Prologue Lucy
Two Years Ago
There’s exactly one thing a woman doesn’t want after being rejected by four out of five interviews she’s given in the past month.
That is the sixth interview.
Unfortunately for me, that sixth interview is exactly where I’m headed today in this rather dusty cab.
I close my eyes and repeat, Today will be a good day. I hold on extra tight to my coffee cup for good measure. If all else fails, I’ll still have coffee.
Everything will go well today, says the Zen-like voice in my head.
When I open my eyes, I have a split second of clarity before I see an angry young man flinging his coffee on my cab.
I flinch and remember just in time that the windows are thankfully shut.
I look over my shoulder through the rear window glass and find the man shaking a fist at my cab because, apparently, the driver cut him off while he was trying to cross the street.
I lean back and take a deep breath. This is Manhattan. This is normal.
“We’re here,” the taxi driver calls out a minute later as he comes to an abrupt stop on a street lined with tall, monochrome buildings.
My coffee spills out of the cup, my cream silk blouse catching most of it. Well, so much for the coffee. I look at the driver for commiseration, but he’s holding his hand out for cash.
I set my coffee cup aside gingerly. I can hear the contents swirling, and I know that I’ve lost around half of it already. Picking up my purse, I painfully count the last few twenty-dollar bills that I’ve hoarded and hand them over.
My financial situation is exactly why I’m now interviewing for the role of a secretary.
I’m a really poor art history graduate. Because I followed a certain blue-eyed man to New York recently, I’m determined to get the first job I can.
I’ve even told my family that my temporary state of unemployment is not a problem because I have a sizable savings account.
I don’t.
I lie to keep my parents happy. I might have a problem.
I don’t have a career or a healthy bank account.
All I have are five interviews in my past that did not work out.
I have given up hope of ever hearing back about that fifth interview.
Wouldn’t they have called me by now if they’d liked me?
It had seemed promising though. A job as a property manager.
I liked the sound of that. Also, I would have gotten discounted rent if I lived on the same property.
Who doesn’t like discounted rent in Manhattan?
I look at a billboard on one of the buildings, which features a wealthy billionaire admiring his sparkly Rolex. Hmm. Perhaps he wouldn’t care about discounted rent.
When the cab driver coughs pointedly, I get out of the cab.
The buildings around me reek of glamor and wealth, in stark contrast to my bank account.
I’m well aware I don’t belong here but I want to.
Even if it means I have to convince someone that I can be a secretary when I have absolutely no experience.
As Hunter’s fiancée, I am prepared for this role, I think as I remember all the drinks I got him and the meetings I set up or rescheduled for him.
I walk up the steps into a tall, modern building, and find a helpful receptionist who directs me to the office of the hiring manager.
In a minute I’m outside her office, and knock on the door.
I take a deep breath and try to recollect some facts about the company I’m interviewing with.
It’s a small real estate agency that deals with office leases and the like.
Pretty boring job, I think to myself, when I hear slow, measured footsteps come to a stop behind me.
I look over my shoulder.
My eyes widen, and I have to stop myself from staring. It is the man from the billboard himself.
Unlike his picture on the billboard, where his hair was in a sleek bun, today, his thick black hair is tied up in a rough ponytail.
He has light-brown skin and a full, trimmed beard.
He is very tall. Tall in a way that makes me feel even more minuscule with my five-foot stance.
I also register very broad shoulders. I bet he has strong arms. The kind that could easily sweep you up and carry you away.
I clear my throat when I realize the direction my thoughts have taken and focus on his face instead.
That’s when I notice his frown. He’s glowering at me as though he doesn’t understand why I would insist on standing between him and the door.
His gaze flickers to my blouse, and I feel slightly rattled by this scrutiny.
I’m torn between being mildly attracted to the man and also being intimidated by him.
The door opens, and I turn. A woman in her late fifties looks back at me pleasantly. Mary Wickham, the hiring manager, speaks first. “Lucy Barr? Are you here to interview for the secretary job?”
The man coughs very pointedly and we turn to him. The glare he gives us is capable of freezing even the bravest of hearts.
He turns to Mary, who is now looking concerned.
“I have an important meeting with the Thornes next Friday, Mary. I need a secretary, but she isn’t one. Look at the state of her blouse.”
So that explains his gaze.
Mary spares me a commiserating glance, as though she partly agrees with him. But when she turns back to the man, her expression is serious. “The last secretary left because you criticized her sloppy hands ten times a day,” Mary says with a no-nonsense tone.
She is not having his sass, and I like it.
I need this job, grumpy man or not. “My hands have never been accused of being sloppy before,” I say, holding them out.
Mary looks at me sympathetically. “Yet,” she adds as she steers me to a conference room across from her office. The conference room has a rectangular mahogany table, eight chairs, and a blue logo on the wall. The man looks like he does not want to join us, but Mary has it under control.
She turns to the man. “You’ll join Miss Barr in this conference room. Might I remind you that I’m retiring next week, and I’m running out of time to find you a secretary?”
I feel a little tendril of worry. “You’re leaving?” I ask her as the man joins us in the conference room. If I plan to work here, I could do with a woman like her around. Especially if I have to deal with a man like him.
Mary turns to me kindly. She is blonde and short, a little like my mother. “I’ve worked here thirty-two years. But I’ve recently become a grandma, and I’ve decided I’d much rather take temper tantrums from my granddaughter than him.”
She must see the anxiety on my face because she hastens to add, “Oh, it’s not so bad, dear. You’ll learn. He’s terrible at first, but then you’ll warm up to him.”
She gives me a genuine smile and then turns to the man. “Lucy Barr is the only candidate we can interview on such short notice. So, I’ll ask you again. Do you have any more complaints, or will you interview her while I return to my lunch?”
The man mumbles something about not having meals at your desk, to which Mary raises an eyebrow and asks him to repeat that. He shakes his head and says, “Nothing.”
I quite like the way she’s got him under her thumb. It almost gives me some ideas.
When the door closes, I turn to the man. The look on his face wipes the smile off mine. He is scowling, as though I insisted it’s bring your guinea pig to work day and his guinea pig called it quits the night before.
He speaks before I can. “Are you the woman in the cab that almost cut me off when I was trying to cross the street?”
My mouth falls open. “Are you the man who flung his coffee on the cab?” I ask almost immediately.
He looks furious but doesn’t deny it.
My phone buzzes, and I answer the call desperately. I can’t work for this sullen man. I simply can’t.
“Hello?” I say, turning away while the man glowers at me.
The phone call is from the hiring manager who previously interviewed me for the role of a property manager.
“Congratulations, Ms. Barr,” the hiring manager tells me. “You got the job as an assistant property manager!”
I’m about to exclaim and jump for joy when something clicks in my mind. “I’m sorry. Did you say assistant property manager?” I whisper into the phone. “Are you sure it wasn’t the job for the property manager?”
There is a surprised silence on the phone, and I hear some taps on the keyboard. “I’m sure. You interviewed for the role of the assistant property manager with Six Oaks—one of Belgavi Property Trust’s premier apartment communities.”
Gosh, that cuts my paycheck in half right away. I sneak a glance at the man to consider what working with him will be like. He is pacing like he’s going to throw a fit any moment now.
Nope. I’m out of here.
I bring my phone closer to my mouth. “I’ll take it! Thank you.”
I hang up and confront the man, rearranging my face into what I hope is an acceptable look of apology. “I’m so sorry, but I just got the news that I’ve been hired for another role—a dream job really—so unfortunately, I can’t—”
He walks over to the door and yanks it open before calling out, “Mary! We have a problem. Come back in here, please.”
He turns to me. “I knew this wouldn’t work out from the very moment you walked in. Go on. Good luck with your new job, wherever that is.”
I wish I was not the kind of person who had to answer every darn question someone asked me. I open my mouth to repeat the name of the company I just heard over the phone, “Belgavi Property Trust.”
The words hang in the air, and the room becomes unbelievably still.
And then the man snorts. “Are you serious?”
“Maybe we’ll see each other again!” I say, walking backwards out of the room, thinking privately that I hope I never have to have another interaction with him again. When I’m out, I shut the door and run down the corridor before he can call back something snarky.
When I’m out of the building and back on the road, I take a deep breath before I look over my shoulder.
Nope, he hasn’t followed me out to continue our verbal spar.
Letting out a sigh of relief, I look for the logo of the company I almost interviewed with.
It’s at the very top of the building. It’s the same blue logo I saw in the conference room on the wall behind the glowering man.
With an eerily familiar name.
Belgavi Property Trust.