Free A Billion Little Clues by Samantha Westlake Page A

who were at the party last night. But I had expected floor twenty-eight to look a lot like my own floor, with a small open area and receptionist in front of another giant maze of cubicles.
    Instead, my first thought upon exiting the elevator was that construction hadn't quite finished building our building, and I had come out on the top floor. Glass, glass everywhere. The elevator was towards the center of the building, but I swore that so many walls of this floor were glass, I could see all the way to the outer windows in all four directions. There was a receptionist's desk, yes, but it was huge, a giant circle with one of those super fancy, super thin flat screen computers sitting behind it. And the woman at the computer who glanced up at me as I stepped out of the elevator had her disinterested glare down to an art.
    "Can I help you?" she asked, as if the very idea of helping me with anything was the most arduous concept in the entire world.
    I wasn't quite sure how to respond for a second. "Um, I was called up here?" I asked, hating how hesitant my voice sounded. I knew that I didn't belong up here, in this world of massive executive offices with their floor-to-ceiling glass windows instead of real walls! Weren't they afraid of the glass breaking, of falling out and dropping all the way down to the tiny street below?
    The woman behind the receptionist's desk just blinked at me, a single, very slow blink of her astoundingly thick eyelashes. I couldn't help sweeping my eyes over her, feeling more and more ashamed of myself with every inch I covered. She looked like a damn model! My arms were thicker than her thighs! And yet she still somehow had just as much cleavage as me - and her very stylish blouse didn't have any coffee stains marring it.
    After a few seconds of silence, I remembered the green sticky note. "I got this," I tried, holding the sticky note up.
    The woman darted forward, faster than I believed possible, and snatched the green slip of paper from my fingers. She held it up to her face, glaring down at it, and then passed it back. "You're Melinda," she said, her tone sounding as if she doubted I could even manage to do this much.
    I nodded. "Yes."
    With a long sigh, the woman rose up from her seat, stepping out from behind the desk. "Follow me," she murmured to me, and then stalked off down the hallway between the giant glass offices without looking back to see if I was following.
    I was, feeling worse about myself by the second. She even walked like a runway model! And her skirt was tight enough to reveal that there was most definitely not anything underneath. Was I going to have to dress this way for work? I would very quickly run out of flattering outfits. I'd have to start paying Rachel for all the things I borrowed from her.
    The woman reached the office at the end of the corridor and opened up the glass door, rapping her knuckles lightly against it as she did so. "Mister Wayland, your nine o'clock is here," she called in.
    Still standing just outside the office, I froze. Wayland? As in Roman Wayland? As in the possible murderer that I had kissed last night and had been unable to keep out of my head ever since?
    Yes, it was. I forced my feet to shuffle forward through the doorway, and saw him as he rose up from behind a massive glass-topped (seriously, did we own a division that just made glass?) desk. For a moment, my heart leapt up into my throat.
    When I had met him out on the terrace, it had been quite dark, and I had only dimly been able to make out his features. Now, in the balanced lighting of his office, I could scrutinize him more closely. And he was no less impressive.
    Tall. I remembered that from last night. And if this suit wasn't the same one as last night, it could have been an identical copy. It was tight around his legs, showing off his sturdy but not oversized calves and thighs, and fanning out to cover his broad shoulders. His hair was swept back, a deep chestnut brown in color, but