Chapter 1
Lucy
For the first time in my life, the wordergonomicactually means something to me.
When I first sit down in the buttery leather chair, I let out a sigh without meaning to. It’s like sitting in a giant’s palm, a loving hand cupping every vertebra and gently supporting my muscles.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to myself, clutching the folder containing my resume as I sink back into the heavenly chair. I shouldn’t be relaxing. I should be sitting upright with perfect posture as I wait to go into the interview.
But, instead, this chair has me completely at ease, relaxing back against the perfectly firm cushions. As I sit, my gaze roams over Ember’s polished, luxurious lobby.
Once, in junior high, my class took a school trip to St. Louis to visit the art museums. While we were there, some of the other girls and I broke off from the group and slipped into Tiffany’s, and I’d been stunned silent by the stark contrast between myself—in a Mudd t-shirt and loose jeans that once belonged to my sister Mary—and the glimmer of wealth around me.
This feels like that, but now I’m an adult in a black dress and flats, and Ember is more intense than the jewelry store. Whilethat had been all soft blues and twinkling diamonds, Ember is more fervent, deep maroons and charcoal, clicking heels, the sultry scent of leather and vanilla rich in the air. Rain spatters gently on the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the AC a little colder, the air a little sharper.
Just sitting in this space would giveeitherof my parents a heart attack. While there’s nothing explicitly lurid about the lobby, it still manages to screamsex.
Which should stress me out and remind me of how ironic this situation is. Of all the applicants for this position, I’m definitely in the running to be the least experienced. In more ways than one.
But after landing the interview, I’ve done nothing but research Ember. I crawled through LinkedIn until I found the HR manager—Linda Serle, a middle-aged woman with two corgis and a son completing a graduate degree at Stanford. Linda gets her hair cut at the same place, the same way, every three weeks on the dot. She loves hash brown pie and watching old musicals. She puts way too much of her life online, but all the better for me—I’m going to knock Linda’s socks off today.
Which is good.
Because I just got to New York, and I’m not ready to leave yet.
Like she always does, Frankie flashes to mind, but I have to push the memories away. The last thing I need is to be weepy while I’m answering questions about my professional experience or lack thereof.
“Ms. Sullivan?”
I look up to find a young man standing in front of me, a bored expression on his face, and a tablet resting on his forearm. He’s wearing a loose satin shirt with several of the buttons undone, straight-cut pants with a faded argyle pattern, and shining leather shoes. Faintly, I recognize his face from theEmber HR department employee directory—I’m pretty sure he’s an assistant.
“That’s me!” I chirp, standing and realizing immediately that my voice is far too cheerful. The sleek, slender woman at the front desk looks over at me so sharply that her straight black hair swings around her face, before going still again. She stares at me for a second, admonishing, like this is a library and not a business.
Way to grab the wrong kind of attention, Lucy.
I almost whispersorry, like a chastened kid, but manage to stop myself. It’s a good reminder for me that eagerness isn’t chic—an idea that the whole of NYC has been clubbing me over the head with since I stepped off the plane.
“Alright,” the assistant sighs, tapping something on the iPad, before bringing his disinterested gaze up to me. “Do you need water or anything before I take you up?”
He says it like he absolutely doesnotwant to get me anything, so I give him a smile and shake my head in a way I’m hoping is less eager than before, more in line with the atmosphere around here.
Looking relieved, he leads me to the elevator, which I had no idea was there. It’s set so smoothly into a wall of onyx black marble that when he scans his badge and the doors open, I feel like I’m Indiana Jones, and the wall has opened like a gaping maw, ready to swallow us whole.
I glance over at the assistant, who doesn’t blink an eye, simply stepping inside. I follow him, and he scans his badge once more.
Apparently feeling me watching, he says curtly, “We take security very seriously here.”
The elevator glides upward so quickly that I have to swallow several times to pop my ears, the pressure building fast. Thenumber on the little screen just keeps climbing until it finally drops the numerals altogether and just readsE.
The elevator stops, and I follow the assistant out into a hallway. Up until the moment I walk through the door to a large, modern office with a—frankly—unbelievable view of the darkening cityscape, hanging thick and heavy with rain clouds, I’m still expecting Linda.
But the person sitting behind the massive mahogany desk is definitelynotLinda.
It’s Dane Rourke, looking intently at a file in front of him, his silver-streaked dark hair precisely styled, his shoulders filling out an Italian suit.
I glance at the assistant, waiting for him to realize his mistake. But he’s already turning back to the door, leaving me to stand, frozen, in front of the CEO of the company.
“Thank you, Jonathan,” Mr. Rourke says curtly to the assistant, before snapping the file shut and shifting his attention to me. I feel it like a physical touch. “You must be Ms. Sullivan.”
