Drawing in a breath, I promise her I will and leave the table to search moving boxes for my lucky nude pumps. I wore them the day I was promoted to Senior Marketing Director at WLC—a year before I let Tom talk me into working for him at Java-Org. Today, I need all the luck I can get because the bastard’s right about one thing:
It's not fun having my life so far off-track.
It's just over an hour drive from the bungalow I share with my mother in Worcester to EXtreme Effects in East Boston, so I leave two hours early. I’m still flustered by the texts Tom sent—and I’ll likely spend the rest of the day on edge because hearing from him has such a crushing effect on my psyche—but I concentrate on what I can control. Like I told Mom, the firms I've applied at so far haven't been beating down my door, and I need this interview to go off without a hitch.
Desperately.
The GPS announces that I've arrived at my destination, and I pull my Jeep up to the curb, twisting around in my seat to get a better look at the building as I put my car into park. My lips drag into a deep frown. Compared to WLC's ten-story building in downtown San Francisco or the chic South of Market office space Tom and his business partner leased for Java-Org, the tan structure before me looks more like an oversized garage. Knowing my luck, the person interviewing me will probably have a dip-chewing obsession and coveralls that haven’t been changed in the last week.
The moment that thought crosses my mind, my scalp prickles with shame. I bury my face in my hands and groan into my palms before shoving my hair away from warm cheeks. “Don’t be an elitist bitch,” I tell myself harshly. “Don’t you dare be that way.”
As I approach the building with my purse and portfolio in hand, the first waves of nausea slam into the pit of my stomach. I'm good at what I do, but I've always struggled with getting my foot in the door. I had stressed about my college admission interviews so much my easy-going father confiscated my laptop and copy of Selling Your Skill Set for Dummies just to force me to relax. Dad’s advice before my appointment at Brown, and even when I called him freaking out over the WLC position the year before he died, is still fresh in my mind.
Kick some ass, Lucinda Jane.
Clutching my pepper spray keychain in one hand, I step out of the early January chill and into the warm confines of the company I found on Craigslist. The one I know absolutely nothing about because they have zero web presence, and I only applied to because the sixty thousand dollars a year salary was music to my broke ears.
The part of the building I'm standing in is small—a ten by ten space with filing cabinets lining one side of the wall and a few chairs against the other. A leggy brunette sits in the seat closest to the blue steel door on the far side of the room, flipping through her own portfolio and occasionally sneaking glances at the intricately designed metal clock on the receptionist's desk.
I confidently approach the desk, and the heavily tattooed woman behind it lifts a pair of startling light green eyes from the screen of her tablet. "Let me guess, Client." She rolls her chair backward a few inches, and I try not to stare at her t-shirt that says Fucking Classy. After a few seconds, I open my mouth to correct her, but then she shakes her head and muses, "Ahh, interview."
God, I hope I wasn't ogling her shirt too hard.
"Yes, I'm Lucy Williams-Duncan. I was contacted by Daisy about coming in at two for the marketing position."
“I’m Daisy." Her lips quirk, and she scratches a stylus through her platinum pixie cut as she skims her gaze over my golden yellow peplum dress. "And you, Sunshine, are early."
"A bad habit."
"One I should probably pick up before Mr. E has me sending out invites to fill my own job.” She points to the two empty chairs next to the brunette. "There’s a one-thirty before you, so it might be awhile.”
Before I leave her desk, I tap my fingertip against the face of the clock, shivering at the hard, cold texture. "This is beautiful."
She beams. "We made that here."
Slightly more at ease, I drop my keys into the side pocket of my purse before leaning down to examine the clock more closely. "Ahh, so you design clocks?" I’m already imagining all the aspects of selling pieces like this, and I'm an eighth of the way into a detailed marketing plan when Daisy clears her throat. She blinks up at me.
Several times.
“Yeah … clocks.” Her lips part, but then she crinkles her small nose and drums her stylus against the quote tattooed on the side of her neck. "Among other fun things. Go ahead and have a seat, I’ll let you know when he’s ready to speak with you.”
While I wait to meet the elusive Mr. E, I review my documents. I'm in the middle of re-reading my recommendation letter from the internship I completed before I graduated with my MBA from Stanford, when Daisy sings out my name in a clear alto. I peer up from my portfolio to find her grinning broadly.
"The other chick's interview ended early, so he's ready to brighten your day with his … sunny awesomeness."
I can't tell if she's being serious, so I simply nod. Holding my leather binder to my chest, I brush my other hand down the front of my yellow dress, smoothing the wrinkles out of the woven fabric. "Thanks, should I—"
She points over her shoulder, to the blue door behind her desk. "Go through there and take a left. He's in the office at the end of the walkway. And watch out for metal on the floor. It's a mess back there!"
Thankfully, the metal disaster seems to be contained in the workshop on the other side of the walkway, where two men in welding masks are working, the sound of The Weeknd’s “The Hills” booming from an overhead sound system as sparks fly around them. I reach E’s door and draw in a sharp breath to calm my nerves before I knock softly. Although it’s already half-open, Mom got on my case so many times about bursting into rooms unannounced when I was a child that knocking first is a habit now.
"Come in, Ms. Duncan."
My toes curl inside of my lucky pumps. That voice, with its long vowels and clipped consonants, is just a bit breathtaking. I’ve always been a big fan of accents. I grew up with a Vietnamese mother and a father from Mississippi, and the voice on the other side of that door deeply satisfies my auditory fixation. It's Americanized, that's for sure, but there's a British undertone there.
I wonder if the face and body attached to a voice like that does it justice.
“Miss Duncan?” he repeats, sounding a touch irritated. “You’re wasting your time and mine just standing out there.”
I square my shoulders and press forward.
And my heart immediately slams into my throat.