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2-Crash Landing

PIPPA

Mrs. Chapman nods at my answer to why I want to work for Mr. Sayle.

Is a nod good or bad?

She gives me no time to ponder as she says, “The PA’s utmost priority is helping Mr. Sayle and the account manager, Devan Sanders, organize the launch party for Max Sabio’s last book in the Dark Arrow series. The new PA must also see to any details regarding the publication.” Mrs. Chapman releases my résumé from her hand. It sways from the momentum before falling flat.

A fifty-cent copy on a fifty-thousand-dollar desk.

It’s incongruous.

I’m incongruous.

Swish. Crack.

Oblivious to my misgivings, Mrs. Chapman continues. “We expect the release date in December, but Mr. Sabio is an ... artist, and he’s reluctant to rush his product. It will be your duty to encourage him to meet our deadlines. If you were to receive the job, of course.”

If.

If I do get the job, most of my problems will be erased in one swoop. I’ll be able to begin a new life and firmly put an end to the old one.

Mrs. Chapman fixes her eyes on me. “You understand the hours?”

I’m too wound up to speak, so I just nod my head.

Mrs. Chapman places her hands in her lap before she continues in a no-nonsense voice. “Mr. Sayle requires long hours—evenings and weekends." She eyes me over the top of her glasses. "There may even be some traveling.” She lifts a hand in the air and gives her wrist a tiny twist as if to say giving up all social commitments is everyone’s desire. “And you do realize that the position is only for ninety days?”

I nod again, trying not to let my eagerness show. Darla had let it slip that the former PA is out on maternity leave. I take a moment to silently thank the pregnant woman for my opportunity.

Mrs. Chapman must see something in my face as her lips lift into a grin, almost like she’s privy to a secret she can’t wait to share.

My heart rate increases triple time. That Mona Lisa simper makes me uneasy.

I hope I’m not being set up for a long fall.

Mrs. Chapman sniffs as if she can smell my worry, and the few lines in her face shift south. Nevertheless, her next words give me hope. “The position is at will, but if the applicant does well for the duration of the ninety days ...” she trails off, leaving the sentence to open interpretation.

My forward lean has my butt suspended in the air by sheer adrenaline. I shift my knees so I don’t topple from my seat.

"If the candidate impresses Mr. Sayle with the quality of their work, there’ll be no problem for the person we hire to stay on in another capacity.”

I’ll do anything to land this job, so I stress my willingness to be everything Mr. Sayle needs.

“Mrs. Chapman, I understand you require a person of strong character and that the work is taxing and rigorous. I’ve nothing and no one to hold me back from giving it my all.”

Mrs. Chapman’s lips twitch. I consider it a full-on toothy smile for someone like her. She gathers up my one-page resume and places it in the smoke-colored tray on top of her abnormally tidy desk.

My heart stutters.

It’s over.

Despite the coolness of the room, the warm, familiar heat of failure courses through my body like a strong drink on a cold night. According to that crazy clock, the interview took eleven minutes, including pleasantries and the phone call.

I’ll have to tell Jenna it didn’t work out.

Mrs. Chapman lays her palms on the desk, rising to her feet—a sure sign of bad news. “Ms. Hofacker, thank you for your candor. I want to inform you ...”

My heartbeat drowns out her rejection.

Another rejection in a sea of rejections.

After eight weeks of interviews, eight weeks of hoping, praying, and waiting, I have nothing to show for my efforts. My stomach clenches as I realize my half of the rent will be late. Again.

“... start next week Monday, September 1st. Your salary will be—”

Her words dissipate the shameful heat, like the wind blowing at the steam from a New York City manhole.

“Wh-what? I’ve gotten the job? Really?” I bounce on my seat in excitement.

Twice.

Mrs. Chapman’s lips twitch again. But this time, the smile reaches her eyes.


“I’ve got the job! I’ve got the job!” I scream as I enter our minuscule Brooklyn apartment.

My roomie, Jenna, a little blonde dynamo on legs, comes running from her bedroom and into the common area. She barrels into me, knocking us both onto the couch. Her bear hug squeezes the breath from my lungs.

“You’ve got the job, really? Congratulations, Pip! You must be so happy.” Jenna’s blue eyes dance with excitement, and her happy smile propels my own joy to a higher level. “Did you meet Xaver Sayle? What’s he like?”

“Yes, I have the job. Yes, I’m happy—ecstatic, really.” We fall back further on the couch, carefully avoiding the sagging spot in the middle. We call the mushy section the black hole as it can easily suck a grown man into its depths.

I inch further towards the good side, letting out a sigh as I do. “No, I didn’t meet Mr. Sayle yet because he’s in Europe. He’ll be there at least two more weeks, maybe even longer.”

I can wait. My new boss’s absence from the office will give me an opportunity to learn the ins-and-outs before he arrives.

For my first week, I’ll train under his lead secretary who has the dubious name of Kat Cummings. When I heard her name, I didn’t even snicker. With a name like Pippa Hofacker, how could I?

Jenna frowns at my news, but her expression soon brightens. “What will you do?”

I pluck a piece of lint from my black skirt and lay it on the coffee table to clean up later. “Well … I’ll mainly help organize the launch of Mr. Sabio’s new book. Other than that, I’m not quite sure what I’ll be doing.” With my eyes on the ceiling, I think for a second. “I’ll probably ... you know, pick up his dry cleaning, arrange dinners, get him coffee, that sort of thing.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad,” Jenna muses. “At least you have your foot in the door.”

The door to my freedom. The one I can hardly wait to open.

I cross my legs, jiggling my foot in excitement. “Mrs. Chapman, the HR Director, told me if I did a great job for Mr. Sayle, I may get a permanent position somewhere in the company.”

Jenna claps her hands and her smile grows wider.

I return Jenna’s smile and say, “For the time being, I’m just filling in for a woman on maternity leave. We’ll see if something develops after that.”

“Aww, Pip, you know that once you’re in, you’re in like Flynn.” She punctuates her point by punching me on the shoulder with a tiny fist.

I scowl, rubbing the sore spot. Jenna, who is drop-dead gorgeous, emulates an MMA fighter in strength as well as bravado. In the two years I’ve known her, she has taken on more people than I care to count.

Take for instance that time at Clancy's, that’s our regular watering-hole that serves strong-ass drinks and peanuts by the bucket. That night, Jenna was running her mouth and a guy, who I swear was more than three times her size, took offense and swung at her.

Jenna had ducked the punch, brought her hands together and slammed them directly into the guy’s considerable beer belly. He’d doubled over with a whoosh of breath.

Jenna didn’t even give him time to recover. She jumped in the air, coming down on him in a pile driver worthy of an ESPN replay. Her attacker fell with a “splat” onto the concrete floor, breaking not only his nose, but his pride.

With murder in her eye, my roomie had moved in for the kill, dodging hands meant to hold her back like a quarterback going in for a touchdown. It took three guys, one for each arm and one for her legs, to haul her away. Later, when I asked her how she came by her beatdown skills, Jenna said her three older brothers had taught her.

I wish I’d learned how to fight. He wouldn’t—

I jump when Jenna lets out a boisterous yell.

"We need to party, Pip!” She springs from the couch and begins to shuffle. Her feet move so fast, her checkered Vans blur.

I roll my eyes at her craziness. I swear her boundless energy scares me sometimes.

"You know something? This calls for a celebration! We’re going out tonight, no excuses!" Jenna dances a bit more then flops down beside me.

Big mistake.

She sinks straight into the black hole. All that remains are her head, shoulders, and feet.

I only stop laughing when my stomach cramps and the breath from my mouth comes out in small gasps.

Grasping her arms, I pull her from the couch. I then give her the bad news. "I can't go out tonight, Jenna. My last dime went on groceries." I point to the plastic bag I’d dropped when she tackled me. "I’m making chicken curry tonight."

Her frown reverses into a smile. "Well, if it's your famous chicken curry, then by all means, let's stay in. We can watch a good chick flick while we drink the bottle of champagne I took from Bobby's apartment." She cocks her head to the side and does the can-can like the women at the Moulin Rouge. "It's the real deal. Al' ze way from ze Franz!"

I shake my head in mock disgust. Her over the top French accent is an insult to all French people. For her transgression, I seize the opportunity to tease her.

"Oooooh,” I say in a whiny-kid voice. “I'm tellin' Bobby that you confiscated his Champagne.”

Bobby Sorenson is Jenna's boyfriend and the sommelier at Bene, one of three successful restaurants his dad owns. Bobby met Jenna one evening when she showed up after my shift had ended.

When I’d introduced them, it was insta-lust. Shortly thereafter, their lust morphed into true love. Through their actions, they proved they would do anything for one another.

Take the time when Jenna sprained her ankle on a patch of ice. Bobby had practically carried her wherever she needed to go. Then when Bobby was sick last Christmas, Jenna had stayed in New York, disappointing her family in Wisconsin she hadn’t seen all year.

In addition to reminding them that they met through me, I constantly tell them their relationship is an anomaly. Only very rare creatures go from lust to love within the matter of a few weeks.

They scoff and laugh and then make googly eyes at each other. Every time.

Getting back to Jenna, my roomie arches a brow, her way of letting me know she’s about to call my bluff.

"By all means, Pippa, tell him. He’ll ban me from his apartment, so we’ll just have to come over here to have our wild sexy-sex."

I roll my eyes.

I love them both to death, but when they get into the bedroom, those two morph into hyenas in heat. The noise is unbelievable. They’re so loud sometimes, our neighbors across the hall have to put in ear plugs.

"Okay. Okay,” I hastily concede. “My lips are sealed." I twirl an imaginary lock around my mouth and throw away its key.

A figurative light bulb appears over Jenna’s head, and my roomie gives me a glance filled with worry. "You won't tell his parents when you work tomorrow, will you? They might have a problem with me commandeering a two-hundred and fifty-dollar bottle of bubbly."

"Well ..." I say, glancing at the ceiling while pretending to think it through.

Jenna's face scrunches in on itself. She doesn’t know I’m teasing her. Even after two years of living together, she still doesn’t know me.

It’s not her fault.

As close as I am to Jenna, she doesn’t know everything about my past. No one in New York does, save for one person, and he can take care of himself.

I place my hand on her arm, giving it a brief squeeze. "You know I'm not going to say anything, Jenna." Her face relaxes, and her eyes lose their tension. "Besides, Bobby’s parents love you. Nothing you can do will stop that."

Never a truer statement was spoken.

Mike and "Ma" Sorenson think Jenna burps the sun’s rays and craps out moonbeams. If I ever get lucky enough to have potential in-laws who’d treat me like Bobby’s parents, I’d move a mountain to keep their son.

“Hey, I’m going to start on dinner,” I say, heading for my room.

Jenna grabs my arm. Her eyes are wet, and her voice trembles with emotion. "I'm happy for you, Pip. You deserve this break."

I remain stoic in the face of her tears. I haven’t cried in ages. What’s the point? Pain hurts, no matter if you cry or not.

And boy did he love to see me cry.

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