30 Days (Lost Love Trilogy #1) - Belle Brooks Page 0,14

folders against my chest as I walk down the corridor, which seems longer than yesterday, in search of a photocopier. There’s a door to the left that has Jasmine’s name embossed on it in big, bold letters. The next one along says “Anthea Springs”. No idea who she is. Rosetta Cutters’ name is on the next door. No clue as to her identity either. “Where is the bloody photocopier?”

“Have you completed that task already?” Jasmine’s voice projects loudly from her office.

“Um. Well, no. I’m looking for the—”

She appears in front of me. Where the hell did she just come from? She holds one finger in the air before she huffs.

How am I supposed to know where the hell it is? I want to yell, but I don’t.

“Ground level.” She scowls, as if it’s obvious.

“Ground level,” I murmur.

“Follow me.” She stomps towards the lifts. I follow hot on her heels. She abruptly stops “See the frame there?” Her long fingernail points to the wall beside the lift.

“Yes.”

“Well, read it. It’s a directory listing.” Her eyebrows rise as her lips purse. “Move along.”

“Great, thanks.”

I scrunch my fingers around the folders and grit my teeth as I take the lift. “What a witch,” I mutter, mad as hell.

Asher is busily working when I enter the ground level, and her head peeks over her shoulder as my heels clomp loudly against the flooring.

“I don’t think you’re looking for the fire exit staircase,” she says as I reach for the first doorknob I see.

“Nope.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Photocopying room.”

“It’s that door there.” She points to the door not far from her desk. “Rough start?”

“You could say that.”

“You’ll get used to Jasmine.”

“If you say so.”

Ringing.

“That’s the switch. If you need anything, I’m extension one. Just don’t forget to press hash after.” Her fingertip pushes a button on the side of the headset she has placed over neatly groomed hair. “Good morning, Sims, General, and Klein Lawyers, Asher speaking.”

I walk into the copy room. The machine is large with many buttons and trays. I can do this.

Removing the industrial-sized staple from the first lot of documents, I begin the task at hand. Before long, the papers disappear in one side of the copier and then slide out the other.

“Way to go me.” I applaud, removing the next staple with the tip of a pen I find next to the copier. I‘m alerted to an issue when I hear beeping—long beeping.

“Probably out of paper,” I mumble.

Red lights flash from the control panel. The noise becomes more urgent.

“Shit,” I yell when I see crumpled pages. “That’s just fucking great. I’ve fucked the fucking document. For fuck’s sake, why does this fucking shit always happen? Why? This is bullshit,” I screech while pressing buttons frantically and fighting paper that is clearly jamming.

“Wow! Bad day?” a voice comes from behind me.

“This piece-of-shit machine just ate these fucking documents. Why the frick is it beeping?” I whine before realising where I am. Oh crap!

He’s laughing.

I’m so getting fired. Turning around, slowly, I’m greeted by chocolate-coloured eyes, a stubbled chin, and charcoal hair. There’s a scar on his left cheekbone, no longer than a fingernail. My mouth gapes open. I try to close it, but can’t, so I stand there staring at lips forming the perfect smile.

“It’s you.” My voice cracks before sounding hoarse.

His smile broadens. “And it’s you,” he says, simply, rolling a piece of paper he’s holding in his hand then sliding it inside his navy business jacket. He strolls over to the copier, makes a fist and then he brings it down on top of the machine with a thud. The sound of paper being crumbled and torn stops.

“So that’s how you fix this piece of crap?” I swallow hard.

“No. You just press this button here. The one that says STOP.” He points to a red button. “The thump was just for effect.”

“Oh. Here I was thinking you were Arthur Fonzarelli.”

“Arthur who?” He lifts an eyebrow in confusion.

I try to explain that this man is a television character in a show my mother liked to watch called Happy Days. I know I’m not making any sense, mainly because he stares at me blankly.

“Don’t worry. Doesn’t matter.” I’m such an idiot. He’s going to think I’ve lost my marbles. I wrestle with the paper jammed in tightly.

He leans in close to my face, his breath smelling like mint as it rushes by my nose. “I know who Fonzie is.”

The smile following makes me weak in the knees. My heart races when