Samantha Moire Kelly pulled her silver RAV4 Hybrid into the parking garage at the Wells Fargo Center. Easily the most distinctive office high-rise in Denver, the Wells Fargo Center was affectionately referred to as the “Cash Register” due to the rather distinctive shape formed by the uppermost floors. As she accepted her ticket, Sam tried not to wince at the price of parking. Ever since “The Event” a few months ago, she’d had to tighten her belt and the trip out here to Colorado had already begun to put a strain on her account.
“Well, we’re here,” Sam said as she pulled into a spot and heaved a relieved sigh. Early Monday morning traffic in Denver was a bitch-and-a-half! Mentally wincing at the unspoken curse, Sam turned to her companion in her SUV and gave a small, apologetic shrug as she met the glassy blue eyes staring fixedly at her. “Sorry, Xalish. You know I didn’t mean it, girl.”
The life-sized, stuffed white wolf said nothing, but Sam felt the weight of that glassy stare. Okay, so maybe she was a little weird talking to a stuffed wolf, but Xalish had been a gift from her parents on her 17th birthday. The arctic wolf plushie had been a loyal and steadfast companion for the last decade, but Sam would swear that the stuffed animal somehow managed to channel her parents’ disapproval; and her mother would definitely disapprove of her daughter cursing. Even if it was mentally!
Ever since “The Event” six months ago, Sam had been on edge. When she received a phone call from an old family friend a week ago inviting her out to Denver for a job interview, Sam had begun to feel even more out-of-sorts. A strange, tingly sense of anticipation had taken over. It was more than just the hope that she could start over somewhere new, put “The Event” completely behind her and move on, but she’d be dam…er, vexed, if she could put a name to the feeling that buzzed through her.
Shrugging off her tangled jumble of emotions, Sam patted Xalish’s head, grabbed both her briefcase and portfolio, and slid out of her car. Glancing at her watch, she saw she was a little over a half-hour early for her appointment. Chewing on her bottom lip, she headed for the elevator, each step punctuated by the click of her black, patent-leather Jimmy Choos. That sound, the echoing ratta-tat-tat of high heels on concrete—okay, they were kitten heels that barely added an inch to her not-even-close-to-statuesque height of five feet, one-point-seven-five inches, but whatever—always filled Sam with a sense of confidence. And confidence was something she desperately needed at the moment.
Emerging from the parking garage, Sam was thankful she had worn her wool pea coat. It had been a relatively mild winter this year and spring was already beginning to make its presence felt, even here in Denver, but between the high-rises blocking out the early morning sun, and the winds gusting through the valleys between the buildings, it was chilly!
It also probably did not help in the slightest that she was used to the Pacific Northwest, and was adjusting to the thinner air and the fact she was now in the Mile High City either. Thank God she had opted to wear stockings beneath her pants!
Quickly crossing the street, Sam breathed a sigh of relief as she joined the crowd of people entering the Wells Fargo Center lobby. The transition to warmer air was a shock to the system, almost as much as the view of the lobby. Sam fought not to gawk at the massive digital art display that dominated one wall, the slender, vertical screens depicting in vivid detail a brilliant, blazing sunrise. As she stared, the sunrise transitioned, morphing into a deep, verdant forest, the snow and frost-covered pines split between the five screens. The detail was so crisp, Sam felt she could smell the forest.
Still caught in the flow of bodies heading in to work, Sam found herself guided toward the elevators. After pressing her floor, Sam squirmed her way into a back corner and ignored the press of bodies around her. She had gotten used to the more relaxed “professional” environments in Seattle and Portland, so the more traditional, Midwestern “professional” environment was as foreign to her as Mars.
Even the suit Sam currently wore was the same one she had worn during “The Event,” and that had been the first time she had worn a suit since her college graduation. Unfortunately, despite the unpleasant memories, it was the only business-appropriate attire she owned, so it had made the trip with her.
Business attire, Sam grumbled mentally. My business is outdoors! Give me khakis, or jeans and flannel. Accursed monkey-suits are for monkeys!
An image of a capuchin in a three-piece Armani suit, complete with a fez—because fezzes are cool—dancing to Madonna’s “Vogue” had Sam giggling like a schoolgirl. Feeling the sudden pointed, and disapproving, stares of the elevator’s inhabitants, Sam mightily resisted the urge to stick out her tongue, childish as it may be. Feeling the familiar burn of her cheeks reddening under those glances, Sam ducked her head.
Damned Irish complexion! And damned Cœur de Lyon Enterprises for being on the forty-sixth floor! Sam thought mutinously, ignoring the mental wince as she cursed. Twice!
Resting her backside against the elevator wall, Sam fixed her eyes on the electronic numbers as they counted upward. Slowly, the elevator cleared out as it continued to ascend, until she was the sole occupant by the time the doors slid open on the forty-sixth floor. Straightening her shoulders, Sam schooled her features into a pleasant, neutral mask. Securing her briefcase and portfolio under her arm, Sam marched forward.
Here goes nothing!
Determination in every line of her body, Sam strode down the hall. Every step was sure, steady, another step forward. She rounded the corner and headed directly for the wooden door she was looking for. Stiff-armed, she pushed the door open, threw her shoulders back, and let the women’s room door whisper closed behind her.
Seeing she was alone in the restroom, Sam let her shoulders slump in relief. Placing her briefcase and portfolio on the counter, Sam rested her hands on the marble counter, on either side of the sink, and appraised her appearance with a critical eye.
Nothing could be done about her height, even heels could only do so much. Sam admitted she was perhaps a little curvier than most. Hell, even “The Bastard” had called her Rubenesque more than once, complimenting her heavy breasts, rounded “child-bearing” hips (seriously, guys, never tell a woman she has child-bearing hips, ever), and what her mother called her Honest Irish Ass, which was big but firm. Her mother referred to Sam’s figure as an hourglass, but considering her height, Sam typically responded that she was shaped more like an egg timer.
Despite the self-depreciating humor, however, Sam loved her curves. They made her feel feminine, and given she spent most of her time surrounded by construction workers and landscapers in a male-dominated field, she appreciated that feeling, even if it came with baggage.
For the interview, Sam had ruthlessly tamed her wild mane of fiery, burnished copper hair, pulling the tresses back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. The black frames of her glasses drew attention to the cool, pale blue-gray of her eyes. Her freckles, all seven thousand of them on her face, had likewise been tamed by concealer, with a dark burgundy matte on her lips to add a little color. She had taken out her piercings, at least for the day, and the concealer hid the evidence of the tiny holes in her nose and upper lip. Shrugging out of her black pea coat, Sam folded it neatly and cast her critical eye on her suit.
The charcoal gray jacket and long flared trousers were sharply pressed, the jacket a flattering cut she hadn’t been able to resist, despite the fact most suit jackets for women just weren’t made to contain such huge…tracts of land. Thankfully, a merciful and sadistic inventor had created undergarments that helped shape the body to allow women to wear suits.
Cupping her breasts and giving them a wiggle to make sure everything was firmly secured, Sam glanced down and said lightly, “Okay, girls, I promise, once Mama gets back to the hotel, the Spanx will come off. Just get me through the next hour or so, okay?”
The sound of a muffled giggle coming from behind her startled a surprised squawk from Sam. Spinning around at the sound of a flushing toilet, Sam once more felt her skin flushing red from breasts to ear tips as the door to one of the stalls swung open to reveal a cheerful face.
“Oh honey, Spanx are both a blessing and a curse. Believe me, I know,” the woman said as she walked to one of the sinks to wash her hands. The woman wasn’t much taller than Sam, wearing a beautiful print dress in vivid greens and blues with a wide black belt wrapped around her waist and beneath a black, open-front sweater that framed generous breasts that made even Sam feel a little self-conscious. With wavy golden-brown hair liberally streaked with silver and pulled back into a messy bun at the back of her head, she possessed a motherly aura that instantly put Sam at ease.
With a laugh, and of course another blush, Sam grinned. “Amen. Otherwise, we’d have to go back to corsets, and I don’t relish that.”
“Sweetie, ain’t nothing wrong with a good old-fashioned corset,” the woman replied with a grin as she dried her hands. “Believe me, with a body like yours, a corset would bring men to heel like the dogs they are.”
Hands dried, the woman offered her hand, “Sorry about that. I’m Elizabeth Oakes, but call me Lizzy, everyone does.”
Shaking Lizzy’s hand, Sam flashed a grin, “A pleasure, Lizzy. My name’s Samantha, but I go by Sam.”
Lizzy’s face lit up, her smile bright and beautiful. “Sam! You’re the one here for the interview, aren’t you?” A frown briefly furrowed her brow as she glanced at her watch, “You’re early.” Before Sam could respond, Lizzy waved a dismissive hand.
“No matter, let’s get you some coffee and settled in before you meet the Big Bad Boss Man.”
Big Bad Boss Man? That sounds ominous, Sam thought ruefully as she gathered up her things and followed after Hurricane Lizzy.