The Man In The Gray Flannel Suit Novel Novels & Stories

“Rich men. Just smile and do your job.” The elevator was gold and it glowed. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I pressed the button for the top floor and when the doors opened, I stepped out slowly. A man stood outside Room 707. He wore a black suit and didn’t smile. He just opened the door. I walked in. There was one man sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked up. And I froze. He was tall, broad shoulders and his black suit looked like it was made for him. His hair was dark and his eyes were darker.

I grabbed the vanilla and turned toward the counter, but I stopped dead. The man wasn't a photographer. He didn't have a camera hanging around his neck, and he didn't have that frantic, pushy energy of the guys currently stalking the sidewalk outside. He was tall and thin, wearing a gray overcoat that looked old, worn out, and slightly too large for his frame. His face was pale and perfectly still, like it was carved from stone. He looked sketchy, not just because of his rumpled clothes, but because of how he stood. He was positioned between me and the exit, his eyes darting to the doors before locking onto me like I was prey.

The bell above the door gave a soft little ring. “Do you have any sunflowers today?” The man’s voice was warm and low, touched with an easy smile. I looked up and saw a tall man standing just inside the doorway. He wore a light gray coat and held a newly bought book in one hand. His features were clean-cut, his eyes clear. When he looked at me, there was no lingering stare, no intrusion in it. “Yes,” I said, setting down the shears. “We just got some in. They’re fresh.”

You made sure I came out triumphant in this exchange. During a signing event, a young reader asked me, "Did the guy really vanish in the end, Ms. Gray? Was the system real?" My hand touched the deformed brooch on my chest, and I smiled. "Perhaps not, but their love was true." I had a dream that night, a dream where I was in my college's library. The sun was shining golden, its warmth just right. A young man in a white shirt was holding a finance book in his hand as he frowned at a candlestick chart. When he noticed me approaching, he raised his head. Soon, a familiar, silly grin bloomed on his lips.

But she halted instantly, her hand still on the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a man walking in from the opposite direction, headed toward the very same entrance. He was dressed in a thick, expensive gray suit, tailored close, his shoes polished to a shine that looked entirely out of place against the cracked pavement outside the bar. "That man from that night?" Amber muttered, her eyes narrowing, her whole body going still as the man drew closer, his stride purposeful, unhurried, like a predator who already knew there was nowhere for his prey to run. "He's not here for me, is he?" Before she could step back, before she could even finish turning toward the street, the man closed the

Lena hardly found anyone attractive and even worse, hasn't had sex in like forever, literally. As soon as she turned her body, she came in contact with another body. "Oh my God, I'm sorry." She said looking and backing up to get a look the person she'd collided into. "No, it's nothing. Hey" She blacked out for a second. It was the guy she kept staring at and whom who apparently could not take his eyes off her either. He was wearing a white shirt that had a loose buttons at the top and was tucked in to his pants. In his hands, was his suit

She pounded on the door, rattling it from it's hinges and once again, my ears heard static. "Come in, Gladys," a weary voice called from inside. Obviously, whoever it was was well aware of Gladys' sheer brutality. She opened the door and pushed me into the small office, it was sparsely furnished with just a desk, an armchair behind the desk and two other wooden chairs. A small bookcase with dusty, old books graced a corner of the room. A man in stood by the only window in the room, watching the rain drops spread down the windows slowly. He looked really old and frail, with a head and beard full of white hair and tiny spectacles, he looked kind of like Santa, if Santa wore slacks and blue swe

Mud splattered everywhere, coating the pristine black paint. The silence that followed was heavy. The driver’s door swung open, and a man stepped out. He didn't look like a wolf. He looked like royalty. He wore a tailored grey suit that somehow remained immaculate, despite the storm. His hair was black and slicked back, his face angular and coldly beautiful. He didn't even look at the mud; he looked at the world as if it were a restaurant he was about to burn down for bad service. He lit a cigarette, the flame of the lighter illuminating sharp, hazel eyes. He took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that mingled with the rain.

“Casa Valdierra is not sold. We haven’t even seen the kitchen.” “She’s always like this,” Gracie told Rhysand. “I know.” My hand stopped on the floor plan. Gracie did not notice. She was already waving over the man in the gray suit who had been speaking to Rhysand earlier. He approached at a brisk but measured pace. Late fifties, perhaps, with neatly combed silver hair and a gray suit far too immaculate for a man managing a house by the ocean. He wore the expression of someone who had spent thirty years watching wealthy families make absurd requests and call them tradition.

But in a room this still it landed like a door closing. The London men looked at each other. Then at the blade still buried in the table between them. Then away. The gray man from the banks folded his papers slowly and put them in his jacket pocket. One by one the rifles went the rest of the way down. Syris hadn't moved. Still white. just staring at me from across the felt with the dead cigarette on the floor beside his chair. For the first time since I'd met him that dry patient smile was completely gone. What was underneath it was something smaller and older and much less controlled.