And when he moves to his father’s old office, which is right across from me and connected to my supervisor’s office by the archive room (a space full of file cabinets), I want to die. He never addresses me, but I feel his gaze. I try to hide behind my computer screen, but it’s impossible. He always finds a way so our eyes meet.
When I leave the office that night, I go directly to the gym. One spinning class and time in the Jacuzzi relieve me of the stress I’ve accumulated during the day, and I’m exhausted when I get home, ready for sleep.
It’s more of the same for the next few days. Mr. Zimmerman, that big handsome boss whom I’ve begun to dream about and whom the entire office looks up to, is everywhere I go.
He’s serious and a little threatening, and he hardly smiles. But I notice he searches me out, and it disconcerts me.
The days pass, and one morning, we finally exchange greetings. He doesn’t close the door to his office today, and now he can target me better with his gaze. My God, this is so stressful.
Not to mention that every time I run into him in the cafeteria, he just stares at me. But when I show up with Miguel or the boys, he takes off immediately.
I’m incredibly tied up today. My cagey supervisor has given me hundreds of pages to deal with. Like always, she doesn’t seem to remember that Miguel, as Mr. Zimmerman’s administrative assistant, should be handling 50 percent of our work.
When it’s time for lunch, the object of my wet dreams pops out of his office and, after staring at me once more, goes into my supervisor’s office without knocking. Two seconds later, the two of them emerge together to head to lunch.
When I’m left alone, I finally relax. I don’t know what my problem is with this man, but his presence raises my temperature, making my blood boil.
After I straighten up my desk a bit, I decide to go out to lunch myself. But the stress of the paperwork waiting for me is such that I have lunch quickly and return right away.
Back at my desk, I shove my bag in a drawer, grab my iPod, and put in my earbuds. If there’s one thing I like in this life, it’s music. My mother taught my father, my sister, and me that music is the only thing that tames the beast and helps troubles disappear. That is one of her many legacies, and it may be why I adore music and spend all day humming and singing along.
Weighed down with file folders, I go into Ms. Sánchez’s office and open the archive room. It also opens into Mr. Zimmerman’s office, but since I know he’s not there, I relax and file as I sing along to my music.
“Miss Flores, your singing is terrible.”
That voice. That accent.
I’m so startled that I drop the folder I am holding. I bend to pick it up, and, damn, I bump my head against him. Against Mr. Zimmerman. My embarrassment must show clearly on my face. I take out my earbuds and stare up at him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Zimmerman,” I mutter.
“It’s OK.” Taking liberties, he touches my forehead and asks, “Are you OK?”
I nod like a bobblehead. Yet again, he’s asked me if I’m OK. Oh God! I can’t help it when my eyes (and my whole being) give him the once-over: tall, brown hair with blond highlights, thirty-something, sinewy, blue eyes, a deep and sensual voice . . . in other words, one very fine specimen.
“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he says. “I didn’t mean to.”
I shake my bobblehead again. I must be an idiot. I get up off the floor, the folder in my hand. “Has Mrs. Sánchez come back yet?”
“Yes.”
Surprised, because I haven’t heard her come in, I start to leave, when he grabs my arm.
“What were you singing?”
The question is so startling, I almost say, “What do you care?” Fortunately, I control my impulse.
“A song.”
He smiles. My God, what a smile!
“I know . . . I like the lyrics. What’s the name of the song?”
“‘Black and White’ by Malú, sir.”
But it seems my words amuse him. Is he laughing at me?
“Now that you know who I am, you call me ‘sir’?”
“Forgive me, Mr. Zimmerman,” I say in a professional tone. “I didn’t recognize you in the elevator. But now that I know who you are, I think I should address you appropriately.”
He takes a step toward me, and I take two steps back. What’s he doing?
He takes another step. I try to do the same but end up against the wall. There’s no way out. He’s practically on top of me, bending down to my eye level. Mr. Zimmerman, the same sexy guy into whose mouth I stuck a piece of strawberry gum just a few days ago.
“I liked you more when you didn’t know who I was,” he whispers.
“Sir, I . . .”
“Eric. My name is Eric.”
Confused and nervous, I swallow the knot of emotions that are making me tingle all over.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think this is right.”
Then, without asking my permission, he takes the pin out of my bun, and my straight dark hair falls around my shoulders. I look at him. He looks at me too, and there is a more-than-significant silence in which we both breathe irregularly.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asks, breaking the silence.
“No, sir,” I respond.
“Then where is the sparkling girl from the elevator?”
As I’m about to respond, I hear my supervisor and Miguel enter her office. Mr. Zimmerman presses his body closer to mine and tells me to be quiet.
“Where’s Judith?” my supervisor asks.
“I’m pretty sure she’s in the cafeteria. She must have gone up for a Coke. It’ll be a while before she comes back,” says Miguel as he closes the door to her office.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Miguel insists. “Now come here and show me what you’ve got under your skirt today.”
Oh my God, this can’t be happening.
Mr. Zimmerman should not see what I believe those two are about to do. I try to think of a way to distract him. This man is practically on top of me, and he won’t take his eyes off me.
“Relax, Miss Flores. Let’s let them have their fun,” he whispers.
I’m mortified.
 
; An instant later, the only sounds are coming from mouths and tongues colliding in the next room. Frightened by the awkward silence, I look through the opening of the archive-room door and gasp when I see my supervisor sitting on her desk while Miguel licks her. I start to pant, and Zimmerman smiles from above me. He slides his hand around my waist and brings me closer to him.
“Excited?” he asks me.
I stare at him, but I don’t speak. I have no intention of answering that question. But his inquisitive eyes are on me, and he brings his mouth even closer to mine.
“What excites you more, soccer or this?” he asks.
Oh my God! How could I not be excited with a man like him practically on top of me in a situation like this? To hell with soccer! I’m shameless.
I’m so agitated, but then Zimmerman moves his head. He looks through the crack in the door and drags me over so we can both see. And what I see absolutely floors me. My supervisor is spread-eagle on the desk as Miguel avidly runs his tongue along her inner thigh. I close my eyes. Moments later, the German, who is still holding me very tightly, pushes me against the file cabinet again and whispers in my ear.
“Does watching them scare you?”
“No . . .” He looks pleased. “But I don’t think it’s right that we’re watching them, Mr. Zimmerman. I think . . .”
“It’s not hurting anyone, and anyway, it’s quite provocative.”
“She’s my supervisor.”
He makes an affirming gesture as he touches his mouth to my ear. “I’d give anything so that it was you on that desk,” he whispers. “I would put my mouth on your thighs and then stick my tongue in you and make you mine.”
I’m dumbstruck.
Bewildered.
Amazed.
Why is this man saying these things to me?
Highly aroused, I’m about to come back with a wisecrack, when I suddenly get butterflies in my stomach. I’m too exhilarated by what he’s just said to pretend otherwise, even if his words are pretty vulgar. Finally, his lips stop in front of mine. Without taking his eyes off me, he runs his moist tongue over my upper lip, then my lower lip, and gives me a sweet little bite on the mouth.