"Mr. Hastings has arranged for your dinner to be sent up," she said. "The interview is at eight on the dot tomorrow morning. Use this fob and the elevator will take you directly to the thirty-fifth floor." She placed a circular disk on the side table by the door.
She left, and I just stood there and stared. The carpet was the color of cream and with each step my feet sunk into the softness. It was like I was walking on a sheep.
I strode to the floor-to-ceiling windows to see London sprawled below me. A sea of lights that blinked and pulsed like a living thing. Somewhere down therewere people who belonged in places like this. People who knew which fork to use at dinner and didn't check price tags before ordering.
I caught my reflection in the dark glass.
Pale skin, blonde hair that desperately needed a trim, and eyes that looked too wide, too scared. My cardigan hung off one shoulder, the holes at the cuffs visible even in the dim light.
What was I doing here?
I turned away from the window and my gaze landed on my backpack. It sat on the cream carpet, battered and patched with duct tape where the zipper had broken. Inside was everything I needed. A change of underwear, my toothbrush, and the turkey baster Maeve had insisted I bring.
The turkey baster.
Oh God.
My chest tightened. I could leave. There had to be a train station nearby. I could walk there, explain to someone that I needed to get home, maybe beg for a ticket or…
No. I had no money. Not even enough for a coffee, let alone a train ticket back to Yorkshire.
I was trapped in a luxury hotel room and I didn't know what to do.
My hands shook as I grabbed my phone and called Maeve.
"Jeez, Presley. I've been having kittens here, worried that the helicopter would fall out of the sky."
"I'm fine. But Maeve!" I dropped onto the edge of the bed. "I can't do this. I don't belong here. Have you seen my reflection lately? I look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards. And I brought a turkey baster. What kind of person brings a turkey baster to a job interview?"
"A prepared person," Maeve said. I could hear the smile in her voice.
"I'm serious! These people have heated seats in their helicopter. Heated. Seats. They probably eat gold for breakfast. I eat beans on toast and call it the meal of the day."
"Presley—"
"And tomorrow I have to sit in front of some posh alpha who sounds like he swallowed the Queen's English and convince him that I'm good enough to carry his baby. Me. The girl who lives in a tin can and can't afford new boots. Oh my God, he’s going to see my sole flapping when I walk in."
"Presley!" Maeve's voice cut through my spiral. "Stop it! Right now."
I sucked in a breath.
"You’re perfect for this job," she said, softer now. Her Irish accent was thick with emotion. "You're kind, you're healthy, and you're brave enough to get on a fecking helicopter for a chance at something better. That's more than most people would do."
"But—"
"No buts. Now listen to me. You're going to run yourself a bath. I’m sure it’s a big, fancy bath with allthose wee bottles they leave out in fancy hotels. Then you're going to find one of those free eye masks, stick it on your face, and get yourself ready to knock their socks clean off tomorrow. Yeah?"
I wiped my eyes. "Yeah."
"Good girl. And Presley?"
"Yeah?"
"You've got this. I know you do."
She hung up before I could argue.
My teeth dug into my bottom lip as I stared at the bed. There were piles of blankets of different fabrics. And I hadn’t yet counted the amount of pillows waiting for me to collapse on top of.
