WELL YOU CAN WAIT SOME MORE, DAMNIT
Actually here's the first bit, I'm rushing as much as I can, so tell me if it's worth reading.
"Ms. Andrews," he spoke into the phone while holding down the front desk button, "could you send up my three o'clock up a little early if he's ready?" he released the button and shifted slightly in his seat, though it took only a second to get the response he knew was coming. "Certainly sir," came his secretary's cheery response. "And hon, come up with him and bring me a coffee. Ah," Again the reply was a cheerful "Certainly sir." "Thank you Ms. Andrews," he said even though he'd already removed his finger from the button allowing him to call down to the lobby. Then Mister Johnathan Warburton stood. Even at fifty-six he found it hard to stay still for long periods of time. He took a moment to stretch his Kiton-clad legs and run a hand through his mane of flowing, silvered hair.
He stepped over to the massive glass window of his executive office, breathing in the outside view. All around him towering pillars of steel and glass streched toward the sky as if trying to pierce the very vault of heaven itself. The midday sun reflected off of the multitude of windows, lighting the normally foreboding city up like a priceless diamond on display. It was an Eden of Industry, a paradise for the industrious, and it was his diamond, his paradise. Here Jonathan Warburton was on top of it all. And yet this fiscal god among men felt a very human sensation that kept him on edge. Anticipation.
The very man he had just called up was Michael Malden, manager of the First Bank of Gotham. He slowed his breathing; his heart was pounding. Sometimes Johnathan forgot he was old now, it wouldn't do him any good to have a heart attack now, nomatter how much confidence, money, or persuasive skill he had.