I respond with silence.
“I strongly advise meeting me halfway with this. I don’t think your father would appreciate the truth.”
“So you are blackmailing me.”
“I like to think of it as saving your soul.”
I can save my own soul, thank-you-very-much.
“Whatever helps you sleep.” I lurch for the door handle before he has a chance to stop me, and I slam the door the second I’m free. I hear his voice, but I refuse to listen to the endless spewing of venomous threats fused with scripture.
I’ll do what I have to for now because if he’s not bluffing and he does tell my father everything, I’ll be married off in a heartbeat.
And I know that marriage will be with someone ten times worse than the twisted control freak with the talented tongue and deceptively gorgeous green gaze.
I scramble for my car, taking with me a handful of things I know to be true.
I would sooner die than marry Cortland McGregor.
I refuse to submit to him or any other man.
I’m going to get out of here as soon as possible, no matter what it takes.
ONE
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 6th – 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.”