Chance (The One More Night Series)

by Christina Ross

  “You must have some very lucky children.”

  “I’m the lucky one,” the woman said, taking the twenty I handed her. “I remind myself of that every day.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Once inside the lobby, which was a hive of activity as people stepped into and out of elevators and crisscrossed in front of me, I approached the reception area. I was so nervous that my heels sounded to me like drum taps on the marble floor.

  A man looked up at me.

  “I’m Jennifer Kent,” I said. “I have an interview with Barbara Blackwell.”

  “Ms. Blackwell?”

  “Sorry. Yes, Ms. Blackwell.”

  He typed something into his computer, read the screen, picked up the phone that was next to him, and made a call. “Jennifer Kent to see Ms. Blackwell. Shall I send her up? I understand that she’s early, but she’s nevertheless here. Thank you.”

  He hung up the phone and motioned toward the elevators. “Fifty-first floor. Take a right when the doors open. You’ll find a sitting area to your left. You’re early. Wait there for a bit, and Ms. Blackwell’s assistant will come for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Sorry I’m early.”

  “Better than late,” he said.

  * * *

  When the doors opened, I steeled myself and stepped into the hallway. I saw the sitting area, went to it, and found it packed. There was no room to sit down. Fourteen faces looked up at me, eyes roamed over me, and one fat man stuffed into a gray business suit that barely contained his girth smiled suggestively at me.

  “Excuse me,” someone said as they brushed past me in the narrow hallway.

  “Sorry.”

  “Right.”

  Christ.

  “Julie Hopwood?”

  I turned and saw a middle-aged woman standing next to me.

  “No, I’m Jennifer—”

  “I’m Julie Hopwood,” a pretty brunette sitting next to the fat man said. She was polished and when she stood, I thought she looked smashing in her dark blue suit.

  “You’re here for the secretarial job?”

  “I think we all are,” she said.

  The woman smiled tightly. “Right this way. Ms. Blackwell will see you now.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she moved past me, she said, “I’ve so got this.”

  Seriously?

  I looked over at the fat man, who was staring at me, his lips slightly parted. Why is he looking at me like I’m roast beef? I certainly couldn’t linger in the doorway, so I went over to the chair next to his and sat down. I put my briefcase in my lap, and noticed that his face was turned to mine. I didn’t want to engage him, so I ignored him, snapped open my briefcase, and pretended to look inside for something until he finally looked away.

  Fifteen minutes later, I caught sight of Julie Hopwood walking past the sitting room’s door with a contented smile on her face. Then the older woman who had retrieved her a moment before asked for a Jennifer Kent.

  “That’s me,” I said, standing.

  “Ms. Blackwell will see you now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good luck,” the fat man said.

  I raised a hand in acknowledgement and continued toward the woman, who brought me down a long hallway to the open door of a corner office. Inside, I saw a severe-looking woman in a chic black business suit sitting at a large desk with the Manhattan skyline shining behind her in the sun. She was talking on the phone, but she waved me inside, motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite her, and mouthed but did not say the word “resume.”

  I clicked open my briefcase and retrieved a copy of it for her.

  “No, no,” the woman said into the phone, while reaching out a hand for my resume. “That’s not how it works, and you know it, Charles. Speak to my lawyer. Don’t call here again. And may I offer you a piece of advice? Just sign the damned paperwork so each of us can move on with our lives. It’s been months since I’ve filed. I’m tired of this. I want you out of my life. So do the children. God!”

  Without another word, she hung up the phone, looked down at my resume, and then looked back at me, anger clearly stamped on her face. “Ms. Kent,” she said. “Hellohoware?”

  “I’m fine, Ms. Blackwell. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “There’s no need to thank me. It’s what I do. All day long. Sometimes on weekends.” She scanned the resume. “You’re from Maine?”

  “I am.”

  “And you graduated in May?”

  “With my master’s degree, yes.”

  “In business?”

  “That’s right.”

  She looked at me. “Why would you be interested in a secretarial job when you have an MBA?”

  I tried to keep myself composed. “I’ve been here since May, and it’s been difficult to find a job.”

  “You are aware that the economy is in the toilet, aren’t you?”

  “I am. I just thought that there would be more opportunities here than in Maine.”

  “Which brings you to me today.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Here’s how I view this. You want to answer phones until you can find a better job. Why would I waste my time on that? That will just mean replacing your position sooner rather than later.”

  I could feel myself flush. “Actually, I was hoping this would be a way to get my foot in the door. I was hoping that if I worked hard enough at Wenn, that someone might see something in me that would allow for other opportunities to open.”

  “Is that so? And how long would you give us for that to happen? A few weeks? A couple of months? Until you found work elsewhere?”

  “If the pay was decent, I’d wait until something good opened up.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you.”

  “Ms. Blackwell, I’m a good worker. I just need a chance. If I don’t find a job soon, I’ll need to move back to Maine and give up my dreams here.”

  “And that concerns me how?” She tossed the resume back on her desk. “Look, Ms. Kent. I’m not looking for a short-term hire. I’m looking for someone to fill this position for the long-term so I don’t have to fill it again for another year or so. Does that make sense? You’re not in Maine anymore. You’re in New York. It’s a big city filled with lots of people just like you who are trying to find work. Spare me the theatrics about “just needing a chance.” That’s already being sold in every show on Broadway. I suggest you get a ticket to a matinee and soak it up.”

  What was her problem? “Did I do something to offend you?”

  “You’ve wasted my time.”

  “Actually, I think I walked into an argument.”

  “You think you walked into a what?”

  “An argument. You were arguing when I walked in. Now, you’re taking it out on me. That’s unprofessional. I’m not Charles, so please stop acting as if I am.”

  The woman sat back in her chair and looked amused. “Well, look at you, Maine. Maybe you do have what it takes to make it in the big city. That’s quite a mouth you have on you.” She leaned forward and a lock of her black hair fell into her face. “But we’re not going to listen to it here. Have a nice day.”

  Furious, I stood. Really? A three-minute interview? What had I done to deserve this? How many times was I going to be dismissed in this city? I felt another flash of anger, and directed it at this Blackwell bitch just as she had directed her anger at me. “Have a swell divorce. From where I sit, it looks like Charles got away from a dragon.”

  “Sweetheart, you have no idea. And thanks for your resume. I’ll be sure to call all the headhunters I know around town and warn them about you.”

  “So, you’d like another lawsuit?”

  “Oh, please. From what you told me, you couldn’t afford it. Goodbye, Ms. Kent. Goodbye and good luck. Now, go on. Close your mouth. Ms. Blackwell is finished with you. Toodles.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shaken by the exchange, I left the woman’s office and walked blindly down the
hallway to the bank of elevators. Dozens of men and women either were walking toward me, or moving past me, and all of them had jobs. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I land one? I’m almost out of money. If I don’t find something soon, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  I felt tears sting my eyes, but I was damned if I was going to cry, so I blinked them away.

  You’re better than this. This isn’t it for you. That was all her. Listen to Lisa. Think about a waitressing gig. That could give you the time you need to get the job you want. You’ve got experience waitressing. You need the money. Focus on that.

  I went to one of the elevators and pressed the down button. Despite the air conditioning, I felt hotter than I had in my apartment. I stood waiting for the elevator to come, and couldn’t help but hear my father’s voice in my head.

  You’re gonna fail, you know? You’re gonna fail and you’re gonna come runnin’ back to us. Well, here’s the deal, girl. We might not have you back if you fail. Your mother and I might just be fine without you. Think about that if you leave.

  It was, in fact, that conversation which convinced me to leave. Lisa and I had graduated the week before. I called to tell her what my father had said, and by the end of that week, we had secured our shitty little apartment through a Realtor in New York, we had packed Lisa’s ten-year-old Golf, which we long ago nicknamed Gretta, and we had left Maine and our former lives behind,

  “Gretta will get us out of here,” Lisa said when we hit I-95 South. “She might be old, but she never lets me down. We’ll do this together. My book is finished, the cover is killer, but the text needs a solid proof from you before I load it onto Amazon. Who knows what will happen to it? Maybe it’ll hit. But even if it doesn’t, we have each other, just as we always have. We’ll figure this out together. Don’t let your drunk ass of a father derail you from your dreams. And, please, don’t let him get further into your head and fuck you up more than he already has.”

  Easier said than done. My father’s words haunted me every bit as much now as they always did. Maybe he saw the real Jennifer Kent. Maybe he saw me for who I really was—a failure. Someone who after four months couldn’t land a damn job in one of the world’s largest cities to save her life.

  The elevator doors whisked open. No one was inside, which was a blessing. I entered the car, pressed the button for the lobby, and leaned back against the elevator wall.

  I’m not going to cry.

  But I did. I was angry, I was overwhelmed, and I felt that I had no choice but to find a job as a server at a fine-dining restaurant. This, of course, would mean another round of interviews because I needed to find a great restaurant that paid well. I felt deflated at the prospect of having to start all over again. My eyes again started to well up in frustration.

  To my horror, just when my emotions got the best of me, the elevator slowed as it approached the forty-seventh floor. I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes, worrying that in the process I had smeared my mascara, and I lowered my head as the doors opened so no one could see the truth on my face about how deeply sad, angry, and desperate I was.

  Only I wasn’t so quick. For an instant, the man who stepped inside the car locked eyes with me. He looked at me with concern, saw that the button for the lobby was already lit, and stood next to me.

  The doors slid shut. An uncomfortable silence stretched between us.

  He was gorgeous. Of course, he was. Why wouldn’t he be gorgeous? Why should the universe stop kicking my ass now?

  It only took a glance to see how handsome he was. Probably six-foot-two, gleaming dark hair raked away from a chiseled face peppered with stubble, full lips, and eyes that were the color of the sea. They were his best feature—blue-green and framed by thick lashes. I’d seen plenty of attractive men during my time in Manhattan, the lot of which I ignored because I needed to find a job before I even thought about the prospect of dating. But this man was beyond my type. Given my overwhelming streak of good luck, naturally I was a complete mess when he first saw me.

  Get me out of here. Please, just let the elevator move faster and get me to the street. I’ll walk home in the heat. I don’t care. Just get me out of here now.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But are you all right?”

  Fuck my life. “I’m afraid my allergies have gotten the best of me today. My eyes are burning.”

  “Is that it?”

  He knows better. He knows I’m lying. So, what the hell? He’s a stranger. According to Ms. Blackwell, I’ll never see her or him again. Why not burn her while I have the chance? Maybe it’ll get back to her.

  “Actually, that’s not true.”

  “What is true?”

  “I came here for a secretarial job. I have my master’s degree in business, I’ve been in New York since May, and nothing has worked out. I can’t find a job. Apparently—according to Ms. Blackwell on the fifty-first floor, who obviously is so pissed that she’s going through a nasty divorce that she took it out on me—I can’t even take phone calls or manage a filing system. Give me a break. I was hoping to get my foot in the door here and work my way up, but today turned out to be just another day of disappointment.” I looked at him, saw what looked like irritation on his face, and managed a smile. “Sorry to vent.”

  “I’m the one who asked the question. You met with Ms. Blackwell?”

  “Yes, but don’t go near her. She’s Hell on Earth. She threatened contact the headhunters she knows in the city and warn them about me.”

  His brow furrowed. I could see the anger in his eyes. “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she couldn’t imagine why I’d be interested in a low-level job that I’m over-qualified for. She said I’d wasted her time. We exchanged words. It wasn’t pretty, but she wasn’t professional. She made it personal. So, now I’ll be damaged goods to any headhunter I might reach out to.”

  “What she did is libelous.”

  “It is. Not that I can do anything about it. I’m broke.” I took a breath and changed the subject. This guy wasn’t only smoking hot, but he seemed kind and sincere, not unlike the cab driver who brought me here. I loved this city. But right now? Because of Blackwell? It could go to Hell.

  I reached behind my head and released the clip that had held my hair up and away from my face. I shook it out and let it fall over my shoulders in soft brown waves. It felt freeing.

  “How do you like it here?” I asked him. “Assuming you’re an employee. Am I missing out on something great? Despite the black witch of death back there, I feel as if I am.”

  He was looking at my hair, but then he appeared to check himself and he met my eyes. “Working here wasn’t exactly part of my own plan, but here I am. It’s OK. It keeps me busy, which is important.”

  “What do you do?”

  “Just business stuff. I won’t bore you with it.”

  “I’d loved to be bored with ‘just business stuff’.”

  I admired his expensive suit and the gleaming watch at his wrist, and decided he likely was a senior director or something whose work was intense. I looked fleetingly at his face, saw him looking intently at mine, and I couldn’t deny my attraction to him. How old was he? Thirty? Could he be single? Looking like that, there was no way that he was single. Unless he preferred it that way. Not that it mattered. He was in a completely different league than me—the cost of his watch alone probably could keep me in my apartment for the next year—so when the elevator started to slow, I was relieved. I really just wanted to get home.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  As hot as he was, I never gave out my full name to just anyone. “It’s Jennifer,” I said. I didn’t want to know his, so I didn’t ask.

  But he offered anyway.

  “I’m Alex.”

  He extended his hand, which I shook as the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

  “It was nice meeting you,” I said, aware of the spark I felt when we touched. The palm of his hand was smooth and unusually warm. “A
gain, sorry for venting.”

  “It sounds as if you had every reason to.”

  Was this guy for real? A part of me didn’t want to leave, but I did. I had to get home and start hitting the streets for a waitressing gig. I didn’t have time for men, not even this one.

  “Have a nice day,” I said.

  We stepped out of the elevator together. I quickened my step to move ahead of him, but I could sense him behind me. I could hear his footfalls. I could feel his eyes on me. With my briefcase in my right hand, I ran my left hand down the length of my suit to make sure it wasn’t wrinkled when I walked outside. I pulled down my jacket, combed my fingers through my hair, and shook it out. I pushed open the door, and waited for him to grab it behind me. He didn’t. When I turned to see where he was, I saw him standing at the door with his hands in his pockets. He was smiling at me.

  I smiled back, and then, to my horror, I collided with someone on the sidewalk.

  My briefcase was knocked out of my hand, and it fell to the ground with such force that it sprang open. In the sudden suction of air, the extra resumes I kept within the case were set free and started to swirl down Fifth. The older man I walked into told me to watch where I was going, and he walked away, annoyed.

  “Jesus,” I said to myself. I quickly started to catch whatever resumes I could. It cost a lot of money to have them printed on good paper. Money I didn’t have to print them off again. I’d need them later when I started to interview at restaurants. “I can’t believe this,” I said.

  The door swung open behind me. “We’ll never get all of them,” I heard him say. “But we can get some of them back. Here. Let me help.”

  To my surprise, he jogged down Fifth, where he weaved through the crowds on the wide sidewalk and picked up whatever resumes were still within reach. I did the same. As we finished, I watched him stroll up the avenue toward me, several resumes clutched in his hand. On his face was a sheen of sweat. It was hot as hell outside, but he was more than enough to make that heat feel like an icicle. He looked like a God to me. I couldn’t remember being this physically drawn to a man. In fact, I’d never felt this way before. I generally dismissed men.