Page 1 of The Toy Maker (The Pink Cherrie #1)

ONE

“Ms. Holloway, I’m afraid we are letting you go.”

“What?” I leaned in, furrowing my brows in disbelief. I had been called into the senior manager’s office under suspicious pretenses, and since then, my day had only gotten worse. A pit formed in my stomach. I knew nothing good could come from the meeting, but I didn’t expect to be fired.

Mr. Whelms continued after clearing his throat, “Due to recent budget cuts, your employment here has been terminated.” Cold, pebble-shaped eyes peered at me through the most hideous pair of glasses that ever had the misfortune to be created.

His office wall was littered with degrees and pictures of his family.

Most of his children were grown and wisely decided to move far from him.

At least, that’s what I gathered from his wife’s drunken rambling at the annual Christmas party last year.

“But I’m the best accounting assistant this company has,” I sputtered, staring at him with my mouth agape, trying to understand how this could be happening.

His words swirled somewhere above my head, making me dizzy with confusion. Unlike him, I only had my associate’s degree. But I had spent three years working my way up the company ladder, forcing myself to improve—only to be fired ?

He scrunched his face and chuckled, “I think you’re exaggerating a bit, don’t you?” An unfortunate Batman bobble head nodded at me, adding to my frustration. LedgerLine Associates had a high turnover rate, but this was coming out of nowhere.

Steam threatened to spew from my ears as my eyes narrowed.

“Since I’m the one who created the new system for data processing, no,” I said flatly. It wasn’t hard, but it took long hours that no one else was willing to work.

Mr. Whelms leaned back in his office chair. “Please turn in your ID on the way out.”

“I work overtime, I come to all the volunteer weekend events, and I keep us from going in the red every other week!” I yelled, my voice rising an octave as I shot up from my chair.

My frustration had bubbled over like a volcano, and before I could put a cap on it, my hand made contact with the mahogany desk with a resounding smack . Mr. Whelms blubbered about my “rudeness” and used his sausage fingers to contact the front office.

Holding the button down on his intercom, he gritted out, “Jamie, please send for security to escort Ms. Holloway from the premises.”

“This is ridiculous!” I sneered. I hadn’t done anything wrong!

“And I’m sure you can tell your therapist about it later.” A smug expression clouded over his face as he watched my eyes widen with rage. His grin only served to highlight the extra fat in his cheeks.

Why get rid of me and not Brandon two cubicles over who watched porn during meetings? Or Susan who mysteriously disappeared to the bathroom for twenty minutes each day? Why would they fire me out of all the mediocre employees in our department?

Then the realization came crashing down. “This is because I know about the affair you’re having with Jamie, isn’t it?”

Mr. Whelms blinked several times at my statement before putting on his best attempt at a poker face, barely concealing the turning gears underneath. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said stiffly.

“I’m talking about me seeing you screwing your secretary over this desk while your wife went to Tahiti for the weekend.

” My voice leveled, and I refused to touch the smooth surface of the desk again, now contaminated by the illicit affair.

I was only in the office after hours to pick up paperwork I forgot in my drawers and got an eyeful in return.

Mr. Whelms held his stance, though his jaw ticked slightly.

“Despite whatever heinous story you’ve created to cope with being fired or perhaps blackmail your way out of the unemployment line, I can assure you that I love my wife.” His wrinkly lips twisted into a grin.

I shook my head in disgust. “You’re a sick?—”

“Now, Ms. Holloway, there really is no need for a temper tantrum,” he scolded, leaning back in his office chair.

Considering his defenseless position in a compact room with an enraged woman, one might assume he would be aware of the danger he was putting himself in. His wife, while a handful after a few glasses of spiked cider, didn’t deserve to be stuck with a man like him.

“Bastard,” I gritted out, shaking my head. And to think I’d given so many years to this place.

He drawled back, “Yes, but last time I checked, I’m also the boss while you’re a replaceable number puncher.”

That stung. I scrunched my fingers into a ball so tight they ached by my side. “I worked hard to be here,” I reminded him, my voice laced with venom.

Mr. Whelms waved his hand as if dismissing all the overtime I put in on holidays and weekends. “Who do you think everyone will believe? The man who signs their paychecks or the girl who hides away in her cubicle and holds no authority?”

He said it so easily, like my livelihood was worth nothing.

The door swung open, and two security guards grabbed my arms. I bristled against their hold. “Is this really necessary?” I demanded.

Mr. Whelms looked at me with humor dancing in his eyes. “Goodbye, Ms. Holloway.”

I clenched my jaw as he straightened his tie and waved while I made an undignified exit. The guards dragged me through the building and pushed me out of the entrance. A box of desk knick-knacks and a few dozen stress balls followed shortly after I regained my balance.

Cars whizzed past me, ignoring the sad scene that was officially the worst day of my life.

With a huff, I snatched my purse off the sidewalk before anyone could swoop in and steal it.

Fine. I didn’t even like the job anyway.

I had to drag myself to work every morning, waking up before the sun, and put up with coworkers that took three-hour lunch breaks, all for the hope of a promotion that never came.

As I stalked down the sidewalk, I counted my losses while I began mentally listing companies that could be hiring. I expected to see my car parked in front of the nearest Starbucks, where I had left it.

But wait… My heartbeat matched the pace of my footsteps as I ran to the empty space where I’d parked.

“It’s gone, lady.”

I swiveled on my heel to see an old man in an over-sized coat sitting in the alley nearby. “What do you mean it’s gone?” I pressed, all the blood leaving my face. This day just kept getting better and better.

He continued peeling his orange with a shrug. “They towed it.”

Just my luck. “For what?” I exclaimed.

“How should I know?” His wrinkled face turned toward the sky as if he was searching for something. “You’re the one that’s shitty at parking.”

I threw my head back and groaned, “This can’t be happening.”

The old man nodded sagely. “That’s what I said when a bird pecked out a cat’s eyes, all for my leftover sandwich crust.”

A dozen different swear words swirled around my skull and marinated my brain in frustration. I gave the building one final glance before starting the long walk home.

It only took a month of job hunting after getting fired before I hit my breaking point. After fifteen interviews and no job offers, I spent my time pretending to be dead on my soon-to-be-auctioned-off couch, taking breaks to scarf down stale Cheetos every once and awhile.

I knew my days as a renter at the Melody Condominiums were numbered and rapidly diminishing. Out of fifteen corporations, no one could see the value in me as an employee. I nearly began to wonder if Mr. Whelms could be right about being replaceable.

I rolled over, crushing the nearby bag of Cheetos under my weight, and screamed into a beige sofa pillow beside me, not paying any attention to the orange dust stain it would leave behind.

It was the first piece of furniture I had ever bought on my own, and it seemed poetic that it would be the first to be contaminated by my failure.

I contemplated life and my lack of a bachelor’s degree to hang over the fridge.

In essence, I had earned stained furniture, greasy hair, and no income.

"I’ve become my mother,” I moaned, rubbing my eyes until they were watering from irritation—or emotional distress.

She never wanted me to move out of the state, away from her. But her grand plans for me began and ended with me on a man’s arm. Independence was a foreign word to her, proven by the way she flocked to single, barely tolerable bachelors to pay the bills.

And I refused to let myself crash and burn without a fight or at least a small protest. I had to be better.

With newfound resolve, I peeled myself off the couch and searched through the house for a newspaper. Usually, I trashed the junk mail, but coupons had been a hot commodity for the last month. I opened the drawers to my coffee table, scooping out a lone mint and tossing it on the top for later.

Of course, I had a savings account, but it drained quicker than I planned. Bailing my car out of car jail could wait, but feeding my younger siblings couldn’t.

I thought I’d have a job in a matter of days, not weeks.

If I couldn’t find something in my field, I would have to widen my parameters.

I dug around the papers on the counter, mostly spreadsheets and fast-food coupons, until I remembered where I left it.

Buried in the trash bin under a cup of soggy coffee grounds was a copy of the local newspaper.

I shook off whatever I could before spreading it out on the counter and flipping to the classifieds.

I scoured the ‘help wanted’ list with my fingertips and highlighted the jobs I could convince myself to do.

There were multiple ads for construction and babysitting, none of which held my interest, but times were tough.

Just as I was about to cave and call a mother of four for an estimated nannying salary, I spotted an open position at a nearby department store. Bingo.

Strawberry yogurt coated a portion of the ad and obstructed the last sentence, but I didn’t need it. The hours weren’t half bad, and they were offering a little over minimum wage. I’d have to cut costs, like electricity and food, but I could make it work.

Sold to the desperate lady in sweatpants.

I wiped the yogurt off on a nearby napkin and typed the numbers on my phone. The tone ringed several times before the other line picked up.

“Hello?” a man answered, his irritated voice indicating he probably didn’t want to be talking to me.

I cleared my throat, attempting to sound friendly. “Good afternoon. My name is Tara Holloway, and I saw your ad in the paper.”

The other line crackled, and a loud bang echoed through the receiver before the voice returned. “Are you interested?”

Obviously . “I am.”

I listened for a response, and a few moments later, someone new picked up the phone. “Hi, Tara. I’m Kat, and I handle new employees.” The man had passed the phone to a perky-sounding woman with a southern accent.

“Is the job still open?” I asked, biting my lip in anticipation.

“It sure is. Just come down to the store, and we’ll figure out if you’re a good fit.”

The sense of impending doom lifted, and I clung to the sliver of hope I had. “Does tomorrow work?” I decided to be persistent so another person couldn’t swoop in and steal my salvation.

“How about tonight? Swing by and I’ll get the interview out of the way.”

I scanned my food-covered clothing and loathed the idea of stepping in front of a mirror.

I didn’t have much of a choice, though. “Works for me.”

“See you then, darlin’.” I heard the soft crackle of her finger pressing against the e nd call button.

“Wait!” I shouted through the receiver, and she paused. “I know this is stupid, but can you give me the name of the store?” I peered down at the soggy mess in front of me. “My newspaper has seen better days.”

Kat’s voice returned, “It’s Pink Cherrie.”

My eyebrows pinched together, and I reread the description. “I thought this was a department store.”

Kat giggled, and so did a few other voices on her side of the conversation, “It is.”

“But I—” The call cut off before I could finish my sentence, and I was left standing alone in my kitchen with yogurt-covered hands and an interview to get ready for.

I hit rock bottom within a few years of being on my own, wondering when I was going to get my life together. The good thing, however, was there was nowhere to go but up.