The warehouse floor’s dirty.
And I hate pink.
Lizzie stared at the screen.
2:03 a.m.?
Will Pemberley hadn’t slept either.
She smiled.
* * *
From the Desk of William Pemberley
9:47 PM- Pemberley Office, 12th Floor
I haven’t been able to get the pitch out of my head. Charles told me afterwards that he couldn’t understand why I walk around hating on everyone.
I’ll never understand how he can go around accepting and trusting everyone.
Was it the message that’s stuck with me or the person delivering it?
Millions in savings. I’m not sure I can ignore that.
Her eyes; those were hard to ignore, too. I think I’m going to have to hire her
The pink blazer felt like a red flag.
Chapter 3- The Free Sample
Lizzie rolled up to the Pemberley Pharmaceutical Miami Distribution Center in her Corolla around 5:55 a.m.,coladasin hand.
Will was waiting in the front reception area, wearing a Pemberley hoodie, sleeves pushed up. His tattoo seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights:25.89° N 80.33° W.
“You’re early.”
“Traffic,” Lizzie said. Force of habit had her making excuses for being late, not even realizing she was early. “AndAbuelamade me pray over the sugar.”
“I thought I told you I take mine black.”
“Yeah, I didn’t have time to answer and tell you thatAbuelaconsiders it sacrilege to not add sugar to coffee. AnOrishacould ask her to make acoladawithout sugar, and she still wouldn’t do it.” Lizzie said this matter-of-factly.
As she handed him the cup, she gestured toward his tattoo. “What’s the story there?”
“Oh, just some coordinates that are meaningful to me.”
“I figured as much,” Lizzie said, sipping hercolada. “It’s just that I looked them up, and I didn’t think East Hialeah would be your part of town.”
East Hialeah was an area of Miami known for its large Cuban population, and most tourists felt they needed a passport to visit. You know you’re there by its characteristic broken-down cars on the front lawns, and the loud music competing with the loudvoices. Sometimes in Spanish, people without manners, or those new to the country, or those who were poor, were considered low class or riffraff, and Cuban’s would call themChusmas. Lizzie disliked that word because she felt it was thrown around way too often and used more to separate affluent Hispanics from lower-income ones, similar to how she had observed some of her non-Hispanic friends use terms like “redneck” or “ghetto” to refer to people who were maybe just lower income. But Lizzie had cousins who lived there, and sometimes even she felt there were a little too manychusmasfor her.
Will tilted his head slightly and looked at her quizzically. “You looked them up?”
Lizzie froze for a minute. Was it not normal for someone to memorize numbers and research them randomly out of curiosity? Should she not have said anything? “I, uh…” she began, suddenly self-conscious. “I noticed it yesterday at the meeting.”
Will lifted his wrist to his eyes, as if he hadn’t realized it was visible to everyone. “What part of town would you consider to be my part of town?”
Lizzie shrugged. “I guess like Coral Gables or Key Biscayne.”
