Chapter Six: Desperation is a poor look on a journalist

George stared at her a moment longer, then, with a faint smile that did not reach his eyes, whispered to himself, “Let the chase begin.” 

Mark, who had been with him, felt a chill of unease for Miss Yennifer. He knew that tone too well and knew, too, that Miss Yennifer was already in trouble.

Yennifer, still deep in thought, could barely hear the receptionist talking to her: “ Ma’am, Ma'am, do you have an appointment?”

Yennifer could not answer. She was still staring at the place he once stood, embarrassment and panic knotting together so tightly she could not tell which was worse.

“No, I don't. I'm actually here to get an interview with Mr. Ashford,” she said, and the receptionist kindly responded, “Sorry, miss, but Mr. Ashford doesn't grant interviews, and he has a busy schedule today, but you could try ”

Yennifer opened her mouth, then shut it again, thinking of how her career was hanging by a thread. She begged, 

“Please, I just need to speak to him, only speaking. Do you think you could be kind enough to fit me in any free time he might get, even if it's his lunch break? I don't mind”

After thinking for a while, the receptionist, Mrs Grace, said, “Well, I'll try to speak with his PA and see if he can fit you somewhere, and Yennifer thanked her profusely before going to sit in the visitors' area

Recalling the look Mr Ashford had given her only minutes before, she couldn’t quite keep still in her seat. So she opened her jotter and began reviewing the questions she had written down.

Three nights ago, the questions had seemed sharp, non-flattering. Now, under the weight of her nerves, they looked far too bold, and possibly the wrong questions for a first introduction, or was she just overthinking, she thought. Frowning at the page, she murmured.

“Hmph… what should I say? How do I introduce myself? Oh God, help me,”

Mark, Mr. George’s PA and a friend of Mrs. Grace had received her message, but he couldn’t help this time. After the brief encounter between his boss and the journalist, he knew better than to guess at George’s mood. He usually could try to read him, but not this time, and he wasn’t about to risk his job on a mistake. So he sent Mrs Grace a careful reply;

“His schedule is packed for today; she can go and come back tomorrow or wait till he closes by 5pm, just before his practice”

There are just two options she had, Yennifer thought to herself, “it's either she sees him, or she sees him” so she decided to sit and wait till Mr Ashford walks out of that pristine lift.

Three hours and thirty minutes later of her sitting down, watching every movement at the elevators, and every shift in the glass doors, George finally walked out with his PA behind him, and she jumped out of her seat as if it bit her. George, whose eyebrows scrunched up on seeing that she was still here, acted as though he had never met her and walked straight out of his building 

Yennifer hurried after him, trying to keep her voice polite and her pace not too frantic. “Mr. Ashford. Mr. Ashford, just a minute, please.”

He stopped in the parking lot, beside his car and turned slowly. The look he gave her was so cool, yet flat, it made her feel as if she had already lost something she had not even come here to offer. If intimidation wore a suit, it would have been George Ashford.

And then, just for one foolish second, relief rushed through her. Thank God, he doesn’t seem to remember me; there's no recognition on his face, she thought, exhaling into the air before she could stop herself.

“Good day Mr Ashford, I'm Yennifer, a journalist from Langard Media House, and I just need a few seconds of your time please?” shit, she cursed that wasn't how we rehearsed it.

Unfortunately, George Ashford was still looking at her. Really looking. His gaze tracked every shift of her posture with the patience of a man who had already decided she was interesting in the worst possible way; she didn't know her happiness was short-lived 

“Are you always this determined when you want something from a man, Miss?” he asked, his voice smooth and cutting. “You do understand desperation is a poor look on a journalist.”

Heat shot up her neck, to her cheeks, and all the way to the tips of her ears, as if her body had decided to confess before her brain could arrange a defense. The embarrassment landed so hard she nearly wished the floor had a trapdoor, preferably one that opened silently and with some dignity

Then, out of nowhere, he smiled, a very rusty smile, one that was cold and didn't reach his eyes. It was the kind that seemed to ask how much trouble she was prepared to make for herself.

“Tell me, miss…,” he said softly, angling his head to show he was asking a question

“Yennifer,” she said. “Miss Yennifer.”

“Miss Yennifer,” he repeated, as if he were tasting her name on his lips. “Did you come all this way to interview me, or to try seducing me again? Because you’ve got some nerve showing up here.”

He watched her closely like a hawk, clearly expecting her to shrink, deny it, or at least scramble for dignity. Instead, her first reaction was a sharp, indignant flinch, which quite frankly wasn't the reaction he was expecting

But to Yennifer, it felt like a slap and for the first time since the bathroom door had opened, she felt something other than embarrassment,

Rage!.