Tessa

After I hang up with Maggie, my mother texts to check up on me. Yesterday morning, we said our goodbyes at my terminal in Birmingham’s airport, and rivers streamed down her face. She swore they were happy tears and New York City would be lucky to have me, but her crackling tone told me otherwise.

I gave her a big hug and remained dry-eyed until I walked onto the plane. Completely out of her sight and soon to be lifting off Alabama’s soil, my journey became real. An odd ache formed in my chest, as if the strained ribbon of childhood connecting me to my mother had snapped. I sat in my seat, belted myself in, and had a good cry, thankful no one was sitting next to me.

My love of reading started with my mother. When she met my father, the town’s sheriff, she had just become the librarian for Monroeville’s small library. The lawman fell hard for the brainy beauty in the classic way opposites attract. While he patrolled the sleepy streets of our hamlet, she fed me a balanced diet of literature from birth.

Early on, I found a comfortable hiding place in between the pages of my favorite stories. So, when I gave up on boys in college, I returned to the familiar world of fictional men and women.

Needing a distraction from my lacking love life, I created a blog named after my late cat, Shakespurr, where I post book reviews all from finicky Shakespurr’s point of view. Readers love it. He has quite the fan club. I even started selling shirts and mugs with his photo on them.

After the first few reviews, the blog gained a steady readership. I didn’t quite go gangbuster viral, but I made money when people bought the books I posted via my marketing links.

My pile of college debt has dwindled down to a sane number, and I even stashed enough away to come to the Big Apple for seven days. I think Shakespurr would be proud of his human.

I reread the last text from my mother. “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.”

The famous Thoreau quote is just what I need as I head straight for Hammond Press. It’s only a few blocks away from the coffee shop and even closer to my hotel.

Pacing along with the other people on the sidewalk, I double-check my bag to make sure the manila envelope with the letter and résumé addressed to Hammond Press is inside.

Since I’ve heard nothing but crickets from all the emails I’ve sent, I’ll be happy to make it inside the mailroom doors at this point.

A nervous excitement races over my skin when the building comes into view. I shake the tingles from my fingers and walk faster.

The sidewalk traffic flow reminds me of a four-lane highway. Two slow lanes on each outer side, where people enter and exit the concrete highway. Currently, I find myself in the inner lanes moving at a high cruise speed.

Drawing closer to the building’s entrance, I maneuver through the fast lines into the slow outer side, standing almost on the edge of the curb.

I swivel on my heels to face the glass and granite structure, and peer upward to see Hammond Press written in a bold marquee.

It’s showtime. Butterflies scatter within me. I didn’t think I’d have a major case of the chickenshits, but I do.

Dammit. I can do this.

Bringing my eyes back to the ground, I close them for a quiet moment to regroup, and resign myself to hoping I can push through my fear while still doing it afraid.

Two more deep breaths, and I open my eyes, my gaze still on the ground, where a shiny pair of men’s black shoes mirror mine. The tips of our soles are separated by a few inches. I focus in, noting the perfect leather and sleek design of the men’s version leans toward an expensive European brand.

I inch up the matching, black wool trousers, passing over a Gucci belt buckle and paper white dress shirt. A silk tie with woven threads of gray and black rests between the open lapels of a black suit jacket. Once past broad shoulders, I catch the man’s tilted smile while his eyes catch all of me, slowly, from head to toe. He’s not quite as tall, dark, and handsome as Barclay Hammond, but there’s something similar in his look—and age.

“Pardon me, but you seem like you might need a little help,” he says in a smooth tongue. His smile fades to concern as his fingers twitch, as if he wants to check my pulse. “Trevor Spears.”

I give my head a slight shake before I reach toward his now extended hand. Mine disappears around his large fingers, and he holds his grip an appropriate second or two, though he lingers a second or two longer than appropriate on my boobs.

“Tessa Holly.” My southern accent has a woman turning her head. Her eyes are wide, as if she’s witnessing the sighting of an extinct animal.

“Where are you from, Tessa?” He pushes his suit coat to the side, settling his hand at his waist. I wonder if this is his relaxed pose.

“Take a guess.” I add a swipe of sarcasm to my smile.

“Below the Mason Dixie line.” He whistles as his eyes revisit my legs. He’s so discreet. Ugh.

Nodding, I purse my lips and place my hand on my hip. He glances down at my mirrored move, and does this smirk laugh thing as he throws back his head.

“What brings you to the city?” His predictable questions are a breath of stale air.

I scoot to the right about six inches, so I can peek around his tall frame. The revolving doors at Hammond Press spin around as people come and go. I need to shake this man from my day and get on the circling merry-go-round.

“Actually, I was just headed into Hammond.” I mark a way of escape and secure my bag onto my shoulder. Then, in stealth mode, I start to maneuver around him and re-enter the sidewalk highway.

“Remarkable, so am I.” He turns to follow me, his large frame and giant strides clearing the walking traffic like a rope line, giving us a direct path to the front doors. “Do you work at Hammond?”

“No.” Oh how I wish I could’ve said yes to this man. “I have a special delivery.”

“Oh, you’re a courier with a delivery from the South?”

“Something like that,” I say out the corner of my mouth.

“Follow me. I know the security guard. No one and nothing gets past him without his approval.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, addressing him in a proper Southern way. I peer up into his eyes, wondering why they’ve become so dark. “I would greatly appreciate that.”

“My pleasure.” His response is smoother than velvet, and I have the weird feeling I’ve missed an element in our conversation.

Mr. Spears opens the single door next to the revolving one and places his hand on the small of my back, ushering me into the lobby. Though I’ve read about this gentlemanly contact in books, no man has ever led me this way. I do see the appeal.

The gray-colored marble lobby is longer than it is wide, and enclosed glass bookcases cover the sidewalls, rising two stories tall. Their shelves display scores of books, with the covers facing frontward. I recognize a few titles, even the most recent one from Don Black: A Code for Mankind.

My awestruck reactions make me fall a step behind Mr. Spears. I skip up next to him and reach the security desk as he does.

“Good morning, Mr. Spears,” the guard welcomes my tall escort by name, substantiating his claim.

“Same.” Mr. Spears is curt, not returning the warm greeting in full.

“What can I help you with, sir?” the guard asks.

“I have a special delivery for –” Mr. Spears raises his brows at me.

“Helen Ratner.” I reach into my bag and pull out the manila envelope addressed to her. “She’s the head—”

“Of human resources,” Mr. Spears interrupts, looking at me with a laugh in his eyes.

I realize there’s only one way he could know Helen’s position within the company. The Gucci devil works here too.

Mr. Spears takes the letter from my hand faster than I can react and passes it to the guard. “Please see that Helen gets this ASAP. Make sure to tell her I asked you to deliver it.”

Mr. Spears holds up one finger to the guard, making all of us still, then gazes down his nose at me.

“Hmmm,” he hums in thought, his single digit suspended in the air. “What’s your favorite position?”

I gasp, glance at the guard, who has his mouth open, then look back at Mr. Spears. He curls his lip and shakes his head as the blanks begin to fill in.

Calling him sir. Dark eyes. Talk of positions. Snide smirk.

He’s totally coming onto me, but I need a break to get through the company’s guarded door. It’s the age-old dilemma for women, and one I’ve stood against.

“Here at Hammond, I mean. What position would you like?” he asks the right question, but way too late.

I silently apologize to Gloria Steinem before answering him. “Publicity or marketing.”

“Perfect,” he responds before turning back to the guard. “Get on it.”

The guard hustles through a door on the back wall, and another guard in the wings takes his place.

“I’d be happy to give Helen a call later today. Make sure she received your letter.” Mr. Spears places his hand back on the small of my back and guides me toward one of the enclosed glass bookshelves.

“You would?” I study his face, deciphering his level of sincerity. The Big Bad Wolf glint in his eyes tells me everything.

I step away from him, breaking the contact of his hand with my lower back, and a woman shouts, then something bumps into me near my shoulder blades. Before I make a full turn, cold and hot liquids pour down my back.

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t move out of your way fast enough,” the woman says frantically, a drink tray of toppled Starbucks cups in her hands. All Venti.

She thrusts the caffeine catastrophe at Mr. Spears. His eyes are planted on my backside, and not for untoward reasons. He appears stunned, speechless, as he takes the dripping mess in his hands.

“Thank God I grabbed these with the coffee,” the woman says, fisting a pile of napkins. “Did you get burned?” she asks, rubbing and pressing the napkins over my back.

“No. More cold, actually,” I reply, still in shock.

“Good. The cold brews are what got you the most. My sincere apologies, dear.”

The woman proceeds to shake the remnants off my shirt and continues to wipe it clean. She mutters under her breath and bows her head. I don’t think it’s looking good, but I can’t see my back fully to be certain.

“We need to get this taken care of before the stains set in. Do you mind coming upstairs with me? I’ll send your clothes out for a quick cleaning. I think I have a trench coat for you to wear while you wait.”

“Can I join you?” Mr. Spears asks as the coffees continue to spill over the tray onto the floor.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Spears,” the woman answers, gathering me to her side. “Please just throw the coffees away and get housekeeping down here.”

“Already on it, Mrs. Mackenzie,” the replacement guard yells from his desk.

“At least one male is being useful,” she says, whispering under her breath so only I can hear. I giggle for a beat.

I like this woman, even if she ruined my blouse, and likely my skirt too. Besides, she’s taking me upstairs, way beyond the lobby and my wildest dreams.

“My boss will just have to do without the fancy coffee for his meeting,” she says, walking me toward a bank of elevators. “Mr. Hammond will understand, though.”

“Barclay Hammond?” the question rushes from my lips.

“Yes. I’m Alice Mackenzie, Mr. Hammond’s assistant. What’s your name, dear?”

“Tessa Holly, ma’am.”

“Well, I’ll have you back on your way in short order. Promise.” Her kind eyes warm away some of my shock.

Once in the elevator, Mrs. Mackenzie hits the button for the highest floor. The numbers over the door fly by as we move closer to the handsome suited player who bought my dinner and drinks last night. My stomach twists in a knot. Will he remember me? There’s no way I’ll ever forget a man like him.