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me?" He nodded to me before turning and guiding Sandra toward the lift.
    "Cover for me," Sandra said, trying to sound imperious but failing, as Thomas took her inside the lift. She couldn't even manage to move her eyebrows.
    I saw her handbag on the ground next to her desk. "Hold the lift!"
    Thomas stuck an arm out to make the door open again, and I handed him the purse.
    "Be seeing you, Miss Glass." He smiled as the lift doors closed.
    Long after the doors had shut, I stood there, my heart beating a staccato rhythm, my mind a jumble. How on earth was it possible I would intern for the very man who'd rescued me and Isabel? Was it some strange twist of fate? I hardly believed in coincidence, preferring instead to think of the universe as a massive joke factory with humans as the punch lines. Not the sunniest outlook, true, but I could think of no other way something this bizarre could have happened.
    "Sandra?" said a voice from behind. I turned just as a middle-aged man with a thick head of hair stepped around the corner and regarded me with a confused look. I recognized him from pictures I'd seen while researching OnTech, but hadn't met him yet since I'd been hired by proxy through an employment agency.
    "She's sick, Mr. Jameson. Can I help you with anything?"
    His nostrils flared, likely from the odor of Sandra's vomit. "Are you the new intern?"
    "Yes, sir. Emily Glass."
    He held out a hand. Gave mine a quick squeeze, and released. "Burt Jameson. Pleased to meet you, Miss Glass. Did Sandra leave any instructions?"
    I glanced at her desk, and spotted a calendar on her computer. It showed the sales meeting scheduled that afternoon and detailed several things in her notes. "Yes sir, I just need to consult them."
    He nodded. "Sounds good." Checked his watch. "We'll need the conference room set up ASAP."
    "I'm on it." I gave him my cheeriest smile, though a flicker of panic passed across my vision.
    After he'd gone, I read Sandra's notes. Most of the listed duties were labeled as mine, so I set about getting the portable coffee pots filled and ordering the pastries and other snacks. Thankfully, someone had already called janitorial services to clean up Sandra's spew. By the end of the hour, the conference room was good to go.
    Kevin entered bearing a stack of pie charts and cardboard backers. He set them on the tripod at the other end of the conference table. "Have you seen Mr. Jones?"
    I gave him the rundown on my unfortunate encounter. He burst into laughter. "You really know how to deal with the upper management."
    "Nothing like a bit of coffee to warm things up," Thomas Jones said from the doorway.
    Kevin's smiled froze on his face.
    Thomas gave him a grin that thawed the temperature in the room. "I see you have everything ready to go, Miss Glass."
    I noticed he had on a fresh set of clothes, khaki pants, and a white button-up shirt—understated attire that only bold-faced his normalcy. I imagined him dressed up in something a bit more stylish, say designer jeans and a fitted shirt, but decided he would still look rather non-descript. Perhaps if he worked out a bit, and got a tan, he might improve his looks, I mused. It occurred to me just how odd it was for me to even consider the benefits of a makeover for this man. Why did I care how he dressed or how he looked? He certainly wasn't what I'd consider my type—and why, oh why, was my mind even pursuing this line of reasoning?
    Before I made a fool of myself yet again, I gave the room one last look and returned to the front desk to consult Sandra's calendar again, but only after applying hand sanitizer to everything she could have touched. I felt certain catching the flu and missing work would not bode well for my continued employment here, especially after scalding the sales manager with his coffee.
    Most of the items on the calendar were things Sandra had assigned me to do whereas those tasks labeled with her name were few and far between, and mostly in the executive wing.