Page 9 of By A Thread

“No. But I could use someone with your… personality. Show up at this address on Monday morning. Nine a.m. Ask for me. Full-time. Benefits.”

My stupid, optimistic heart started to sing a diva-worthy aria. My father had always warned me I was just a little too Pollyanna and not enough Mr. Darcy.

“I just show up, and you give me a job?” I pressed, trying to squash the hope that bloomed inside me.

“Yes.”

Well, that was vague.

“Hey, lady. You maybe got another job in there for me?” a burly guy in ripped cargo pants and a hunter-safety-orange ski cap asked hopefully. He had a spectacular beard and wind-reddened cheeks. His smile was oddly beguiling.

She looked him up and down. “Can you type?”

He winced, shook his head.

“How about sort packages? Deliver things?”

“NowthatI can do! I worked in a mail room for two years in high school.”

High school looked like it had been about thirty years ago for him. I recognized a fellow Pollyanna.

Dalessandra produced another card, and—using a ballpoint pen that looked like it was made from actual gold—scribbled something on the back. “Go here Monday and give them this card. Full-time. Benefits,” she said again.

The man held it like it was a winning lottery ticket. “My wife ain’t gonna believe this! I’ve been out of work for six months!” He celebrated by hugging every person at the bus stop, including our lovely benefactress and then me. He smelled like birthday cakes and granted wishes.

“See you Monday, Ally,” she said before walking down the block and sliding into the backseat of an SUV with tinted windows.

“Ain’t this the greatest day?” Guy Pollyanna asked, elbowing me in the ribs.

“The greatest,” I repeated.

I didn’t know if I’d just hit the lottery or if this was a setup. After all, the woman had been on a date with Charming the Doucheweasel.

But I literally couldn’t afford to not take the chance.

4

Dominic

“Morning, Greta,” I said, handing my assistant her daily cappuccino.

“Good morning,” she responded, doing her customary scan of me.

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “What’s wrong?” she demanded, raising a Nordic eyebrow. She was in her early sixties, suffered no fools, and was obstinately loyal. I was fully aware of the fact that I didn’t deserve her.

The one and only time she’d mentioned the word “retirement,” I’d given her a raise so obnoxious she’d agreed to stay with me until she hit sixty-five. We’d cross that bridge in less than six months. And at that point, I was prepared to double my offer.

I didn’t want to have to break in a new assistant. Get toknowsomeone.

I kept my circle small, tight. Greta was a part of that circle and had stayed by my side through thick and thin. Scandal to stable.

She’d worked for me at my old firm, a carryover from my former life and the days when I’d assessed risks and enjoyed the freedom to yell at people. No one took it personally. There were no eggshells under my feet. I was me. They were… well, them. And everything worked just fine.

Now nothing worked, and the eggshells here were sharp enough to draw blood.

But Greta was here. And with that continuity, with someone I could trust implicitly, I was fumbling my way through my father’s former job description. Doing my damn best to prove that Paul Russo’s blood wasn’t poisoning me from the inside out.

“Nothing is wrong,” I hedged. Nothing besides my mother laying into me and filleting me over the incident at the pizza place. In her criticism, she hadn’t said the words outright, but I knew she was thinking them.