Chapter 2

June

I need to stop staring at these pregnancy tests, but for some reason, I can’t manage to tear my eyes away.

No, I don’t need a pregnancy test or anything. I am so not that kind of girl. My daddy raised me right: First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the—you get the idea.

Unfortunately for me, my fiancé—make that ex-fiancé—wasn’t raised right at all.

And neither was that whore Mary Beth Mayer, for that matter.

What kind of man knocks up the town bicycle three weeks before he’s supposed to marry his high school sweetheart? Kody freakin’ Peterson, that’s who. My daddy didn’t raise me to name-call either, but I don’t have any problem calling a spade a spade.

Kody Peterson is an asshole, plain and simple. He broke my heart, and for a few days after he broke off our engagement, I felt like he had ruined my life.

But in times of trouble, a country gal like me knows that she just has to cowgirl up.

Which is why instead of moping around Wheatfield, Nebraska, I hopped in my little blue pick-up truck and drove all the way here to the Big Apple.

June Johnson, welcome to New York freakin’ City.

“Looking for something?” a slimy male voice says over my shoulder.

I nearly jump right out of my skin at the sound.

Really? I scoff out loud.

You’d think at this point, I’d be used to this crap. Guys here are trying to talk to me all the time, and they’re all trying to seem so friendly about it, too.

But I know this city isn’t friendly. None of these dopes are interested in how my day is, and they’re not trying to help me find anything, either.

Not anything I could possibly want, anyway. Although I’m not looking for anything I want as much as I’m looking for something I need.

Not that it’s anyone’s darn business, least of all this creep behind me. Just what kind of store is this, anyway? It’s like some kind of weird convenience mart where everything is priced about ten times higher than it should be.

Yes, I know the city’s supposed to be expensive, but these price tags cannot be for real…

Oh, well, it doesn’t freaking matter now, because this skeevy, overbearing store clerk is breathing down my neck.

That’s another thing about the city—I thought everything was supposed to be nice and anonymous here, but it seems like people get into each other’s business as much as they do back in Nebraska.

And here, they don’t even pretend to be nice about it. This clerk guy—or whatever they call ‘em here—has found a way to sound helpful without sounding helpful at all. The words are there—but his tone sure isn’t.

Good lord, and he sees me looking at the pregnancy tests. Now I’m blushing on top of feeling uncomfortable. Freaking great.

I still feel him standing behind me. He knows exactly what I’m looking at. Now all I want to do is get out of here—but if I just run, it’ll look too suspicious.

I may actually want to come back and shop here one day. Maybe when money isn’t so much of an issue.

And who knows what kind of a reputation I must be getting already.

I’m a city gal now, so it’s time to think fast. I grab the box nearest the pregnancy tests.

Walking to the register, I don’t even look at what I’m holding. As long as it’s not a pregnancy test, I don’t care.

I don’t know what would be more embarrassing, and I don’t care to think about it. I walk toward register confidently, box in hand. Whatever I’m holding, I’m committed to buying it.

Halfway to the register, under the harsh lights of this unpleasant little shop, I sneak a look at what I’m actually about to purchase.

The good news is that it’s not a pregnancy test.

The not so good news is that it’s not only a box of tampons, but it’s a Value Pack—whatever that means. I’m assuming, looking at the size of this box, that it’s a large supply of tampons meant to last for quite some time.

For me, it’s probably going to last forever, since I don’t even use these things. Putting anything up there just doesn’t sound comfortable. Maybe if my momma had been around, god rest her soul, she could have talked me through it, but…

Moot point. I’m stuck with them now. I guess City June will just have to learn how to be a tampon-using kind of girl.

Unfortunately, they’re also going to set me back a few dollars, which is not what I need right now. But since I’m already committed to this, I don’t even hesitate for a moment on my way to the register.

Of course, that same clerk guy is already behind the register. It’s like he’s following me ahead of time or something.

I try to spot a price tag on the box as I place it on the counter, but there’s none that I can see. It can’t be more than two or three dollars, though. At the very least, I hope it’s not four.

“Ten dollars, gorgeous.”

That’s all he says.

And he’s not even smiling.

His lips are pulled back in something way creepier than a smile. More of a perverted sneer than anything.

I try not to sigh too loudly. I’ve committed to this, and I need to pay the hefty price for this so-called Value Pack of useless-to-me tampons.

My hands are shaking slightly while I dig my wallet out of my purse. Opening my wallet, my fears are confirmed.

There’s one solitary bill sitting in my wallet. Not wavering from my commitment, I try my best to smile while handing the clerk the last ten dollars I have in the world.

Upon exiting the store, I’m the proud owner of a large box of tampons and literally nothing else—besides my trusty blue pickup parked at the curb.

I don’t even have any idea if I’m parked legally. A parking ticket probably runs like ten or fifteen dollars here, and that’s ten or fifteen dollars more than I can afford.

Trying to make heads or tails of the traffic signs, another sight catches my eye, and I can’t look away.

There must be a dozen women walking across the street. Heck, they’re not even at a crosswalk—they’re just strolling right across the middle of the street like it’s nothing!

I can see why they’re so confident—they all look like they’re just stepping out of a Nordstrom catalog or something.

Maybe there’s a fashion show across the street?

Whatever. I’ve got bigger things to worry about now.

First, I need to find a better parking spot for my truck.

Then, I need to figure out how to get some income.

After giving one last curious look at the parade of women crossing the street, I walk around to the driver’s side of my truck, rooting around in my purse for the keys.

They don’t seem to be in there. Did I drop them in the store or…

No. No, I couldn’t have.

Damn it.

Even though I can clearly see my keys in the truck, dangling from the ignition, I’m still in denial.

I didn’t just lock them in there.

No way.

But then I try to open the door, and…

Damn it.

Locking the keys in the damn truck…I mean, really? What next?

And there are still more freaking women crossing the street. What the hell is going on there, anyway?

With a frustrated pivot, I spin around to see what the big freaking attraction is.

Directly across the street is one of many giant freaking office buildings in the area. The confident stream of well-dressed, seemingly well-off businesswomen is making its way into the entrance.

Carved in giant letters above the entrance are the words Abraham Fertility Incorporated.

Huh.

Do all of these women work there?

I don’t know much about typical business hours in New York, but it’s getting late in the morning. A place like that wouldn’t just be opening now.

So why does it look like their entire staff is just arriving?

Unless that’s not their staff—at least, not yet.

Those women are dressed to impress, after all.

Maybe my luck is turning around. My keys are locked in the truck, but I do I have a copy of my resume in my purse.

If there’s a job opening at this Abraham Fertility place, I’d be a fool to let an opportunity like that slip through my fingers.

Looking in my purse, I spot the neatly folded slip of paper I’ve been carrying with me since well before I left Nebraska.

After unfolding my resume, I give it a quick check.

The Wheatfield Public Library has several IBM Selectric typewriters available for members. The recent afternoon I spent at one of those typewriters is finally going to pay off.

My resume is a bit on the sparse side, but hey, it looks clean and professional.

I’m also wearing what could be described as a business casual outfit. It could stand to be ironed, I suppose, but I know for a fact it looks good on me.

My keys and my truck can wait. With my resume in hand, I join the stream of hopefuls making their way into Abraham Fertility, Inc.

Come on, Junebug. Let’s show these city slickers what a country girl can do.