ARROGANT PLAYBOY (44 page)

BELLAMY

“I’m sorry. Your interview was
yesterday.”

“No, no.” I yank my planner
from my bag and slap it across the marble reception desk, my cheeks burning
behind the blanket of hair that falls into my face. I refuse to believe this is
happening. “It’s today. My professor set this up last week. The first Tuesday
in April.”

The receptionist’s desk phone
rings shrill and intrusive. She points a finger straight up in the air and
takes the call. I’m flipping through the pages of my planner like a crazy
person, page after page of March dates finally bring me to the current month,
and several pages later, I’m staring at today’s date.

The page is blank.

I blink as if my eyes are the
ones who have deceived me.

It’s all
their
fault.

“No.” I run my palm across the
smooth, traitorous page, dragging in a haggard breath before I flip backward to
Monday.

Monday,
April 6
^th
– 10:30 AM, Interview with Randy Mutchler, RJM
Corporation

“This has got to be a mistake.
This is not like me at all. I’ve never been late for so much as a doctor’s
appointment.” I’m rambling, words flowing straight from my frazzled brain to my
tingling lips. The stale lobby air nearly suffocates me. “I’m sorry about this.
Is there any way at all he could maybe still see me today?”

I flash the kind of benign
smile you might see in a stock photo of a business professional lugging a
briefcase, hoping to God this receptionist is the merciful type who just might
have a soft spot in her heart for interviewees with a nervous streak.

“I’m sure these things happen
all the time.” My words are half chuckle and one-hundred percent an attempt not
to break down and cry. My master plan is crumbling like ashes to dust. I slide
my hand down a shiny tendril of blonde hair that spills over my shoulder. The
softness against my skin is comforting.

Distracting really.

It pulls me out of the present
moment and gives me something to focus on when the entirety of myself is
threatening to unravel.

“I’m so sorry.” The
receptionist’s words slam into my attention with brick-wall intensity.

“Professor Stan MacAbee
recommended me. They’re friends. Tell him. I’m sure he’ll change his mind. Can
you ask him?” I didn’t drive almost an hour from Whispering Hills to Salt Lake
City to give up this easily. My gaze falls toward the phone. Her hand isn’t
anywhere near it. She’s not going to even attempt to entertain my suggestion.
“Just tell him Bellamy Miller is here to see him.”

A line of people waits behind
me. I’m not sure how long they’ve been standing there, but now I’m all too
aware of the fact that I’m causing a scene. The collective weight of their
stares is like a silent push, urging me to walk out of this building and
pretend like none of this happened.

This job was supposed to be a
sure thing. RJM Corporation is hiring a whole slew of entry-level college
grads. No experience necessary. It’s grunt work, but it beats flipping burgers
and it pays better too.

Besides, it’s almost impossible
to find a job when your resume consists of nothing but a community college
education. I’ve never held a job before. I have no references. All I have is my
4.0 GPA and a called-in favor from my marketing instructor.

I lean in, closing the gap
between myself and a receptionist who doesn’t appear to be much older than me.
She seems nice enough, and I know she’s only doing her job, but I’m not ready
to walk away yet.

“Look, I came all the way
here.” There’s a quiver in my words that I make no point in trying to hide. “I
need
this interview.”

 
“I understand that, Miss…”

“Miller. Bellamy Miller.”

“Yes, I understand that, Miss
Miller.” Her lips widen into a pained wince while her eyes attempt to hold
sympathy and fail miserably. “I’m terribly sorry. There’s nothing I can do.
Anyway, Mr. Mutchler is out on business today. I can ask him when he returns
tomorrow, and if he agrees, our H.R. department can get in touch with you.”

“Is there someone else who
might be available for an interview?”

Her eyes glide over my shoulder
and land on the gentleman behind me. She’s offering him a silent apology. Her
winced face screams, “
This girl is crazy.
I’m sorry. Be patient. She’ll be out of here soon enough.
”

I collect the shattered
remnants of my dignity off the floor and sling my bag over my shoulder.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

My head hangs as I avoid the
intrusive stares of the people lined up behind me. I don’t know what they look
like. I don’t know if their gapes are laced with pity or packed full of
amusement.

I don’t want to know.

I want to get out of here,
regroup, and come up with a plan B.

My watch reads ten ‘til eleven,
and the sign on a local bar and lounge claims it’ll be opening soon for the
lunch crowd. I’ve never been a drinker, but today feels like a pretty good day
to start.

People drown their problems
with alcohol for a reason. It must work.

My mothers aren’t expecting me
until this afternoon. They think I’ll be in the city all day, filling out
hiring paperwork and getting a tour of my new office. I told them I was all but
hired when they wished me luck that morning after breakfast.

As far as I’m concerned, I have
a hall-pass today.

Never mind the fact that I’m
twenty-two.

A grown woman.

A full-blown adult, even if I’m
still living under my parents’ roof like a baby bird who never learned how to
fly away from the nest. It was never that I couldn’t fly, just that I was never
allowed.

Until now.

I spend the better part of ten
minutes convincing myself it’s perfectly okay to enjoy an adult beverage at
eleven on a Tuesday all by myself, and the second the proprietor flips the
window sign to “open,” I show myself in and take the first bar stool on the
left.
 

The inside of the place is
dark, and it almost feels like night. I suspect there’s a glaze on the windows,
tinting them to give off just enough of a dusky ambiance to make people want to
stay a while. I’m beginning to forget what all transpired just a little while
ago, but I’m quite certain I’ll forget even more once I’m face to face with a
stiff drink.

Rows upon rows of glass liquor
bottles in every shade from clear to brown to cobalt are backlit on shelves
that span from the ceiling to the back of the bar. I glance around for a drink
menu and find none. Maybe they’re not out yet?

I suppose most drinkers don’t
need menus. They know what they like. They know what’s good.

“What can I get you, ma’am?” A
gray-bearded bartender tucks a white rag into the back of his apron and rests
his hands on his hips, studying me. “Are we having a drink today? Lunch? Both?”

“I’d like a drink.” My words
are slow and unnatural. I cringe on the inside. Hard. I sound like a foreigner
in a strange new land, uttering an unfamiliar phrase, trying to blend in, yet
making herself stand out even more. “What would you recommend?”

His round head cocks sideways,
and he chews on his lower lip before smacking the top of the bar with an open
palm. “I know. A Manhattan.”

“What’s in that?” Now I sound
like a child afraid to try a new food their mother has laid out before them.

“Whiskey, sweet vermouth, and
bitters.”

“I look like a Manhattan girl
to you?”

His head cocks and his lips
curl into a slow grin. “Not at all. You look like a girl who’s never had a
drink in her life.”

I resent that, as true as it
may be. “You’re wrong.”

My father always said once a
person starts lying, they never stop, and in the last week, I’ve proven him to
be correct. I can’t get over how easy it feels to be in the company of this
stranger, this Salt Lake City bartender, look him in the eye, and make him
believe anything I want him to believe about me.

I’ve been given a blank slate.

No one knows me here.

I can be anyone I want to be,
even if it’s just for an hour or so.

It’s a lot of power to place in
the hands of a twenty-two-year-old girl who, her whole life, has never been
allowed to spread her wings. Not once.

“I’ll take champagne,” I
declare, straightening my posture and crossing my legs.

“Ah. A celebratory beverage.”
He’s either making a statement or subtly hinting that he still doesn’t believe
me.

“Was just offered a new job.” I
force a smile on my face, the one that would’ve been placed by an actual job
offer.

“We don’t sell by the glass,”
he says. “But since you’re a champagne drinker, you should know that.”

“Well aware,” I lie. That makes
number three for the day and probably number sixteen for the week.

My father was right.

The bartender releases his grip
on the ledge and his gaze from mine in one fluid whoosh and disappears in the
back, emerging with a dark green bottle dripping with condensation. I squint
from my perch at the end of the bar, failing to read the elaborate script font
on the cream label.

Jingle bells on the door slice
through the quiet bar. My fingers rap against the marble counter as I stare
ahead at a mounted T.V. screen.

Today, I’m celebrating.

A silent toast to my impending
freedom.

Even if I have to fight for
that freedom.

Even if I’ll do
anything
to obtain it.

My mother’s words echo in my
head as the bartender pops the cork. We were standing around the kitchen last
week peeling carrots for a stew and discussing how it was Dad and Kath’s
seventh anniversary when she turned to me and said, “
You’re going to make a great first wife, Bellamy. Heaven help us if
you’re ever a second or third wife
like
poor Kath
.”

She thought she was being cute,
and she meant it in jest, but all it did was ignite a fire so deep in my soul
all the water in the world won’t put it out.

The new patron takes the stool
two spots down from me. We’re separated by one seat. I resist the urge to huff
or give them a single look. Eight other spots and this person has to sit close
to me.

“Here we are.” I glance at the
bartender’s nametag, which reads Matt.

I take the champagne glass by
the stem like I’ve seen classy women do in movies and lift it in his direction.
Today I’m fancy. Today I’m free.

“Thank you, Matt.” The glass
rim presses against my bottom lip.

“Manhattan.” The customer two
spots down has a voice smooth as velvet and laced with palpable virility. It
commands my attention, dissolving my previous disinterest in two seconds flat.

My
God.

My breath catches in my throat.
I tilt the flute and take a small mouthful, letting the tiny bubbles dance on
my tongue before quickly swallowing them. The last thing I want to do is choke
them down like some amateur.

The champagne is sweet, but not
too sweet. The crispness is refreshing in a way I’m sure I’d appreciate much
more if I weren’t so distracted by the suit sitting mere feet away from me.
He’s sucked all the air from the room, I’m sure of it, because now I can’t seem
to catch my breath.

“If you’re going to stare, at
least introduce yourself.” He speaks to me though he looks straight ahead.

My jaw slacks, my brain racking
itself to come up with the appropriate comeback that doesn’t make me sound like
a love-struck teenager noticing boys for the first time. I noticed boys a long
time ago; I’d just never noticed anyone like
him
before.

His elbows rest lightly against
the bar, his hands gripping the shiny glass Matt just placed in front of him.
Not a single spec of fuzz or stray hair clings to the impeccable fabric of his
navy suit. Lush, dark hair covers his head, and his jaw hollows just below his
cheekbone.

They certainly don’t make them
like him back in Whispering Hills.

“She doesn’t speak English?” he
asks Matt.

“Bellamy Miller.” I don’t
extend my hand; instead it rests firmly at the base of my champagne glass. I
hold my head up high. If he’s going to sit there like some arrogant
businessman, two can play that game. “And you would be…?”

The curiously handsome and
intensely haughty stranger turns my way, clearing his throat and tensing his
jaw as his unyielding stare sharpens in my direction. The hollows of his
cheekbones release and flex not once but twice. “Dane Townsend.”

I expect him to smile or nod,
and I wait in vain for his expression to soften.

Instead, he huffs like I’m some
nobody who’s suddenly invaded his personal space.

Well,
excuse me.