I sprint across the room and grab it faster than good manners would dictate.
“ThanksgottagoI’llseeyoulater!” I stuff the bottle in my purse and run out of the apartment and down the stairs.
I barrel through the lobby and onto the sidewalk, huffing and puffing in the cool May air.
To my relief, Jemma’s Wheely Good Coffee cart is parked in its usual spot. The line is long, though. I glance at my watch again; eight minutes until my cab arrives.
My gaze wanders over to the lot next to our building. Jemma the spy did not lie; the supervillain is there with his minion. And of course he’s standing with his back to me, talking to the construction crew. Not even noticing me when I’m looking my best. Typical.
Well, I primped and fluffed and preened for the job interview this morning, not for him. Definitely not for him.
As I slide into place in the coffee line, a wolf whistle distracts me.
I swing around with a scowl, ready to unleash a volley of indignation at the construction workers. Then I see it’s Isabella, just returned from her overnight shift. She smirks and makes her way towards me, still wearing her blue nurses’ scrubs.
“Can’t a stunningly gorgeous girl wait in line for coffee without being objectified?” I ask.
“Not on my watch.” Isabella delicately pats her hand over a yawn. “Off to your interview? I’ll join you for a decaf. Hey, want to hear what we pulled out of this dude’s butt last night?”
She gets a dirty look from a yoga-pants-wearing mom who’s pushing a jogging stroller past us. She shrugs. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Good call.”
As soon as the huffy mom passes us, she leans in and whispers “Cucumber. A honking big cucumber.”
“What the what!” I choke on a laugh. “Why, Isabella? You know I love cucumbers. Why would you ruin them for me?”
And could this line move any slower?
Nervously, I raise my hand to my hair, patting my curls, trying to make them…I don’t know, less curly.
“Stop fussing with your hair. You’re going to make it frizz. It looks fine,” she chastises me, and I drop my hands to my sides. She steps back and surveys me with a critical eye, then nods. “All of you looks fine. And not fine as in, ‘Eh, okay.’ Fine as in, ‘Damn, she looks fine.’ They’d be fools not to hire you.”
I swivel to examine myself in a mirrored shop window, as if my appearance has changed since I last checked. I tilt my head to the side and squint critically at myself.
“I don’t know. Does this look sing ‘boho chic’, or does it whimper ‘I got dressed in the dark because I couldn’t afford to pay my electric bill?’”
Isabella rolls her eyes. “The more important question is why you think your clothes have vocal cords. In my E.R., that’s a one-way ticket to Bellevue.”
“Is not. This is New York – it takes way more than that to trip the crazy-meter.” I make a face at my reflection. “I should have gone with something more conservative. My houndstooth checked interview suit.” I found that one at a church charity shop in Greenwich Village. Blogged it!
Isabella shudders. “Ugh, no. You’re going to be a personal shopper, chica, not an extra in a 1980s Wall Street rom-com. You need to show some style. This dress is perfect, your hair is perfect, and if you don’t stop messing with it I’m going to smack you.” She looks meaningfully at my hands, which are, of their own volition, floating up towards my hair again.
“You’re right.” I grab my purse and hold onto the strap to distract my hands.
“Always.” She heaves a martyred sigh. “It’s a burden I bear.”
We inch forward towards the cart. I check my watch, then my gaze drifts towards the awning in front of our building. “My cab’s going to be here any minute,” I fret. “I need that coffee.”
She snorts in amusement. “Yeah, yeah, your lucky latte.”
“They’re magic beans!” I protest. “Granted, I’m weirdly and randomly superstitious, but the results speak for themselves. Every time I’ve bought a latte from Jemma, my day has been lucky.” I glance at Jemma behind the coffee cart, a spiky-haired, tattooed, leather-vested blur of motion. She’s British, and she looks a little bit like a female Billy Idol.
The first day I bought a latte from her cart, my mother called to tell me that her test results had come back clear. The sharp taste of cinnamon still lay fresh on my tongue, the sun burst through the clouds in a comically cinematic flourish, and I looked down at my cup and thought, hmm. After that, I noticed that every time I bought a latte from Jemma, I’d find something amazing at a consignment shop, or I’d line up a great-paying gig from my temp agency. Jemma waves this off as me being a ‘barmy sod’, but why mess with success?
So naturally, I’m willing to sacrifice a few precious dollars and a few precious minutes to grab a cup of liquid luck before I head east to Hudson’s.
“You’ll do great today. Do you have your lucky book?” Isabella asks.
I pat my purse to reassure myself. “Yes.” Pride and Prejudice, the copy my mother gave me for my sixteenth birthday.
“With your lucky bookmark?”
“Of course.”
It’s a laminated list of my requirements for any man I’d consider dating.
Loves dogs. Walks old ladies across the street. Considerate. Loves me no matter what I look like. I made that bookmark when I was in middle school, and I’ve never seen any reason to update the list. Middle-school me had a lot of wisdom.
“That must be why you’re about to get lucky.” She smirks in the direction of Tall, Dark and Dickish.
Today, he’s wearing a dove-gray raw silk suit, accessorized with a black and gray striped tie and a faint smirk. A small storm of butterflies swarms in my stomach, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other and take a deep, gulping breath. I wanted his attention, and now I’ve got it. Be careful what you wish for. Because his laser-beam-blue eyes are focused entirely on me now, and I can tell my morning is about to get a lot more…interesting.
Chapter Three
Blake
Winona Jeffers, the fiery-eyed, redheaded thorn in my side, is giving me a look that could scorch the hair off a gnat at fifty paces. It’s certainly warming my blood.
I remember the smirk she flashed me after vandalizing my suit with poodle urine last week, and my feet start moving of their own accord. Before I know it, I’ve stepped in front of a woman who was just about to place an order at the coffee cart. Winona’s four places behind her.
I turn to face the line and switch on my megawatt smile, the one I save for our board members or anyone else I want to charm. Yeah, I’m a platinum-plated son of a bitch ninety-five percent of the time, but you don’t get as far as I have without knowing how to schmooze when necessary. “Hey, everyone! I’m in a serious hurry, but if you let me cut in line, everyone’s order is on me! Coffee, pastries, whatever!”
“No way, you skunk-smelling sack of horse manure!” Winona yells. At the same time, everyone else cheers.
“If this lady says no, I guess the offer is rescinded,” I say regretfully, gesturing at her and stepping to the side – but only slightly. Suddenly everyone’s glaring at her like she just drop-kicked a puppy.