A girl has every right to stand up for herself. To insist that she be treated with, at the very least, a modicum of respect from her employers. Doesn’t she? I mean, seriously. Is it too much to ask that I not be humiliated every single day by the powers that be? I’ve given my heart and soul to Lane Publishing for the past nine years. And I’ve gone high enough on the ladder that there’s nowhere to go until someone leaves or gets fired.
I don’t know—maybe I’m just bitter. But it does seem like there are an awful lot of menial tasks for someone at my level in the office. An editor should not be doing the job of an editorial assistant, should she? Tell that to my boss. It’s always: Dancy, make copies. Dancy, get coffee. Dancy, clean the bathrooms. Well, no. Not that bad. Except there was that one time when the custodians were on strike, but that didn’t last more than a couple of weeks. Anyway, I might as well be the janitor, for all the respect I get around there.
Forget the fact that I would be a great senior editor. Much better than Jack Quinn! Forget the fact that Jack, who is coincidentally my brother’s best friend from NYU, swooped down with his stupid English accent and charmed his way into my job. Forget that Jack is devastating to look at—wait, actually, do forget that. I didn’t mean it at all. “Pretty is as pretty does,” my mother always said, and Jack doesn’t do very pretty, let me say. So by those standards he’s a big ugly troll. With dimples. And a cleft in his chin. And you should see his eyes . . .
No. Stop it! I will not be distracted by that man’s looks, charm, or accent—which may or may not be fake! It’s all his fault that Mr. Kramer, the publisher, gave the job away. It should have been mine. I was robbed.
I jerk to my feet in Nick’s Coffee Shop, all bad attitude and determination. Jimmy Choos planted, knees locked, hands resting on the table, I make a fast decision. It’s far past time I made it clear how serious I am about this. The opportunity is upon me. It’s now or never.
“Mr. Kramer,” I say in an extremely professional manner, using all my training as a debutante to give me that special air designed to make the other guy feel intimidated. “I truly feel that my talents are not being utilized to their full potential. I’m dissatisfied with the direction of my career at Lane Publishing. And if changes aren’t made, I will be turning in my resignation shortly. There are, as you know, many opportunities for a young professional with my abilities in New York.”
The emotional exertion of making that kind of threat is just too much, and my wobbly legs revolt, refusing to hold me up for one more second. Exhausted by my feeble attempt at the whole “I am editor, hear me roar” game, I drop back into the wooden chair. I’m actually panting. “How was that?”
Tabby and Laini, my two best friends in the world, cheer me on like I just won the Tour de France.
“Hear, hear!” Tabby says, raising her gigantic latte mug in my honor. “I especially like the part about the opportunities for a young professional. Don’t you, Laini?”
“Bravo!” Laini pipes in, lifting her own mug as though she’s toasting the queen. “Do it just like that and Kramer will realize, once and for all, that you mean business.”
“I don’t know.” I can feel the frown lines making permanent etches in the non-Botoxed skin between my eyes. Something that mystifies my mother. Thirty years old and haven’t had Botox? Oh, the horror.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Tabby demands. “Take a stand already. That guy works your tail off for all these years, then hires someone else for the job he promised you. And then proceeds to upend the entire staff. It’s no wonder you’re ticked off. You have a right to ask some questions about his intentions. That Kramer guy has fired eight office staff members in the last six months, for crying out loud. Don’t take it sitting down. Find out if you’re next in line, and if you are, make him sorry to let you go.”
“I know, I know.” I push my fingers to my temples to rub away the knots forming there. “I’m going to do it. Only, probably not next week because there’s this huge thing with the Paris office and he’s going to be up to his elbows in bagels and baguettes . . .” My voice trails off as my friends shake their heads at each other.
“What?” I demand. “I am going to do it.”
“Um-hmm,” Tabby grunts out around a swig of chai latte. Laini snickers. Real ladylike, both of them.
I’m completely outraged by their lack of understanding. “I should disrupt his focus when all these bigwigs are in town? What if he fudges the entire meeting and we lose a major distributor, all because I want more respect? I’ll lose my job for sure, and then where will I be?”
“Well, there are all those other opportunities,” Laini says—not to me, to Tabby.
Tabby gives her a nod, keeping her expression stoic. “Right, especially for a young professional in New York City—such as our friend Dancy here.”
Laini gives an exaggerated sigh, clasping her hands—which would benefit from a little lotion, by the way—to her chest. “Oh, but she’d hate to bother Mr. Kramer, the boss from you-know-where. I mean, what if he gets distracted or something?”
Tabby clearly can’t hold her laughter any longer. She snickers, which of course sets Laini off, too. “Well, wouldn’t that be horrible for the poor man?”
Funny. Very, very funny.
Tabby turns back to me. “Don’t worry, Dancy. If your head is next on the chopping block, you can always move back in with your mom or dad. Although Fifth Avenue would be a comedown after cramming into our spacious apartment all these years.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“Just do us a favor, Dan,” Tabby says, her face suddenly devoid of humor, her tone somber.
“What?”
“When you finally break the news to Kramer about how you’re not going to take it anymore, be sure he’s actually in the room so he gets the message.” The girls break into laughter, even though I see nothing amusing about any of this.
“Shut up.” I toss a napkin at Tabby, which she easily bats away.
“Hey, you three,” Nick calls from across the room where he’s taking care of customers. “Knock it off or I’m tossing you out of here.”
Tabby’s not even slightly intimidated by the shop’s owner. The two of them have had this special bond ever since her fiancé, David, sort of made his move right here in the coffee shop and asked her out over cheesecake. She turns to the counter. “Hey, Nick. How about another round for me and my friends here? Dancy, the cowardly lioness, needs courage.”
“And brains,” Laini calls.
“And you two need a couple of hearts,” I grump.
The Italian fiftysomething mobster (allegedly) behind the counter lifts a hand. “Hold your horses, girlies. What do ya think this is, a whiskey bar?”
“Sorry.” Tabby grins.
“We have to go anyway,” Laini says, before guzzling the rest of her latte.
For the first time I notice that Nick’s looking a little frazzled. Unusual for him. “Hey, Nick, where’s Nelda?” The line’s backing up to the door, and Nick’s all alone. His wife of thirty years is usually right there in the trenches with him, but she’s conspicuously absent this morning.
“Well, she ain’t here, now is she?” Nick barks, taking his gruffness to a new level. I mean, he’s always a little rough around the edges, being that he is probably a Mafia mogul, but I’m almost positive that’s just a front for his tender heart.
“We can see she’s not here,” I bark back, because I’m not in the mood for any more dissing today. I mean, I do have my limits. “Where is she?”
“That’s my business, ain’t it?”
“Wow, I’ve never seen Nick so freaked out,” Laini says. “That article in the New York Times calling this shop ‘one of Manhattan’s best-kept secrets’ really made the business pick up today. Weird that Nelda’s MIA.”
I’m more focused on Nick than on what Laini’s saying, so the rest of her comments go over my head—except the part about Nelda being MIA. “You don’t think she left him, do you?” It’s an honest question. Marriage isn’t exactly sacred in my family, the way it is for Tabby’s parents.
“No way,” Tabby says, without taking her eyes away from Nick. “If anyone’s in it for life, those two are. She must be sick or something.”
A man in a very smart black suit that may or may not be Armani gives an unsophisticated bang on the counter. “I don’t have all day.”
Nick swings around from the latte machine, and I swear I see actual steam shooting not only from his ears, but from his eyes and nose as well. He’s like a bull snorting at a red scarf. “Buddy, one more word outta you and you’re gonna be drinking this thing with a fat lip.”
I flatten my palms on the table and push myself up from the chair. “I’m going to help him.” I move across the shiny wooden floor with as much grace as I can muster in three-inch heels. My shoes click with one step and clack with the next, a sound that always fills me with confidence—something I need right now—as I slide behind the counter before the customer recovers from Nick’s bad attitude. I smile at the guy. “Your order is coming right up, sir.” I send him a dazzling smile, one that seems to do the trick. “Thanks so much for your patience.”
I may not have any actual hands-on experience at customer service, but how hard can it be to pour coffee and smile at idiots who have no idea that dressing for success means nothing if you can’t be civil? In my book anyway.
I snatch an apron from the hook next to the swinging kitchen doors. I’m actually feeling positive and ready to get into the trenches with this big galoot, for whom I suddenly feel a huge surge of affection.
“What can I do, Nick?”
“You can get your behind back out front, princess. This ain’t no self-serve joint.”
My face warms under his admonishment as my glass goes from half full to a little on the empty side. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Help what?” he asks, distracted as he makes change. A frown burrows into the fleshy skin between his eyes.
“I thought I’d give you a hand with this crowd. But hey, if you’re not interested, I’ll just have another iced green tea. Hold the whipped cream, please. I’m watching my weight.” That was a little mean, wasn’t it? But it wouldn’t hurt the guy to be a nicer to the help.
He slams the register shut and glances over at me. “You wanna help ol’ Nick? No kiddin’?”
Does he not notice the green apron wrapped twice around my body? Not exactly my usual style. I give him a shrug. “No kidding.”
He looks me up and down. Dubiously, I might add. I’ve never been more ashamed of wearing designer labels. Why didn’t I just grab a pair of Levis and a sweatshirt, like a normal person would have? It’s only morning coffee with the girls, for heaven’s sake. And on a day off, yet.
It’s not often I get a weekday off, but it was pointed out to me—pointedly pointed out—that I haven’t had a day off, other than mandatory holidays and deathly-sick days, in years. Not even a vacation. So I made a bet with a fellow editor that, yes, I am capable of taking a personal day on occasion, and today was locked into the calendar. I woke up dreading today. I knew I had the day off, so why did I dress like I was going to the office?
“You wearing those shoes?”
“Yes. So?”
We leave the obvious unsaid. Three-inch heels. I’ll be lucky if I don’t break my neck. But truly I’ve had a lot of experience wearing these things. If anyone can pull off a shift in high heels, it’s me.
“Whatever. They ain’t my feet.” Nick shrugs. “At least you’re smart enough to put on an apron. Can you run a cash register?”
As much as I shop? Pulease. In my sleep.
“Sorry, Nick,” Tabby calls. “Wish I could stay and help too, but I’m shooting a love scene in Central Park. Blythe’ll kill me if I’m late again.”
People turn and stare. I hold back a grin because this happens all the time. Laini tucks her hand inside Tabby’s arm. “She’s a famous actress,” Laini explains, but I don’t think they believe her.
Laini’s telling the truth, though. Tabby is an Emmy-nominated, bona fide leading lady on Legacy of Life, the number one soap on TV. She’s marrying the father of Jenn and Jeffy, the twins who play her children on the show.
Laini calls over her shoulder, “I promised to help my mom clean out the attic today. She’s having a garage sale next weekend.”
He pushes the button on the latte machine and waves them away. “Don’t worry about it. The princess and me are gonna be fine.”
Fine might be a bit of an overstatement, considering the register-tape incident and the multiple spills, not to mention the three-thousand-dollar latte (the lady completely overreacted, by the way, so Nick gave it to her on the house and then told her to take a hike), but we made it through. A full three hours later, I’m only a little sweaty and, thanks to the apron, my clothes have been spared. My shoes, though . . . let’s just say they’ve seen better days, as have my feet and calves. Oh my goodness, I’m dying. I hobble to a chair and slide out of the toe torture chambers. My feet are splotched with red, angry places that will most likely be blisters by the time I get home. But at least my feet look better than the shoes themselves.
I was seriously thinking of donating these Jimmy Choos to Goodwill, considering they’re last year’s style. But of course they won’t want them now, with the chocolate stains, so I guess I won’t bother. Which is a real shame, actually. I always envision some half-starved, just-out-of-college girl landing a fabulous job while wearing something I’ve donated to Goodwill. I guess that’s a bit prideful—not to mention presumptuous—of me, but it makes me feel . . . useful. Like I’m good for something more substantial than arm candy for the latest fix-up date. Like I’m more than just an editor, working under a British senior editor with a smile that screams veneers and a cleft in his chin that he probably bought from a plastic surgeon.
But I refuse to think about him on my day off.
I’m definitely not worth much to poor Nick. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t even blame the guy when he sort of yelled at me—well, not the first time, anyway. I venture a glance at the clock. I can’t believe it’s already two! I’ve been working for hours.
Thankfully the shop is completely free of customers, except for one girl in the corner, long stringy hair covering her face, glasses resting way too low on her nose. Plus, her clothes are too baggy and not in style. I mean, do you have to spend a lot to at least wear something close to fashionable? What’s wrong with today’s girls? Even thrift shops have designer clothes. I know because, as previously mentioned, I donate some every season. And she’s exactly the type of girl I have in mind when I do so.
She glances up as though she feels me staring. My face warms and hers goes red, and we both look away, I to my final swipe of the counter, she back to her book, which, I have to say, shows great taste in literature. Pride and Prejudice. My favorite.
“Okay, princess. What’ll you have?” Nick asks. “Anything you want is on the house.”
“You don’t have to do that, Nick.”
He shoots a huge grin from behind the counter. “You got me out of a jam, kid. Now, what’s it gonna be?”
Nick’s praise and fatherly show of affection weaken my resolve. “How about a meatball sub?” I shrink inside a bit. “Or is that too much?”
“It ain’t enough. You stay there and rub those toes while I go rustle up something to put a little meat on your scrawny bones.”
I gulp. Meat on my bones? I’m barely down to an acceptable size 2 as it is—well, as far as my mother knows. I’m really a 4, but if I suck in and lie down . . . but then, that only works if I’ve had less than two hundred calories all day. If I eat anything between now and tonight’s dinner party, Mother’s going to know as soon as I walk in the door. She’s got calorie radar, I swear. She’ll look me over, give a long-suffering sigh, and announce my BMI and percentage of body fat with alarming accuracy.
“Wait, Nick . . . maybe just a green tea.” Increases the metabolism and promotes weight loss, so they say. “And a tuna salad on wheat—hold the mayo.”
He stops and stares at me. “You sure?”
“No. Wait.” I shake my head, thinking of that itty-bitty skirt taunting me from my closet. “Never mind the sandwich. Just the green tea.”
“You kiddin’ me? You need food.” He scowls as though I’ve insulted the entire family, and for a second I picture myself sleeping with the fishes. “Wait right there. I’ll fix something you’ll like. Trust me. You fill out a little, and maybe you’ll catch yourself a man, like your friend Tabitha.”
Heat rushes to my face. “I don’t want to catch one. As a matter of fact, I’m trying to throw one back.” He’s looking at me like I have chocolate on my nose, so I think I’d better explain. “There’s this guy at work giving me a hard time.”
“You mean sexual harassment? He can’t get away with that. I got some friends, if you need someone to have a talk with him.”
Okay, that’s a little more than I wanted to know about Nick, but I do appreciate the offer. I don’t like to talk about my life at the office, especially since it always makes me feel like a failure, but then, I am wrapped in a dirty apron with chocolate-covered shoes on my aching feet. Who am I to pretend I have a smidgen of pride left? “Not sexual harassment. Trust me—that I could deal with.”
I tell him all about Mr. Kramer and how he’s ruining my life. “Every time he looks at me, I think I’m doing something wrong. It’s like he’s waiting for me to step up to the table. And he allows the new senior editor to walk all over me. Jack Quinn has taken every edit I’ve done in the last month and completely rewritten the critique I was planning to send to the author.”
Nick works and talks. “Is this Jack Quinn bein’ a jerk, or is he right about stuff?”
I give a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess he’s right sometimes.”
“It don’t seem like you like the guy very much.”
Astute observation.
“It’s not so much about like or dislike. The question is, can I work with him?”
“Well, can you?”
“I don’t know.” I shift and, with a defeated sigh, prop my feet on the chair across from me. “I love Lane Publishing. But Kramer’s made so many changes lately, I’m afraid I’m the next one he’s going to shove out the door.”
Nick shakes a spoon in my general direction. “You know what your problem is?”
Just what I need. Someone else telling me my faults.
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Your problem is that you ain’t got no confidence. You’re a pretty girl and smart with all them books. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you a little backbone won’t fix.”
“Yeah, sure. Sorry. I’ll just roll right into his office like I’m Everywoman and tell him how it’s going to be from now on. I’m sure he’ll just move aside and offer me his job.”
He scowls like only Nick can. “You can demand respect without being disrespectful, can’t you? Didn’t your mother raise you to have any gumption?”
I give a snort, because if anyone “raised” me, it certainly wasn’t my mother. “Do you want to discuss my mother, Nick? Or the women who raised me? Let’s see, there was Nanny Elizabeth, who took the shift from birth to kindergarten. She quit when she found Prince Charming among my parents’ cronies, married him, and hired a nanny of her own nine months later. Then there was not one but two Nanny Marys. One retired to Florida, and I never knew what happened to the other one—she just vanished one day. Next there was Nanny Frieda. Mother hired her straight out of high school and fired her when she caught her dipping into the liquor cabinet. And last but certainly not least, Nanny Carol, who stole a pair of diamond earrings from my mother and claimed she got them from my dad for favors rendered. Dad played dumb and Mother could never prove it, so she eventually let it go.”
I stop to catch a breath, arching one eyebrow at Nick. “Shall I continue? Because really they all did a bang-up job of making me the woman I am today.”
Do I sound bitter? I do, don’t I?
His scowl deepens as he slips my meatball sub onto a paper plate. “You havin’ your woman time or somethin’?”
The girl in the corner looks up and gasps. I shoot a frown at Nick. “Could you be less subtle?”
“Well, you ain’t acting much like yourself. I never seen you this grouchy.” He shoves a fat, diamond-ringed finger at me. “And let me tell you, princess, it ain’t pretty.”
“I know. Hyde has returned.” I drop my forehead into my palms.
“Thought you said this fellow’s name was Kramer.”
“I meant Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
He nods. “Oh. I get it.” Nick peers closer. “Something else wrong besides work?”
Am I that transparent? “My mother’s giving a dinner party tonight for my aunt, and I have to be there. I dread her parties. She always forces me to sit next to Floyd Bartell and be nice to him.”
Floyd Bartell. A creepy guy who has lived with his mother all his life—and he’s thirty. His family is blue-blood rich and very well connected. If Mother could have arranged our marriage, she’d have done it a long time ago. Forget the fact that her grandchildren would likely be mutants, like their father. Thank God it’s the twenty-first century, or the banns would have been read and I’d have become Mrs. Bartell before my sixteenth birthday.
“I get the willies just thinking about it. He’s so gross.”
“So tell him. No self-respecting guy’s gonna want a girl that don’t want him, anyways.”
I give him an eye roll, accompanied by my trademark pursing of the lips. “My mother’s been forcing me to sit next to him at every dinner she’s thrown since junior high, and he’s never even gotten to the batter’s box, let alone to a base. Do you really think Floyd has any self-respect left?”
“Okay, look. You practice on me.” He drops the gooey, cheesy meatball sub—made as only a true Italian can make it—on the table in front of me.
My mouth waters at the sight and smell of it. But my resolve is strong. “Nick, I can’t eat this today. I have to fit into a size 2 Versace skirt in”—quick glance at my watch—“three and a half hours.”
“So what? You can’t eat?”
I shake my head and suck in at the very thought of that skirt. “It has a side zipper, and cheese bloats me.” I look at the delightful mess with more than a little longing, and the look isn’t lost on Nick.
“So wear a different skirt.”
To anyone else, that might seem like the simple solution. However, nothing is simple when my mother is involved. The truth? She bought it for me and had it sent over to the apartment with instructions to wear it tonight.
Do I realize how pathetic I am? Yes, I do. That’s why I’m not going to admit anything to Mr. Mafia. Instead, I use the old standby. “This one makes me look skinny.”
The aroma of beef and sauce floats upward, tempting my taste buds and making my mouth water even more. Maybe just a little taste. I’ll just sort of lick the melty cheese. “Mmm, Nick. This is wonderful.”
His face lights up. “Now that’s more like it.” Looking around, he takes note of his one customer. “You doin’ okay over there, honey?”
The poor girl’s eyes widen in terror. She swallows hard and nods. From the way she’s eyeing the door, I sort of get the feeling it’s all she can do not to bolt.
Nick doesn’t seem to have a clue how badly he terrifies young girls and little old ladies. He just gives her a nod. “Okay, then. I’m gonna have a seat and talk to my friend, here. You need anything, you let me know. Got it?”
She ducks her head. I’m not sure, but she may have fainted.
Nick plops his two-hundred-fifty-pound bulk into a chair that I’m not positive will hold the big guy, and wipes his brow with a towel. “The way I see it, you got two men in your life making you unhappy: one you gotta sit by at dinner, and one giving you trouble at work.”
I’m amazed at his brilliant powers of deduction.
I’ll just keep that little sarcastic remark to myself. I will not bite the hand that is feeding me this marvelous sandwich. But he’s right. Why do I let people roll right over me? I can be strong when my friends are in trouble, so why can’t I stick up for myself? I really don’t want to sit next to nasty Floyd and hold my hand over my chest all evening to keep him from ogling. It’s awkward and embarrassing and I’m—yes, I am—sick of it.
I’m contemplating this, along with a gooey string of cheese, when Nick scowls and snatches away my plate.
“Hey!” I say around the huge bite. “You said I need to eat.”
“You can have it back after you practice on me.” He yanks a napkin from the holder and shoves it at me.
“Practice what?”
“Telling the guy at dinner to take a hike.”
Taken aback, I stare at the big guy for a second. The thought never occurred to me. I mean, I’ve dreamed of simply getting up and walking to a different seat, but I never actually considered it a viable option. I just wasn’t brought up that way. “I don’t think I can do that. Can I? I mean, wouldn’t it be rude? And Mother would be mortified.”
“You want this sub back?”
Desperately.
“Okay, fine.” I wipe my mouth and gather a breath. I look at Nick and do my best to pretend he’s Floyd. “Shove off, Floyd Bartell. You were a troll in junior high, still a troll in high school, not to mention college, and if I’m forced to marry you, I’ll jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and bury myself in a watery grave.” I hold out my hand. “How’s that?”
He shoves the plate back across the table. “Pathetic,” he says. “You been dating this guy all your life and you don’t even like him?”
“I despise him.” I’m a bit ashamed of my lack of control, not to mention my complete lack of grace, as I talk with my mouth full. “And I’m not dating him. He just escorts me to dinners and things a few times a year.”
He shakes his head at me. “No wonder you can’t find yourself a husband, if you let this guy sew up all your time. What kind of a weenie are you?”
“The worst kind,” I admit.
“I gotta say, I’m a little disappointed, princess. I know you dress like a hoity-toity, but I sort of thought you was the hot dog of that group of girls you hang around.”
It’s true. In every other area of my life I am strong. I mean, last year I even coerced an ER nurse to get Tabby into the exam room ahead of everyone else right before her appendix burst—and you know how intimidating those nurses can be. (I mean that with the utmost respect for how busy they are, saving lives and all. Still, it’s a fact. They scare me).
Anyway, back to my weenie ways. Usually I can hold my own. “It’s only where men are concerned, Nick. I think I might have father issues because I don’t have a good relationship with my own.”
He gives a snort. “You been watching that Mr. Philip’s Neighborhood?”
Is it just me, or is it a little scary that he just said that? “I think you mean Dr. Phil, and I don’t watch it every day.”
Usually I TiVo it and watch a week’s worth of shows on Saturday. But that has absolutely nothing to do with my sudden revelation, and I’m disappointed that Nick is discounting my theory so firmly when he’s the one who wants me to develop a backbone in the first place.
“There ain’t nothing to it, sweetheart. Just tell this Floyd character to take a long walk off a short pier. He’ll get the picture.”
See? Comments like that are what make me think Nick’s family might be pretty “well connected” themselves. Maybe I should just ask him to make old Floyd an offer he can’t refuse. My lips go up at the thought of it. Then I look down at my plate and sober up real fast. It’s scraped clean. Not even a glob of stuck-on melted cheese remains. In my desperate desire to become the woman I’ve always wanted to be, I’m suddenly feeling the need for a roomy size 4 skirt.