The Exception, page 30
Martin and Bridget laughed, but I was too stunned to react.
Chase reached out and touched my arm. “Come on, Buttercup. Don’t get embarrassed. Those were some good times we had. Remember?”
“How long were you two a couple?” Martin asked.
Just as Chase was about to respond, I reached over and touched his arm in the same patronizing way he’d touched mine. “Not too long. Right after the other incident, we broke up.”
Bridget clapped her hands and bopped up and down in her seat like an excited child. “I wanna hear about the other incident!”
“I’m not sure I should actually share it, now that I think about it,” I mused. “Is this your first date?”
Bridget nodded.
“Well, I don’t want you to assume Chase has the same problem anymore. Since our little incident was so long ago.” I leaned over to Bridget and whispered, “They gain better control as they grow older. Usually.”
Instead of being upset, Chase looked thoroughly pleased with my story. Proud, even. In fact, the rest of the evening went on pretty much the same way. Chase told elaborate stories about our fake childhood, unafraid to embarrass himself in the process, and kept us all amused. I sometimes added to his stories when my mouth wasn’t hanging open at the crap he’d made up.
I hated to admit it, but the jerk had started to grow on me, even while telling stories about my bloody nose and the “unfortunate bra-stuffing incident.” By the end of the evening, I was ordering coffee to stall the night’s end—a far cry from our exchange in the bathroom hallway.
Outside of the restaurant, Martin, Chase, and I all handed the valet our tickets. I preferred to be in control of when a first date started and ended, so I’d met Martin at the restaurant. Of course Bridget had come in Chase’s car like a normal date. She was also practically rubbing up against his side as she clung to his arm while we waited for our cars. When my shiny red Audi pulled up first, I wasn’t sure how to say goodbye to…well…anyone. I took the keys and lingered with the door open.
“Nice car, Buttercup.” Chase smiled. “Better than that hunk of junk you drove in high school, huh?”
I chuckled. “I suppose it is.”
Martin stepped forward. “It was nice seeing you, Reese. I hope we can do this again sometime.”
Rather than wait for him to attempt to kiss me, I went in for a hug. “Thank you for a nice dinner, Martin.”
As I stepped back, Chase stepped forward and pulled me into a hug. Unlike the friendly back-pat I’d given Martin, Chase plastered me against his body. God, it felt good. Then he did the strangest thing… He wound my long hair around his hand a few times and closed it into a fist, using it to tug my head back. His eyes lingered on my lips as I looked up at him, and for a brief second, I thought he might kiss me.
Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead. “See you at the reunion next year?”
I nodded, feeling almost off-kilter. “Umm…sure thing.” I glanced to Bridget after he released me. “Nice to meet you, Bridget.”
Reluctantly, I folded into my car. Feeling eyes on me, I looked up while putting my seat belt on. Chase watched me intently. It looked like he wanted to say something, but after a few heartbeats, it felt strange to sit and wait any longer.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled away with one last wave, wondering why it felt like I was leaving something important behind.
Chapter 2
* * *
Reese — Four weeks later
One hundred and thirty-eight, one hundred and thirty-nine, one hundred and forty. The last ceiling tile—the one all the way in the corner of my bedroom closest to the window—had cracked. That’s new. I needed to call the super and get that replaced before it screwed up my daily count and started to cause me stress instead of helping alleviate it.
I was still lying on my bedroom floor after hanging up with Bryant, a guy I’d met at the supermarket last week (instead of the usual bar pick-up, which never seemed to pan out that great). He’d called to tell me he was stuck at work and going to be an hour late for our second date, which was fine with me because I was tired and had no desire to get up anyway. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I shut my eyes and focused on the sound of my own breathing. In and out, in and out. Eventually finding my calm, I hauled myself up off the carpet, freshened up my makeup, and poured a glass of wine before grabbing my laptop.
I browsed the New York marketing job posts on Monster.com for the sum total of five minutes before growing bored, and then I went on Facebook. As usual. Because job hunting sucks. Scrolling through my friends’ posts, I saw the same old things—pictures of food, their kids, the lives they wanted us to believe they had. I sighed. A picture of a guy I went to middle school with cradling his newborn son popped up in my feed, and my mind immediately went to the man I hadn’t gone to middle school with, Chase Parker.
I’d thought about my fake classmate more often than I cared to admit over the last month. Odd little things made him pop into my mind—Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups on the impulse-buy shelf at the grocery store checkout (I bought them), a picture of Josh Duhamel as I thumbed through People magazine in the waiting room at my dentist (Chase could easily pass for his brother—I might have torn out the page), my vibrator in my nightstand drawer (I didn’t, but I thought about it. I mean, I did have that page and all).
This time when the man leaped into my thoughts, before I knew it, I was typing Chase Parker into the Facebook search bar. My gasp was audible when his face popped up. The flutter I felt in my chest was pathetic. God, he’s even more gorgeous than I remembered. I clicked to enlarge the photo. He was dressed casually, wearing a white T-shirt, jeans with a rip at the knee, and black Chucks. It was a good look for him. After spending a full minute appreciating his sexy face, I zoomed in and noticed the emblem on his T-shirt: Iron Horse Gym. There was one on the same block as the restaurant where we’d met. I wondered if he lived nearby.
Unfortunately, I wouldn’t find out. None of his bio was set to public. In fact, the only picture I could see was that one profile picture. I’d need to send him a friend request and have him accept if I wanted to see more. Although tempted, I decided against it. He would probably think I was nuts sending a friend request to a guy who thought I was a bitch (and told me as much), who I’d met while we were both on dates with other people, and after a full month had passed.
But that didn’t stop me from screenshotting his photo so I could look at it again later. After several more minutes of daydreaming about the man, I gave myself an adult pep talk. You need to find a job. You need to find a job. You have only one week of work left after this one. Get your ass off of Facebook.
It worked, and for the next fifty minutes I scoured the help wanted ads for something—anything—that sounded remotely cosmetics-marketing related, or even just remotely interesting. I knew I shouldn’t bank on just the two interviews I had scheduled so far, but there wasn’t much out there. By the time my doorbell buzzed, I felt deflated about ever finding a job to replace the one I’d held for the last seven years and, until recently, loved.
Bryant’s kiss when I opened the door definitely went a long way toward changing my mood. It was only our second date, but he certainly had potential.
“Well, that was a nice hello,” I breathed.
“I’ve been thinking about doing that all day.”
I smiled up at him. “Come on in. I’m almost ready. I just need to grab my bag and get my phone from the charger.”
He pointed to the front door after closing it behind him. “Did you have a break-in or something? What’s with all the extra locks?”
My front door had a regular lock and three deadbolts. Normally, I would answer honestly and explain that I felt safer with an extra lock or two and leave it at that. But Bryant wasn’t most dates. He was really trying to get to know me, and if he pried further—as I worried he might—I’d be forced to open up about some things I wasn’t ready to yet.
So I lied. “The building manager is big on security.”
He nodded. “Well, that’s good.”
As I was clasping on a necklace in my bedroom, I yelled out to Bryant, “There’s wine in the fridge, if you want.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
When I came out from the bedroom, he was sitting on the couch. My laptop was still open next to him from my job search.
I spoke as I fastened my earrings. “So what are we going to see?”
“I figured we could decide when we get there. There’s a Vin Diesel flick I want to see. But since I’m an hour late, I won’t argue if you aren’t a fan.”
I smiled. “Good, because I’m not. I was thinking more along the lines of that new Nicholas Sparks movie.”
“Pretty steep punishment for being late. It was only an hour, not three days,” he teased.
“That’ll teach you.”
Bryant stood as I walked over to shut my laptop. “By the way, who’s the guy in your background?”
My brow furrowed. “What guy?”
He shrugged. “Tall. Messy hair that would look stupid on me. I’m hoping it isn’t an ex-boyfriend you’re secretly hung up on. Looks like he belongs on an Abercrombie bag.”
Not having a clue what he was talking about, I opened my laptop back up to take a look. Shit. Chase Parker greeted me. When I’d saved his picture from Facebook, I must have inadvertently also set it as my screen background. Seeing that gorgeous face again, I grew flustered. Yet Bryant was waiting for an answer.
“Umm… That’s my cousin.”
It was the first thing that popped into my head. After I said it, I realized it was a little bizarre to have a picture of your male cousin set as your background. So I attempted to fix it with more lies—something out of character for me.
“He’s a model. My aunt sent me some of his recent headshots and asked for an opinion on which I liked best, so I downloaded them to my laptop. My friend Jules was drooling over them and set one as my background. I’m so low-tech, I don’t even know how to change it.”
Bryant chuckled and seemed to accept what I’d said.
What is it with Chase Parker and made-up stories?
• • •
On Thursday, I had an interview in the morning and a second scheduled for the afternoon. The subway was jam-packed, and the air conditioning wasn’t working. So, of course, that also meant the only train running was a local, not an express.
Beads of sweat trickled down my back as I stood sandwiched between other sweating commuters. The large guy to my right wore a T-shirt with cut-off sleeves and held on to the pole above him. My face was perfectly aligned with his hairy armpit, and his deodorant wasn’t working. My left side wasn’t exactly all sunshine and roses either. While I was pretty sure the woman didn’t smell as bad, she was sneezing and coughing without covering her mouth. I need to get off this train.
Fortunately, I arrived at my interview a few minutes early and could make a quick stop in the ladies’ room to fix myself up. The sweat and humidity had smeared my makeup, and my hair was a frizzy mess. July in New York City. It seemed like the heat got stuck between all the tall buildings.
Digging into my pocketbook, I fished out some hairpins and a brush and was able to pull my auburn locks back into a neat twist. The makeup would have to do with only a baby wipe as cleanup since I hadn’t thought to bring any eyeliner. I took off my suit jacket and realized I’d sweated through my silk shirt. Shit. I’d have to keep the hot jacket on for the entire interview.
A woman walked in while I was arm-deep inside my shirt with a damp paper towel, wiping sweat from my body. She caught what I was doing in the mirror.
“Sorry. It was so hot on the subway, and I have an interview,” I offered as explanation. “I don’t want to be a sweaty, smelly mess.”
She smiled. “Been there. Gotta break down and take a cab in July when it’s this humid and you have an interview for a job you really want.”
“Yeah. I’m definitely going to do that for my afternoon interview. It’s across town, and that’s the job I really want, so I might go all out—even stop in at Duane Reade for some deodorant, too.”
After I rushed to clean myself up, my morning appointment left me sitting in the lobby for over an hour before calling me in for the interview. It gave me some time to fully cool down and also check out their latest product catalogs. They were definitely in need of a new marketing campaign. I jotted down some notes on what I would change, in case the opportunity presented itself.
“Ms. Annesley?” a smiling woman called from the door leading to the inner office. I slipped on my suit jacket and followed her inside. “Sorry to keep you waiting. We had a small emergency this morning with one of our biggest vendors, and it had to be dealt with right away.” She stepped aside as we arrived at a large corner office. “Have a seat. Ms. Donnelly will be right in.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.” I had thought she was my interviewer.
A few minutes later the vice president of Flora Cosmetics walked in. It was the woman from the hallway bathroom—the one who’d seen me washing my armpits. Great.
I was glad I’d at least done it without unbuttoning my shirt. I tried to recall what we’d spoken about, other than the weather. I didn’t think there was much.
“I see you’ve cooled off.” Her tone was very business-like, not at all friendly like it had been in the bathroom.
“Yes. Sorry about that. The heat really hit me hard today.”
She shuffled some papers on her desk into a pile and fired off her first question without any further small talk. “So, Ms. Annesley, why are you in search of a new job? It says here you’re currently employed.”
“I am. I’ve been with Fresh Look Cosmetics for seven years. I started there right out of college, actually. I worked my way up from marketing intern to director of marketing during that time. I’ll be honest, I’ve been happy there for my entire career. But I feel like I’ve hit a ceiling at Fresh Look, and it’s time I started to look for other opportunities.”
“A ceiling? How so?”
“Well, Fresh Look is still a family-owned company, and although I admire and respect Scott Eikman, the founder and president, most of the executive-level positions are taken by members of the Eikman family—one of whom, Derek Eikman, was just promoted over me to vice president.” Saying it out loud still left a bitter taste in my mouth.
“So, people less deserving than you are promoted because of kinship? And that’s why you’re leaving?”
“I suppose that’s a big part of it, yes. But it’s also just time for me to move on.”
“Isn’t it possible that members of the Eikman family know the business better, having grown up in that world? Perhaps they are actually more qualified than other employees?”
What’s the bug up this woman’s ass? None of this nepotism is new. Hell, half of the Walmart execs are still blood-related to Sam Walton, and he’s been gone for two decades.
It was definitely not the time to add that I’d had too much to drink at last year’s company holiday party and slept with the then-director of sales, Derek Eikman. It was a one-time thing, a drunken mistake with a co-worker after a year-long dry spell. I’d known it was a mistake ten minutes after it was over. I just didn’t know how big of a mistake until two days later, when the asshole announced his engagement to his girlfriend of seven years. He’d told me he was single and unattached. When I’d marched into his office and told him off, he’d explained that we could still fuck even though he was engaged.
The man was a sleazebag, and there was no way I could work for him now that he’d been promoted to vice president. Aside from being a cheating pig, he also knew nothing about marketing.
“In my case, I’m relatively confident that I was the better candidate.”
She gave me a completely fake smile and folded her hands on her desk. Did I say something to upset her in the bathroom earlier? I didn’t think so... But her next question certainly jogged my memory.
“So tell me, what is it about your afternoon interview that makes the company seem superior? I mean, as a marketing expert, they must be doing something right to make you consider paying for a cab?”
Oh. Shit. I’d completely forgotten that I’d told her I was going to take a cab to my next interview—since that was the job I really wanted.
There was no digging myself out of the hole I was in after that. Even though, in spite of things, I thought I handled myself professionally, I could tell her mind was made up about me.
Just as the interview was coming to an end, an older gentleman popped his head into her office. “Sweetheart, are you coming for dinner tomorrow night? Your mother has been bugging me to get you to commit.”
“Dad, umm…Daniel, I’m in the middle of an interview. Can we talk about it later?”
“Sure, sure. Sorry. Stop by my office later.” He smiled politely at me and knocked on the door jamb as his goodbye before walking away.
My mouth hung open as I turned back to my interviewer. I already knew the answer, but asked anyway. “Daniel…Donnelly, the president of Flora Cosmetics, is your father?”
“Yes. And I’d like to think I earned the SVP of marketing job because of my qualifications, not because I’m his daughter.”
Yeah, right. Since I’d inserted my foot into my mouth twice today, I saw no point in prolonging the pain.
I stood. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Donnelly.”
My afternoon only got better after that. I’d just stepped out of my air-conditioned cab in front of the building where my two o’clock interview was scheduled when my phone started buzzing. The company I’d been excited about interviewing with—the company I’d essentially ruined my first interview over—was calling to cancel my interview and let me know the position had been filled already.
