better than women half her age and the beige and champagne blond highlights hanging in shoulder length waves around her thin face.
Bracing myself, I forced my gaze up until she and I were staring at one another. Like Oliver, her eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, but they were currently narrowed into tight, disapproving slits.
“You must be Lizzie.”
“Yes,” I said hoarsely, “I’m so excited to—”
“Of course you are,” she cut me off sharply. Her thin lips parted to say something else, but my ringing office phone distracted her. Before I could stop her, she jerked the receiver from my hand and removed her finger from the hook. She held the handset to her ear, ready to answer—or perhaps humiliate me—but to my horror, Oliver spoke first. I could hear him from where I was sitting.
“I take it I can send a car to pick you up for dinner tomorrow night, Lizzie.”
She tapped her rounded fingernail on my desk and cast a frosty smile down on me. “This is your mother, Oliver. Ms. Connelly will be working late tomorrow evening, but you’re more than welcome to contact her when she’s not on my time.” Hanging up on him, she told me, “Now that you’re finished with my son, go to The Grindhouse. Have a small, skinny, double shot cinnamon latte on my desk in ten minutes.”
Then, without another word, she stomped from my office, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter 4
––––––––
M y father had married Margaret in a quiet civil ceremony just two months after his divorce from my mother was finalized. I hadn’t been present at the ceremony, but I could still remember hearing my mom’s harsh sobs coming from her bedroom in our small, Soho apartment. She had been broken, and at the time, that had meant I was broken too.
Over the last four months, I’d done more research on my former stepmother than ever before. The daughter of a an attorney and a businessman, she’d started at Emerson & Taylor as a lead designer in 1986—three years after her only child, Oliver, was born. By my parents’ divorce, she was on the seventh floor working alongside my dad as the vice president of creative design and before the new millennium rolled around, she was the CEO of the company.
As I grabbed my purse and left my office, the plaque on the door across the hall was a stinging reminder of her current role.
Margaret Manning-Emerson, CEO
Powerwalking through the lobby, I tried to remember if she’d been so intimidating the first, and only, time I met her—at my dad’s funeral. But then I shook my head. Other than giving me a stiff touch—I wasn’t sure I could call it a hug—and telling me she was sorry for my loss, she’d mostly stared blankly ahead.
Of course, grief could steal the words and thoughts from even the most unapproachable person, twisting them into a shell.
Pulling up The Grindhouse on my phone, I found it was a highly rated coffee shop two blocks away from the office. “Ten minutes, my ass,” I muttered as I swept out the revolving door and onto the sidewalk. Despite it being October, I was a sweaty mess by the time I reached the eatery and took my place at the back of the line. Blatantly, I tried to ignore the fact that my perspiration was a combination of getting worked up by Oliver and then getting called out by his mother, all in the course of an hour, and blamed it on my unexpected exercise instead.
When I reached the waifish barista, I checked my phone and realized there was no way in hell I’d make it back to the office within Margaret’s time limit. My first real day on the job, and I was failing horribly at my task.
“Can I get a small, skinny, extra-hot cinnamon latte?” I requested, and the barista grabbed a twelve-ounce cup and a metallic marker. She stared at me expectantly. “Oh, um, the last name is Connelly.”
She started to scribble on the cup, but then she paused and looked me up and down, taking in my outfit and flustered appearance before cocking
Bracing myself, I forced my gaze up until she and I were staring at one another. Like Oliver, her eyes were a brilliant shade of blue, but they were currently narrowed into tight, disapproving slits.
“You must be Lizzie.”
“Yes,” I said hoarsely, “I’m so excited to—”
“Of course you are,” she cut me off sharply. Her thin lips parted to say something else, but my ringing office phone distracted her. Before I could stop her, she jerked the receiver from my hand and removed her finger from the hook. She held the handset to her ear, ready to answer—or perhaps humiliate me—but to my horror, Oliver spoke first. I could hear him from where I was sitting.
“I take it I can send a car to pick you up for dinner tomorrow night, Lizzie.”
She tapped her rounded fingernail on my desk and cast a frosty smile down on me. “This is your mother, Oliver. Ms. Connelly will be working late tomorrow evening, but you’re more than welcome to contact her when she’s not on my time.” Hanging up on him, she told me, “Now that you’re finished with my son, go to The Grindhouse. Have a small, skinny, double shot cinnamon latte on my desk in ten minutes.”
Then, without another word, she stomped from my office, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter 4
––––––––
M y father had married Margaret in a quiet civil ceremony just two months after his divorce from my mother was finalized. I hadn’t been present at the ceremony, but I could still remember hearing my mom’s harsh sobs coming from her bedroom in our small, Soho apartment. She had been broken, and at the time, that had meant I was broken too.
Over the last four months, I’d done more research on my former stepmother than ever before. The daughter of a an attorney and a businessman, she’d started at Emerson & Taylor as a lead designer in 1986—three years after her only child, Oliver, was born. By my parents’ divorce, she was on the seventh floor working alongside my dad as the vice president of creative design and before the new millennium rolled around, she was the CEO of the company.
As I grabbed my purse and left my office, the plaque on the door across the hall was a stinging reminder of her current role.
Margaret Manning-Emerson, CEO
Powerwalking through the lobby, I tried to remember if she’d been so intimidating the first, and only, time I met her—at my dad’s funeral. But then I shook my head. Other than giving me a stiff touch—I wasn’t sure I could call it a hug—and telling me she was sorry for my loss, she’d mostly stared blankly ahead.
Of course, grief could steal the words and thoughts from even the most unapproachable person, twisting them into a shell.
Pulling up The Grindhouse on my phone, I found it was a highly rated coffee shop two blocks away from the office. “Ten minutes, my ass,” I muttered as I swept out the revolving door and onto the sidewalk. Despite it being October, I was a sweaty mess by the time I reached the eatery and took my place at the back of the line. Blatantly, I tried to ignore the fact that my perspiration was a combination of getting worked up by Oliver and then getting called out by his mother, all in the course of an hour, and blamed it on my unexpected exercise instead.
When I reached the waifish barista, I checked my phone and realized there was no way in hell I’d make it back to the office within Margaret’s time limit. My first real day on the job, and I was failing horribly at my task.
“Can I get a small, skinny, extra-hot cinnamon latte?” I requested, and the barista grabbed a twelve-ounce cup and a metallic marker. She stared at me expectantly. “Oh, um, the last name is Connelly.”
She started to scribble on the cup, but then she paused and looked me up and down, taking in my outfit and flustered appearance before cocking
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