June
The moment I step outside the Abraham Fertility building, I realize just how freaking bad my shoes fit me. I’ve been on my feet pretty much all day—since when Carter Abraham says jump, I have to do it in high heels—and the blisters on the backs of my ankles sting with every step.
But I’ve got my advance check in hand and a plan in my head.
Get to the bank. Open an account.
Call a locksmith. Get my truck unlocked.
Check into a hotel for a day or two, then get an apartment here. Doesn’t have to be nice, just needs to be livable. I don’t even care if there’s a cockroach or two—even if the thought of just one cockroach makes my skin crawl, anyway.
But outside the building, the wind blasts me in the face so hard it yanks my hair out of the ponytail I’ve pulled it into. The city breeze smells like pizza and urine and wet garbage, and as it smacks me in the face with my own chestnut brown locks, it snatches my advance check right out from between my fingers.
Shoot. No!
The thin piece of paper flies and flips through the air like a feather. Everything about my future, from tonight’s dinner to my first home in the city, is being literally carried away on the breeze.
There are so many people on the sidewalk, walking quickly, aggressively, and completely uncaring about my entire future floating chaotically over the sidewalk. It’s getting away from me fast, and it’s fluttering way in front of me, going in and out of view.
There’s a wall of people ahead of me, blocking me from my future. Screw it, I can’t afford to be nice right now.
First, I throw my arms up in the air—not in frustration, but in preparation for my next move. Next, I swing my arms down. Look, I’m being careful that I don’t hit anyone, but I need to create a no-go zone in front of me, which’ll help me make a clear path so I can see where I’m headed.
Okay, this is probably not the best way to go about it. But I cannot let my future get away.
With my arms-extended force field in front of me, I start on a healthy trot down the sidewalk. After trotting for half a block, I still don’t see that darn check—which means it’s time for the trot to turn into a gallop.
Galloping at a healthy clip, people seem to have a natural understanding to move out of my path. This city doesn’t smell great, and it’s crowded, but everyone appears to have some sort of psychic ability to stay out of each other’s way.
And there’s my future!
My check is flitting around in the heartless wind, a few inches off the curb and above the stupid street.
And it’s landing. My future is landing on the ground.
Finally.
Forget trotting, or galloping, or holding my arms out in front of me in a makeshift force field, it’s time to sprint at a speed that would make Bolt look slow. The check’s landing in the street, but close enough to the sidewalk that I can just run and grab it.
Paying no mind to whatever’s in front of me, I dash down the block and straight into the street.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady! What’re ya, crazy?”
By the time I hear the voice yelling, I don’t even know where it’s coming from anymore. Possibly from that man on the bicycle with the giant messenger bag slung across his back. He’s already speeding away—where could he be off to in such a hurry?
Never mind that, my future has finally landed…
In a puddle.
And it hasn’t even been raining recently. What’s up with that? My check’s now sitting in a gross, dirty puddle just off the curb.
Another messenger bag-equipped man on a bicycle swerves around me as I bend over to inspect the damage. The check is floating face up on the surface of the puddle—my name, the amount, and the bank account numbers are all still intact. All I need to do to save my future is reach down to claim my check from the disgusting, muddy abyss.
With a deep breath, and without thinking too hard about it, I scoop up the check with my fingers and immediately, instinctually begin shaking it off. I don’t want to speak too soon, but it doesn’t seem that bad—I might still be able to endorse it.
For now, I just fold it and put it in my purse. That’s enough adventure for this month.
Enough unpleasant adventure, at least.
Thanks to the surprisingly not-that-soggy check now in my purse, a more fun adventure is within my reach.
All I need to do is get to the bank, pronto.
The banks here are open pretty late, right? My thoughts drift to my truck.
It could probably be considered a bad habit at this point, but I’m still attached to my truck. It feels like I abandoned it on a cold, apathetic New York street.
Poor thing.
The bank could take a while with a deposit this size. My truck has already been sitting alone for so long, I should check on it at least.
Then I’ll go to the bank.
Although I’ve ventured about a block away in pursuit of my errant future, my truck is still sitting there, in my sight, the moment I turn around.
Darn, I have to stop myself from running to it.
Acting cool, hard and aloof like all of these other people, I stride to my prized possession as casual as I please.
Or as casually as I can.
Naturally, the windshield is already festooned with parking tickets. I’ll look at those after my financial future is secure—within the next hour, if all goes as planned.
Now, all I need to do is get the driver’s side door open. That shouldn’t be a problem, all I need is a wedge or a steel rod of some kind. You’d think that in this city, you’d see that type of garbage lying around everywhere.
Gosh darn it, despite scanning the sidewalk intensely on my way to the car, I’m not seeing any appropriate tools. When I reach the door, my only move is to grab the handle and give it a good tug.
The door stays closed. Because it’s locked.
Duh.
There’s no explaining why, but I try again with another vigorous tug. Of course the frigging door stays closed—why wouldn’t it?
All I can do now is stand in the street and sigh. Maybe I’m turning into a city woman already.
“You’re not trying to break into that pickup, are you?”
It takes me a second to place the voice behind me.
I know I heard it somewhere recently. Very recently.
Oh. Once again: duh.
“Mr. Abraham…Carter,” I greet my new boss while spinning around.
He’s just standing in the middle of the street like traffic doesn’t exist.
And he’s smiling.
Man, that smile is distracting. For a moment, I forget that traffic exists myself.
And that scent. I don’t know if it’s aftershave or what, but for a brief, shining second, it neutralizes the smell of urine, cheap pizza and trash that fills the city air.
Wait. Is he following me?
“Did I forget something, Carter? Or…did you have more questions or something?”
“That was my next question. Why are you trying to get into that pickup truck? Are you okay?”
“Oh.” My cheeks flush mildly, but I have nothing to be ashamed of. “This is my truck. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I locked the keys inside.”
“You drove this here?”
“Well, I didn’t push it. How else would I get it here?”
Carter laughs, looking genuinely caught off-guard. “Did you drive in from the suburbs somewhere, or…” Carter’s eyes scan me up and down once again, a slow realization dawning as he does. “Where did you drive from? And where have you been sleeping?”
Carter just manages to step out of the way of a speeding taxi. His calm demeanor does not waver.
“And why don’t we talk on the sidewalk?” Carter asks. Okay, so maybe he’s not completely fearless.
We squeeze around the front of my truck, and Carter gives a good, hard look at my parking ticket-infested windshield along the way. He may be looking inside the truck’s cabin, as well.
“Where are you staying?” Carter asks the second we’re on the sidewalk.
It feels like too personal a question at first. I’ve never been asked anything like that during or after a job interview.
But I understand that this is no normal job.
“I’m off to find an apartment right now…or, tonight, anyway.” That’s my sidestepping answer. I haven’t signed the contract yet, and Carter doesn’t need to know everything.
“Where?” Er, good question. “Do you have an appointment with a broker?”
“No.” All I can do is answer honestly…and look down at the sidewalk.
“At this time of year, June, the waiting list for any livable apartment can be weeks long. Or months, realistically.”
What’s Carter’s idea of livable, anyway? It’s not like I’m some sort of snob.
But, cockroaches.
Shudder.
He may have a point.
“I need to get to the bank to deposit this check.” There, that should get him off my back, at least.
“All the banks are closed by now, June. Where are you staying?”
If the banks really are closed, and I can’t even get a hotel room, then the only answer I have is in my truck.
Heck, I’m used to it, and I don’t need to explain myself to anyone. If only I could figure out a way to get that stupid door open.
“I’ve got plenty of room at my place, June. You can’t sleep in your pickup.”
“No, thanks.”
There. I don’t need to explain myself, so I don’t.
“June, don’t be ridiculous. Come on, I’ve got an incredible penthouse with tons of spare room. Beats sleeping in a truck, I promise.”
I shake my head once more, but barely. I don’t know what to say.