Amber’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry we can’t be of more help.”
He swallowed the bitter pill.
“Considering your credentials, there is one person I know of who may be able to offer you a position.” She opened the top middle drawer of the desk. It was shallow, and beyond a few pens, there was only a single business card. She plucked the card out and handed to him. “She’s unconventional but gets results.” Amber’s eyes glowed with the knowledge she held back. “She’s located in California.”
His heart sank. California was the last place he wanted to be. That’s why he’d driven to Park City—the farther away from his past, the better. He glanced down at the card.
Pamela Jones
BMB
Her phone number was listed on the bottom. That was it. No address. No logo. No company slogan. “Is this an employment agency or something?”
“It’s something.” Amber stood and came around the desk, holding her arm toward the door, indicating their time was done. She had a warm smile, though, and for that he was grateful. He didn’t get a lot of genuine smiles these days. “Call Pamela Jones and tell her Amber sent you. That should be enough to get you an interview.”
The card and the reference were more than anyone else had done for him since the judge’s gavel pronounced him guilty. He’d take it and be grateful. “Thank you, Amber.”
“Good luck, Nash. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He lifted two fingers in a small wave and made his way past Rebecca, the startled secretary, and down the long flight of stairs. Once he was standing in the sunlight, he loosened his tie and pulled out a pathetic excuse for a phone. The model was inexpensive and within his limited budget. His savings would only last so long.
“BMB, this is Tina. How may I help you?”
“Hi, my name is Nash Westport. Amber Hoagland gave me Pamela’s card. She said to use her name when I called to set up an interview.” He ran his hand through the side of his military-cut hair, letting it scratch his palm. He was still getting used to the conservative look after three years of hair falling in his eyes.
“Of course, Mr. Westport. When are you available?”
He gulped, thinking of the long drive he’d made to get to Utah. If he turned around and went right back, he could be there Sunday. “How’s Monday morning?”
“Perfect. Ms. Jones has an opening at 10 a.m.”
“I’ll be there.” They said goodbye and he ended the call. “Yes!” It wasn’t a job, but it was hope for one. Hope was pretty much all he had left. The business world was unforgiving and cruel, and he’d been chewed up and spit out. But he wasn’t beaten down, and he believed that he could prove himself the good guy if given the chance. This was his chance, and his soul buzzed with the knowledge. He hurried to his car, ready to hit the long road back to California.
