by Paige North
And who knows? Maybe she could even help me with my little problem, if things work out the right way…
“Yes, I did just fire you,” I tell her. “But your life isn’t over, Jordyn, and you’re not going to have to move back to your parents’ place in New Jersey. But I do want you to do something for me.”
Jordyn eyes me suspiciously. “What?”
“Go home to your apartment, have a warm bath, a cup of tea, and await my further instructions.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m telling you to.”
“Are you serious?” she says.
“Very,” I say, my mind working out the details even as she looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.
“Wait, so do I get to keep my job here?” Jordyn asks, her voice sounding plaintive and almost hopeful. “Or like, are you getting me a job at one of your other companies?”
“I’m not yet at liberty to say,” I tell her. As the idea becomes more fully formed in my head, I realize this just might be one of my more brilliant plans yet. “If you can be patient, Jordyn, I will be in touch soon. Can you do that?”
She throws her hands up. “What else do I have to do?” She stands up again and starts for the door. “No disrespect, Mr. Croft, but I’m not just going to sit by the phone and wait for you to call. I have to start looking for job since I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“By all means,” I say. “But Jordyn—I will be in contact. Soon.”
She gives me one last look, her green eyes set and determined—and a little suspicious. It’s a sexy combination and makes me determined to see her again, and quickly.
Jordyn
I lock, bolt and chain the door to our Lower East Side apartment. I’m home, and the day hasn’t even begun.
I smell fresh coffee and realize one of my roommates must be up. It’s not even ten yet but I feel like I’ve had a full day of emotions. I’m exhausted. I want to fall face-first onto my futon and sleep away the awfulness that is now my life, but I know I have to face whoever is up.
In the tiny space that is our kitchen stands my roommate Camilla in white booty shorts and a cami top. She lets out a big yawn as she pours herself a cup of coffee.
“Hey,” she says. “Want some?”
“Yes, please,” I say, dumping my bag on the floor and taking a warm, full mug from her.
“We’re out of milk,” she says. “Want the sugar?”
“Sure,” I say.
She pushes the sugar bowl toward me. “Wait. What are you doing home? You sick or something?” She sips from her mug, the steam drifting over her face.
“No,” I say. I sit on the wobbly stool that we all know is going to snap at any moment, and lean on the counter. I take a deep breath—might as well get it out now. “I got fired.” My throat tightens, and I realize that saying out loud has made it way too real.
I’m home at ten o’clock on a weekday morning because I have no job.
“Oh shit,” Camilla says. “What happened?”
“Merger or acquisition or something. I don’t know. All I know is that I wasn’t needed anymore.”
“Who isn’t needed anymore?” I hear. Camilla and I turn to see Jenny emerge from the one bedroom. She and Camilla share it, using a partition to divide the space and add a little privacy. I have a similar one in my space in the corner of the living room.
“Jordyn got fired,” Camilla says.
Jenny stops in her bare feet. She looks at me with puffy eyes, traces of last night’s dark makeup smeared around the edges. She’s a cater-waiter and works late, hard, and inconsistently. Just like Camilla, who works temp jobs in between singing and acting auditions. Sometimes the agency has something for her, sometimes they don’t. We all struggle to make ends meet.
“Are you guys kidding?” Jenny says, rooted to the hardwood floors. “Did I wake up in a nightmare?”
“No,” I say, now forced to face them both. Although I think I’m the one in the nightmare, not Jenny. She’s a singer and tends to be dramatic about things, and a bit self-centered. “They laid off a bunch of people first thing this morning. I was one of them.”
“What are you going to do now?” Jenny asks. “Do you have rent? Because I just gave up some luncheon gigs so I could go on a few auditions. I haven’t had a drink in two weeks so I could rest my voice—my high Cs are almost where they should be.”
“Geez, Jen,” Camilla says. “Give her a moment to breathe. She just got fired. Are you okay, by the way?” she asks, turning to face me.
That is why I love Camilla.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Just freaked out. I know I need a new job, and fast. Maybe I could sign up at your temp agency?”
“You can,” she says shrugging, “but it’s been slow. That’s why I’m home today.”
“Or,” Jenny says, “there’s my Italian friend Elina. She’s looking for a place to crash for a few weeks. Jordyn, if you don't have rent you can go crash with your parents’ place in Jersey and Elina can stay here. She has money. When you’re back on your feet and Elina finds her own place, everyone can shift around again.”
I get the distinct feeling that maybe I’m being kicked out. Camilla must agree because she says, “God, Jens, don’t kick her out before she has a chance.”
“I’m not! I’m just saying—it could work for everyone. Just a month.” She shrugs. “It’s something to think about.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” I agree, despite the sick feeling of imagining moving back home. I don’t know what condition Eric is in, but having both adult kids in the house can’t be pleasant for Mom and Dad.
“So how did it happen?” Jenny asks, pouring herself some coffee. She looks in the refrigerator. “Where’s the milk?”
“We’re out,” Camilla says.
Jenny groans. “Surprise, surprise. So, Jordyn. Details.” She blows on her coffee and watches me expectantly.
“They were just calling everyone into the conference room, one by one,” I say.
“Like pigs to the slaughter,” Jenny says.
“And the guy who did it—seriously hot,” I say. Considering the trauma I’ve experienced this morning, it’s strange that’s the first thing I think about when I think about this morning.
I wonder if Miles was bullshitting me about standing by while he did…something for me. If he even had any intention of helping, he probably has forgotten about it by now.
Or more likely he was just trying to get the weepy girl out of his office without too much fuss.
“Most of those rich executives aren’t hot,” Jenny says. “In fact, most of them are straight up fugly. I guess you got lucky,” she says, rolling her eyes.
I shrug. “I’m pretty sure he got a sick pleasure out of destroying people’s lives.”
“Severance?” Camilla asks.
“None, since I’ve only worked there for about thirty seconds,” I say. “I had a total meltdown when he did it.”
“What’d the guy do while you broke down?” Camilla asks.
“So awkward,” Jenny says. “Especially if he’s hot.”
“He was nice, actually,” I say, remembering how he looked at me while I sobbed into a tissue. “He asked me a bunch of questions about my family and support system. Maybe he wanted to make sure I had someone to talk to or something? I don’t know, but before I left he did say something weird.”
“What?” Jenny asks.
“Well, he fired me,” I say. “He said it, he told me they were letting me go. Then I had my meltdown, and before I left he told me to hang tight. He said I should go home and wait for him to contact me, that he was going to work something out…or something. I don’t know. He probably was just talking crap to calm me down.”
“Or maybe,” Jenny says, “he’s worried that you might sue the company for wrongful termination. He’s just trying to keep you calm and complacent so that you don’t do anything rash.”
“Maybe,” I say, but what I’m thinking i
s, Doubtful. “I think I’ll take a walk, clear my head.”
I’ll go online to look for another job this afternoon, but first I’m hoping that a little exercise and fresh New York City air will help me feel reinvigorated.
“Sure, get some air,” Camilla says. “When you come back you can start on your plan of attack.”
“Exactly,” Jenny says. “Just make sure you have rent, though. Seriously. I can’t float you. Remember, we can always call Elina. She’s desperate for a place and can be here by tomorrow.”
When I woke up this morning, I never expected to walk into work and get fired. And when I came home from being fired, I never expected to basically get the boot from my friends.
With Jenny’s not-so-soothing words, I leave the apartment and head out into the streets of New York, wondering if I’ll have to give up city life for my childhood bedroom in the suburbs.
I walk all over, through the East Village and Astor Place and into Union Square Park, where I sit on a bench for an hour watching the pigeons and people strolling past with their dogs.
I browse through the nearby bookstore and end up with a couple of books that I can’t afford. I hole up in a corner near the arched windows and read for what feels like hours. When the rumbles of my stomach get the best of me (no money to buy a snack from the café), I head home, wondering if I still have a can of minestrone left, and maybe a few stale crackers.
The apartment is dark and silent when I get back. The girls must be out.
I find the can of soup in the cupboard, plus a few crackers. I heat it up and eat in silence. The broth of the soup is slightly gelatinous, and it’s overly salty too. But it does the trick.
I’m no longer feeling ravenous, although my stomach craves something of more substance to fill it.
Feeling emotionally exhausted from the morning and physically exhausted from my trek around the city, I wash my face and fall into bed. It’s still pretty early in the evening, but this day can’t end soon enough.
Just as I’ve dipped into sleep my phone pings a new text. It’s from an unknown caller.
It reads: A car will pick you up in 15 minutes. Wear something nice. Please be ready on time.
Okay, that’s not weird or sketchy. I rub my eyes, making sure I am awake and not dreaming.
Who is this? I text back.
All I get is: M
M has to be Miles. A wave of adrenaline floods my body as I realize that MILES CROFT JUST TEXTED ME.
Rich, handsome, powerful and intimidating Miles Croft is sending a car for me.
I now have fifteen minutes to get dressed and wear something nice? What’s that about? Where are we going?
Whatever it is, maybe it’s going to end with me keeping my old job or getting a new one, as long as I don’t screw this up too badly.
My heart pounds fast in my chest as I get out of bed and try to figure out how I’m going to look sleek and sophisticated and everything I’m not—all in less than fifteen minutes.
With fourteen minutes and counting, I jump in the shower, dust on a little makeup, and dig out my prettiest dress, the one I wore to my graduation luncheon in May. It’s a little cool out to be wearing it, but with my scarf and jacket I should be okay. I’m ready with one minute to spare.
I’m looking out our front window, down three floors to the front of the building, waiting for Miles.
I suddenly realize I feel light—excited, curious, nervous, but also curious. I don’t know what will happen tonight, what kind of job this guy might have for me that requires a meeting at nine o’clock at night, but the thought of it is a bit thrilling.
This might be the first real New York City thing that’s happened to me since I’ve been here. You always dream about fancy people and lively conversations, exciting adventures—but more often then not it’s been a dull slog living here.
I break out of my thoughts as the car finally arrives.
A limousine pulls up in front of my building. I wait a moment, wondering if Miles is going to emerge from the back to come get me, but nothing happens. Finally I just go downstairs, where the driver is waiting outside the door.
“Um, is that for me?” I ask.
“Are you Jordyn Thompson?” he asks.
“That’s me.”
“Then yes, ma’am,” he says, inclining his head as he opens the door. When I slide I see that there’s no one inside. I’m all alone. “Mr. Croft will be meeting you at the destination,” the driver adds, perhaps upon seeing my confused expression.
The entire ride over, I can’t help but stare with wide eyes out the window as we pass through scenery and streets I’ve traveled before, but never quite like this.
Soon, we arrive on the Upper East Side at a restaurant I would never know existed even if I had hung out in this ritzy neighborhood. It’s a few steps down and barely lit, with a small red sign reading Truffle above the entrance.
I get out of the car and take a deep breath as the cool air hits my skin. I feel like I’m in a waking dream, and my heart’s pounding again.
Even though I wore my best outfit, I feel completely underdressed and outclassed by the fancy people dining at this chic modern eatery.
Inside, the hostess—who, by the way is wearing a dress that looks way more expensive than mine (I should ask her if they’re hiring)—takes me to the back by a window overlooking an elaborate garden. There’s a quiet hum to the restaurant—a very dignified noise level. Candles are set on every table, giving a soft glow to the room.
And there, at that table by the window, sits Miles Croft.
Holy shit.
He’s magazine-quality gorgeous. He still looks crisp and well dressed even this late in the day in his suit. He runs his hands through his hair. When he turns his eyes up they’re on me and not the hot hostess. This gives me a thrill. When his lips give the faintest twitch of a smile, I feel like I could melt right there on the spot.
He stands up to pull out my chair.
“Thanks,” I say, sitting down. My arms instantly get goose bumps all over as he brushes near me.
“Thank you for joining me,” he says, watching as I wiggle out of my jacket. I drape it over the back of my chair but keep my scarf on, feeling a little cold. “We can get that checked for you,” he adds.
“No, it’s okay here,” I say. I have no cash, so when it’s time for me to leave tonight, I can’t be worrying about tipping the coat check chick. “So,” I begin, feeling super awkward suddenly. I don’t know what’s happening or what to expect. I’m sure he’s paying but there’s still a part of me that does a quick calculation of my credit card, how much is on it, and if it’ll get rejected if I have to pay my share. “Here I am.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he says, and the intensity of his gaze seeming to take all of me in, causes me to blush furiously.
“This restaurant is gorgeous,” I say, looking around so I can avoid those eyes of his.
Miles nods. “Perhaps this will make up for the morning’s unfortunate events. If I remember correctly, you mentioned a dropped bagel?”
“I get the feeling you don’t miss much,” I say, surprised. “But I guess I’m still trying to figure out…you know…about my job…”
“We’ll get to business shortly,” Miles says. “I know you’ve had a trying day so I thought you could use some good food drink and maybe even a bit of interesting companionship.”
It sounds amazing, thanks Mr. Miles Croft. But still…what the hell? What’s happening here?
“Okay, sure. Sounds good to me,” I say.
Miles’s eyes roam over my body as he sits back. “Yes, and to me as well,” he says, his voice deep and sensual. “To me as well.”
I feel my nipples stiffen and my breath catches in my chest. I suddenly realize I might be in way over my head.
Miles
I can see her blush even in the darkness of the restaurant.
I love that she is so unused to this kind of attention, and yet I’m surprised that nobody befo
re me has seen fit to properly wine and dine her.
Now that Jordyn’s wearing a more revealing outfit, I can clearly see those curves that I’d only presumed to exist when she was in my office.
My cock is already straining against my boxers, pressing into the zipper of my pants. Something about her is tempting me like nothing I can recall.
She’s wearing a dress that crosses and ties at her hip and would really be showing off her cleavage if it weren’t for the scarf she’s got dangling around her neck and chest.
Her hair is long and loose and her face looks clean and fresh, not much make up. There’s an ease and lack of pretension about her that is totally sexy. Like she doesn’t even know that half the men in the restaurant watched her cross the room.
The waiter comes by and I ask Jordyn, “What do you like to drink?”
“Um,” she begins, opening her hardcover menu. I have the wine list, and wonder if that’s what she’s looking for. I hope she doesn’t think we’re ordering by the glass. “Vodka’s good. With maybe a little lime and soda water?”
The waiter glances over at me as if asking for help. “We’ll save the vodka for after dinner,” I tell her, hoping it doesn’t embarrass her. “I meant, what’s your favorite kind of wine?”
She looks like a kid in school who has been called upon by the teacher to answer a question. “I don’t really know wine. Whatever you think.”
She truly is a blank slate when it comes to this kind of thing, I realize. My entire life has been spent in restaurants like this one, in stuffy rooms with elegant people, and ordering wine or the newest French cuisine is practically second nature at this point.
I’ve already perused the list and saw they have last year’s Coteaux d’Aix-en-Provence rosé that I’ve been eager to try. I order the bottle along with the charcuterie. “I have a feeling you’ll like the pairing,” I explain to her, as the waiter bows stiffly and walks away.