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Chapter One
Jane
“Taxi!”
I tuck a long strand of chestnut brown hair behind my ear with one hand as I fight to flag down a cab with the other. Just my luck that there aren’t any Ubers available when I decided to splurge on a ride to my new job so I won’t arrive all flushed. I wave my arms to get the attention of one of the many passing cabs, but it’s no use. After only a few months in the city, I haven’t yet learned the art of making a cabbie notice me.
“I guess it’s the subway,” I mutter to myself and try not to curse. There’s still plenty of time. I’ll even get there early.
Nothing can get me down today. Sure, it’s Monday, and the faces of the people I pass on the way to the station reflect their total lack of excitement over starting another week. But I’m not starting just another week. I feel like announcing to everybody that this is my first day of work at a job that isn’t retail. Maybe they’ll wish me luck. Then I catch the eye of a lady with a stroller, and she shoots me a dirty look before hurrying off. Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t bother.
My first day working at one of the fastest growing ad agencies in Manhattan. I still can’t believe my luck. I only went to the job fair because I had nothing to lose. I was hardly making anything in my first job out of college, and to say I was bored working as a mail room clerk would be a drastic understatement. I figured since I had good grades in school and a decent resumé—an advertising major, strong references, knowledge of graphic arts, expertise with design programs like Photoshop—that I had a pretty good shot, and I was right. The HR representative from James Enterprises called three days later to offer me the position as assistant to Anthony James, the son of the founder.
Anthony James. I’m sure panties dissolve at the mention of his name all the time. I’ve heard a thing or two about him, but nothing concrete. He’s sort of a bad boy, but aren’t most rich kids who never have to work for a thing in their lives? They grow up too fast and get into trouble. I guess that’s his story, but I don’t exactly pay attention to the social pages. I have better things to do than follow a rich boy’s antics.
Still, I can’t walk into the job with any preconceived notions of who he is. I have a bad habit of doing that, letting my imagination spin out of control, and generally in the worst way possible. One of my foster moms used to tell me I’d have an ulcer before I turn twenty-five. Four more years to go before that happens but have my fingers crossed that she’ll be wrong.
I’m not letting myself down that road with my new boss. I’ll give him a chance so long as he’s signing my checks. I’ve never had a job that pays as much as this one—my last job barely paid enough for me to afford my shoebox of an apartment. Then again, that’s the way life goes in New York. Pay through the nose for a closet-sized apartment and just be grateful for the chance to live in one of the biggest, most incredible cities in the world.
I sigh as I step onto the subway car and immediately pitch forward when a big, burly guy in a Mets sweatshirt slams into me from behind. No apology, no anything. Go figure. I grab onto one of the metal poles and fix my gaze somewhere off in the distance, the way everybody does when they’re on the subway. Don’t look directly at anybody, just sort of gaze out at nothing. Eye contact might be misconstrued as an invitation to chat, and this isn’t like back home where most people already know everyone else and it’s rude to not want to have a three-hour conversation about the weather. Talk to the wrong person here and it can lead to trouble.
Big city life has many rules to remember, and I still have trouble keeping it all straight even after living here for almost eight months. Manhattan is not far away from where I grew up in rural northeastern Pennsylvania. Less than two hours by car, but it might as well be the other side of the planet. Maybe on another planet entirely.
The frantic energy, the honking horns, the constant activity like bees in a hive. The people, everywhere, packing the streets and sidewalks. And the way they somehow manage to ignore everybody else around them! The first time I saw a group of people crossing the street on a red light without even looking to see if cars were coming, I screamed. The craziest part? Nobody looked around to see what I was screaming about.
I’m okay with the noise, at least. That’s one thing I had to get used to at an early age, living with up to four or five other foster kids at a time. I’m already a pro at ignoring noise filtering through thin walls, so living in a crowded apartment building and hearing everybody else’s business is no big deal.
Neither is living in a small space. I never had a bedroom of my own until I moved out of the college dorm—my entire life, I’ve had to share. Living in a shoebox is actually a step up. So what if the bathroom is really just a tiny walled-off section of the apartment, which is really just a single room with a sink and small stove? I learned early on that “studio apartment” means “we took a single room and now pretend a person can live there comfortably.” I’ve also learned how much food I can fit in a very tiny fridge.
I catch sight of my reflection in one of the grimy train windows. The waves I took so long to curl this morning are still looking good, spilling over my shoulders and onto my chest. I’m wearing a long black Chanel coat I could never have afforded anywhere other than at the consignment shop where I found it. The gray suit and light pink blouse are new—I don’t know how the office runs, what the dress code is, but there’s no way to go wrong in a suit. I can always dress down if I need to. Besides, the pink brings out color in my cheeks and makes my gray eyes sparkle. I figure I can use all the help I can get to make Anthony like me.
Speaking of people liking me, Mr. Mets Sweatshirt is nudging me a little more than he needs to be. We’re not even shaking back and forth, yet he keeps making contact. I let it go for a stop or two, but when he flat-out rubs up against me, I turn to him.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask in a clear, loud voice, looking him straight in the eye.
He shrinks back, cheeks staining red. “No.”
“It’s just that you seem to be having trouble keeping your balance.”
“No, I’m good.” He looks down at the floor. I roll my eyes and go back to staring out the window. That’s the thing about most creeps. Once you stare them down, they back off.
I suppose growing up where I did have its advantages when it comes to dealing with creeps.
The train lurches to a stop at my station, and I manage to elbow my way out the door and hurry up to the sidewalk. After a quick look around to orient myself, I head over to the nearest Starbucks. A little kissing up never hurt anybody, I tell myself as I wait in line. What does he like, this Anthony James? I try to picture him in my head, based on the few pictures I remember seeing. Tall, with a strong-featured face. Square jaw, deep-set blue eyes, dark hair wore swept back from his forehead. I saw him once in a picture from a cycling race, and he had a body to kill for. Broad shoulders and long, muscular legs. He’d be at home on a billboard advertising underwear. I’d look at that billboard. I’d stare at it all day.
Shut it down. I shake my head to clear my thoughts. The last thing I need to do is get all googly-eyed over my boss. I won’t be that pathetic.
“I’ll have a venti non-fat mocha…an iced venti soy latte...” I rattle off the names of four drinks, four being the most I can feasibly carry in one of those cardboard carrier things. Eight-thirty. Thirty minutes until I have to report to the office, and it’s only a block away. Things are looking good.
Until I wait twenty minutes for my drinks. I didn’t take that into consideration before stopping in. I nearly run the rest of the way to the office in my brand-new shoes, and I can just about hear blisters popping up on my feet along the way. Between that and the way I zigzag through other pedestrians—why are there so many?—I’m a total flustered mess by the time I reach the tall glass doors of the building James Enterprises calls home.
I can’t get my ID card to work when I swipe it over the sensor by the door no matter how many times I try. There’s no way to get inside.
Unbelievable. I try to catch the eye of the receptionist, sitting behind a desk along the marble wall. Just my luck there isn’t anybody coming in or out while I’m standing there feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.
When she sees me, she buzzes me in. I open the heavy door and hurry through the lobby with a sheepish grin. “Thank you,” I breathe. “You’re a lifesaver. It’s my first day working for Mr. James, and I don’t want to be late.”
Instead of smiling back, the way a civilized person would do, she rolls her eyes. “Oh. Another one.”
Another one? What’s that mean? I almost want to ask, but bite my tongue and keep my eyes on the floor the rest of the way to the elevator instead. So much for a friendly welcome on my first day. It shouldn’t surprise me, though. I’ve never had a warm welcome anywhere.
But I’ve never given up before, and I’m not going to start now.
I muffle a curse as someone else jostles me. I need to remember that people aren’t always friendly in the city, and what better way to remember than by fighting my way onto the elevator? There has to be three dozen people trying to squeeze their way onto one car, but since I’m near the front I manage to secure a spot. Then, I get squished as everybody squeezes on behind me.
“Oh, no,” I whisper, horrified, as I realize I feel wetness running down the front of my brand-new blouse. I look down to confirm that I’m spilling coffee all over myself. My blouse is now nearly see-through—I can just about make out the lace of my bra. My cheeks burn hotter than the surface of the sun. What a great first impression, and all I wanted to do was make my boss smile on the first day. Instead, I’ll always be the girl who walked in on her first day with coffee all over her shirt.
I’m alone by the time I reach the top floor, and so miserable I could cry. The inside of the elevator doors are shiny enough to let me see my rumpled, stained self in the reflection. It couldn’t get worse than this.
Or so I think until the elevator doors open, and I find myself standing face-to-face with none other than Anthony James himself, and I see that yes, things can get worse. Especially when I realize the photographers who took the photos I’ve seen should lose their jobs. Anthony James is the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in person…and he’s looking me up and down with an expression of boredom and disgust.
Great first impression, Jane.