“Ms. Snow, we’ve made our decision. Can you step back inside please?”

I barely contained rolling my eyes as I stepped into the small office, crammed with odds and ends. Mr. Kingsley and his wife had just interviewed me for the position of cashier at the grocer’s market and had asked me to step outside so they could cross-examine my application and talk about my interview before they made their decision.

Like I didn’t already know they would hire me. They were delighted to have someone overqualified like me working there. To turn down my application was stupid when some of their workers had barely graduated from high school.

I wanted to be anywhere but there, but after my interview for caregiver, I’d received a voicemail from this grocer. I should have called them back and advised them I couldn’t make the interview. At fifteen dollars an hour, I’d not be earning a lot. However, it would at least put food on the table.

If only that woman Pearl hadn’t swayed Mr. Simpson.

“Ms. Snow we’d like you to start on Friday,” Mr. Kingsley informed me. “We’ll teach you all you need to know about this place. Like a training session, but we’ll not pay you for this trial day. You’ll officially start on Monday at fourteen dollars an hour.”

I was too defeated to point out they had lowered the amount they had quoted at first. Everyone was trying to save an extra buck.

“Okay,” I affirmed.

“You’re expected to be here at seven,” Mrs. Kingsley added. “And we have zero tolerance for lateness or we’ll dock your pay by an hour. You will be given three fifteen-minute breaks, and for now, your shift will end at five.”

Ten hours of this drudgery. How would I even manage sitting at the cashier register, my mind not actively engaged as the machine calculated everything for me?

“Also, we prefer professional attire until we get you a uniform,” she continued. “The sizes we have are currently too big for you. Jeans with a dress shirt is appropriate for the time being, but we’d also prefer tailored pants if you have any.”

Jeans and shirt it would be. I wasn’t wearing my nice clothes to check people’s groceries for little pay. I bid them a hasty goodbye, resigned that I would have to work at the supermarket for a few weeks or until something else came up.

The drive home was depressing. Taylor didn’t have much to offer by way of attraction. It was a small town with barely the essentials. The young people headed for Austin or Dallas as soon as they graduated high school. To attend a movie, I’d have to drive all the way to Austin. This town was stifling with little opportunities, and getting stuck here was not a part of my plan.

When I arrived home, it was after four and Mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I barely called to her and went straight to my bedroom. I closed the door behind me, dropped my handbag on the floor, and sank onto the bed, wincing a little as much of its bounce had worn out over time.

The minute my head hit the pillow, I couldn’t stop the sobs. I wasn’t a bad person. Weren’t good things supposed to follow good people? I’d done nothing but fallen in love with an egotistical, selfish jerk. All I wanted was to find a job I could turn into a career. I had in mind to save enough money to complete my final year of college, but with a mediocre job, I wouldn’t be able to do that. I would be stuck in Taylor, cashiering at a supermarket for fourteen dollars an hour until I was old. Without a reference from my last workplace, very few businesses would hire me.

I must have cried myself to sleep because the next thing I knew, my mother was shaking me awake. “Huh? What?” I scrambled to sit up in bed, my heart beating fast at the thought of her falling ill again.

“The phone,” she responded, “you have a call.”

“I didn’t hear my cell ring,” I said with a groan and reached for my cell on the bedside table. “It’s not Scott, is it? Oh no!”

Scott hadn’t called, but I had three missed calls from a number that looked strangely familiar. Wasn’t that the number I was given in the email for the caregiver position to call if I had further questions? Or was this merely my wishful thinking?

“The phone,” Mom reminded me. “It sounded rather urgent. I tried to take a message, but he wanted to speak directly to you.”

“Who is it?” I asked, hastening to my feet, my stomach churning in anticipation.

“He said Jarrod Simpson, but I—”

I didn’t wait to hear the rest of her sentence. I sprinted from the room, stubbing my toe on the side of the door, which hurt like hell but didn’t deter me. I hopped to the nearest phone in the kitchen, the one my mother had answered. I sucked in a deep breath to calm my racing heartbeat, but it would take a couple minutes for that to happen and I didn’t have a couple minutes to find out why Mr. Simpson was calling me.

“Hello,” I said breathlessly.

“Is this Ms. Snow?” the deep baritone of his voice could not be forgotten. Jarrod Simpson was the caller.

“Yes, yes, this is her—I mean, this is she.”

A chuckle came from the other end of the line. “Relax, Ms. Snow, this isn’t an English test.”

“Umm, sorry, I was sleeping,” I mumbled, then bit my tongue. Why in the world would I tell him that? Like he would be interested in that irrelevant bit of information.

My mother walked into the kitchen and sat patiently, listening to my end of the conversation. I could see the curiosity in her eyes.

“Aha, so that’s why you didn’t answer my calls,” he remarked in a tone I couldn’t decide was mock irritation or not. “And I thought you were no longer interested in the job.”

“You mean…” I trailed off, not wanting to get ahead of myself.

“The job is yours if you want it, Ms. Snow,” he stated. “But first, I’d like to have another meeting so we can go through expectations and sign contracts.”

“Contracts?” I repeated.

“Yes, I did say this is a long-term position. I’m first and foremost a business man and would like everything on paper for the record.”

I itched to correct him that first and foremost, he was a father, but I didn’t think he would appreciate that, as much as it was the truth.

“Okay. That’s plausible.”

“I’m glad you agree,” he replied. “As for our meeting, can you make a business dinner this evening at seven? At Abacus. I’ll be on that side of town on business and won’t be finished until six-thirtyish. We can go over the contract during dinner. Does that work for you?”

I thought about the long drive to Dallas and grimaced. Almost three hours of driving. Making that trip at night wouldn’t be fun at all. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of dinner either, especially at Abacus, a fine dining restaurant that would warrant me dressing up. Why did he want to meet at a restaurant? Such an unconventional way to discuss our business.

“Uh, isn’t there any way we could meet tomorrow during the day?” I asked, my fingers crossed. “It’s almost a three-hour drive out to Dallas, and although I don’t mind so much making the trip there, getting home after would be a bit of a drag.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said thoughtfully. “You’re all the way in Taylor. Since I’d rather we discuss the contract this evening, your trip to the city will be covered as a business expense for me. I’ll book you a room at Palais Royale where you can spend the night. You’ll be able to make your way back home after a good night’s sleep.”

“Are you sure that’s not a lot of trouble?” I questioned hesitantly. I was worried about his eagerness to meet this evening and would have flat-out refused if we would be alone, but we’d be with other diners at the restaurant.

“I assure you, it’s no trouble at all,” he responded. “And rest assured, Ms. Snow, this is a business dinner.”

“Of course,” I agreed, then affirmed I’d be there at seven before hanging up.

“What was all that about?” Mom asked, her eyes twinkling suspiciously. “I couldn’t decide from your end of the call whether you were going out on a date or a business meeting.”

My face flamed. “It’s business, Mom, but you know these eccentric rich folks. He wants to discuss the job in depth over dinner. At Abacus.”

“Fancy restaurant,” Mom commented with approval. “Maybe he’s taking you there to test you.”

“Test me for what?” I queried.

“Maybe he wants to see how you conduct yourself,” she explained. “I mean, if you’re going to care for his daughters, he may have an interest in how you behave in certain situations since children pick up our habits.”

“I’m sure that’s not it,” I murmured, but I wasn’t certain at all. A lot of what she said made sense. If this did turn out to be a social test to see if I fit into his surroundings, I wasn’t worried about it. When Mom was healthy and there was enough money for extracurricular activities, she had sent me to cotillion classes.

“Well, if it is, those classes will sure come in handy,” she remarked as though reading my mind. “Anyway, the good thing is that the job is practically yours. Don’t let anything stop you from taking that job, Laurel. Including me. This will be a great opportunity for you.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I hugged her, fighting back tears. I would do this for her, too. If I indeed received the salary mentioned in the job advert for this vacancy, I could help cover the expense of her surgery by the end of the year. I simply had to be frugal, and I would do it, too, because my mother meant everything to me and I wasn’t ready to lose her.

Half an hour later, while I pawed through my closet, trying to find something suitable for the occasion, I received an email from Mr. Simpson with my information for the hotel. It suddenly made sense to me to drive to the hotel early and get dressed there instead of driving for an hour in the dress I finally decided to wear to dinner.

Mom wished me all the best, and I jumped in my car with an overnight bag packed. I draped my dress over the back of the seat beside me to keep it from getting crushed. My pair of stilettos sat on the seat as well as my clutch.

I turned on the music in the car for company because I was buzzing with nervous excitement. I was glad I’d decided to stop at the hotel to get dressed because it was hot and I badly needed to freshen up by the time I reached Dallas.

Palais Royale was a lavish hotel designed like an Italian villa. At the front desk, I retrieved my room key and was shown to my suite by a bellboy. Located a few feet away from the pool, the suite was accessible by a private entrance. Inside was luxurious with Italian antiques and other artifacts with a Tuscan-inspired living and dining room.

I thanked the bellboy, tipping him generously before closing the door behind him. I would have liked to take in the features of the suite, but I had barely enough time to get dressed before I’d have to drive to the restaurant, which was fifteen minutes away.

I crossed the bedroom, which featured monogrammed linens and a walk-in closet, to the bathroom. The tub looked inviting, but I stepped into the shower. Maybe after dinner, when I returned to the hotel, I’d take a long, hot bath in the tub. It would be a pity to let a tub like that go to waste.

But for now, I would busy myself getting ready to ace this dinner and get that job.