Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
As I waited for the salesperson to ring me up, I looked back at the fitting room and noticed that the door I’d thought the woman had pointed to was actually right next to another door, and that one had the Ladies sign above it. The one I’d been in was clearly marked Men.
Crap. Perfect.
The shirt cost me a hundred-and-forty dollars—about a hundred-and-twenty bucks more than the one it replaced, which I’d picked up at Marshalls. Since that was almost enough to deplete my sad checking account these days, I needed to land this last job—the interview for which I only had a few minutes left to get to. So I rushed to the building a few doors down, did a Superman-speed change in the ladies’ room in the lobby, ran my fingers through my hair, and applied an extra layer of lipstick over my already too-red lips to even out the cherry stains.
The elevator ride up to the thirty-fifth floor was about as speedy as the train ride downtown had been. The car stopped at almost every floor to let people on and off, so I took out my phone and scanned my emails to avoid stressing about being a minute or two late. Unfortunately, that turned out to be even more draining, since I’d received two new email rejection letters from jobs I’d submitted my resumé to—including one from the place I’d interviewed earlier today. Great. I felt completely defeated, especially since I was now walking in to interview for a job I knew I wasn’t qualified for, even if Kitty had put in a good word for me.
The elevator dinged at my floor, and I took a deep breath to compose myself before stepping off. But I barely had one foot over the threshold when whatever morsel of the calm I’d managed to find flew out the window. Tall, double-glass doors with big, fancy gold letters announcing Crawford Investments intimidated the hell out of me. Inside, the reception area was even worse, with sky-high ceilings, stark white walls featuring boldly colored art, and a giant crystal chandelier. The woman behind the desk looked more like a supermodel than a receptionist, too.
She smiled through glossy lips. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I have a five o’clock appointment with Merrick Crawford.”
“Your name, please?”
“Evie Vaughn.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here. Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
As I walked over to the plush white couches, the woman called after me. “Ms. Vaughn?”
I turned. “Yes?”
“You have…” She motioned over her shoulder to her back. “…a tag hanging off your shirt.”
I reached around, patting until I found it, and tugged it off. “Thank you. I got something on the shirt I put on this morning, so I had to buy a new one before I got here.”
She smiled. “Thank God it’s Friday.”
“Most definitely.”
A few minutes later, the receptionist walked me back into the inner sanctum of offices. When we reached the proverbial corner office, there were two men inside embattled in some sort of a screaming match. They didn’t even seem to notice us. The entire office was glass, though, so I could see them standing toe to toe as they yelled. The shorter of the two was balding and talked animatedly with his hands. Every time he flailed his arms, he flashed giant sweat rings in his armpits. The taller of the two was definitely the boss, based on his stance. He stood with his feet spread wide and arms folded across a broad chest. I couldn’t see his whole face, but from the side, it looked like some of the confidence he oozed probably came from being extremely attractive.
“If you don’t like it…” the boss finally growled, “…don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”
“I have socks older than this kid! What kind of experience could he possibly have?”
“Age isn’t a number I give two shits about. It’s the other number that calls the shots around here—profit. His are double digits, and yours are in the toilet for the third quarter in a row. Until things improve, your trades all need to be approved by Lark.”
“Lark…” He shook his head. “Even the name pisses me off.”
“Well, go be pissed off somewhere else.”
Short Guy grumbled something I couldn’t make out and turned to leave. He wiped sweat from his ruddy face as he marched toward the door and swung it open, brushing past us as if we weren’t even here. Inside, the boss walked toward his desk. Apparently, we were invisible.
The receptionist looked at me sympathetically before knocking.
“What!”
She cracked open the door and peeked her head inside. “Your five o’clock interview is here. You told me to bring her back.”
“Great.” He frowned and shook his head. “Bring her in.”
Apparently, Kitty’s grandson didn’t inherit her kind demeanor.
The receptionist extended her hand with a hesitant smile. “Sorry,” she whispered. “But good luck.”