Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“Thanks, but you know you’re dead if this gets out.”
“Hell, no one would believe the ‘It’ guy of the city would need an escort. Which worries me, dude. Let’s get together Sunday. I have the company’s box seats for the Yankees game. What’cha say?”
“Yeah, sounds good.” A knock sounds on my office door, ending this distraction in my day. “Gotta run.”
“Me, too. See you Sunday. And good luck with whatever happens.”
“Thanks.” We end the call, and I lay my phone face down on the desk, trying to put the unpleasant conversation behind me. “Come in,” I call out, already knowing it’s my assistant, Gail Mackenzie.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but do you need anything before the editorial heads’ meeting?” My assistant has been with Hammond Press for forty years and could likely sit in my chair and run the place.
“You have everyone’s coffee favorites, right?” Mrs. Mackenzie nods. “That should get the meeting rolling then.”
She pulls out her phone and clicks away on it. “Order done. I’ll be back in twenty, tops.”
As she turns on her sensible heels to head out the door, I notice the pink scarf she’s wearing. It reminds me of the young woman I saw last night whose beauty shined like the stars, practically blinding me. And for a split second, I consider wandering back to the hotel bar after work to see if she’s staying there, but I think better of it.
Instead, I focus on my computer screen and read over the upcoming meeting’s agenda. I try to convince myself she was a figment of my imagination—a mirage sent to distract my overworked mind—but I know she’s real and likely too sweet for a “commitment-phobe.”
I guess that leaves me with one option for Saturday night. And really, how bad could one escort date be anyway?
When my phone buzzes with an incoming text, I flip it over and view the message from Lucas.
He included the number and added a woman’s name below it, but it’s not the type of pink I was thinking about.
Ask for Barbie
6
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.