That’s when I happen to glance down at the other contract I’m holding. And I notice that the phone number on that contract matches the number I just dialed.
It takes a moment for all my synapses to catch up. Two professional athletes can’t have the same number. So that means the contract on the scanner is about to be sent to the wrong guy.
Holy shit!
I grab the remaining pages off the tray and then slap the CANCEL button. But the paper is still slowly moving through the machine. When I grab it, the machine holds on tightly. It stops the paper’s progress, but it doesn’t let go, either.
So, dropping all the papers in my hands, I reach over, pinch the connector of the data cable, and yank it out of the wall. The machine makes an unhappy sound and the word ERROR flashes on the display.
“Good lord. That was almost a total disaster,” I gasp.
“What was?” asks a clipped voice.
I whirl around and find Jane Pines—the only female agent at Kassman’s small company, and the agent who asked me to fax these contracts. She leans on the doorframe, staring at me.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “No problem. I’ve got it handled.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you really almost fax a contract to the wrong player?”
“I caught it just in time.” I’m dying inside, but I still stand up for myself. I need this job.
“But that would be a huge—”
“—Breach of confidentiality,” I snap. “Believe me, I understand the problem.” It comes out too forcefully. I’m in so much trouble now.
But Pines doesn’t start to yell. In fact, my outburst has exactly the opposite effect. She looks me right in the eye for the first time ever. “Well. I’m glad you caught the error.”
“Just so you know?” I pluck the sticky note off the machine—the one that had been affixed to the cover page. “This phone number was stuck to the wrong contract.” That means the mistake is the fault of Pines herself or her personal assistant.
“I expected you to verify the number against the cover sheet.” She shrugs. “And I guess you did, at the last possible second. Carry on. And then please make a coffee run.”
She doesn’t wait for my response. She just walks away, and I’m left standing by the fax machine, my heart trying its best to pound its way out of my chest. I just stood up to the boss, and didn’t get fired. And she liked it, I think.
God, this business is weird. I think I can make it here, as long as I wake up every day feeling like a hungry tiger.
Carefully, I reboot the fax machine to erase its memory. And then I start all over again.
My adrenaline rush still isn’t over when I leave the office to walk across town. Killing time, I push through the revolving doors at Bloomingdale’s. I’ve never been here before, so it takes me a moment to look around. I see handbags in a million colors, and miles of cosmetics.
The whole store is out of my league. But I get on the escalator anyway. It glides past the makeup products that I can’t afford, and don’t know how to use, anyway.
As I float higher and higher through the perfume-scented fashion mothership, I realize that there isn’t one specific women’s department. There are several. I don’t know the difference between sportswear and casual wear. But I spot a sign reading SALE, so I get off the escalator to flip through the offerings.
What would Jane Pines wear to a business dinner? I ask myself.
But this question leads me nowhere, because I truly have no idea. I’m just a poor kid from the wrong part of Michigan.
I’d better pay closer attention from now on. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure to notice the details of Jane’s outfit. And her accessories. She probably wears makeup, too, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.
I flip through filmy little tops until I find a sleeveless silk blouse in turquoise blue. The fabric is so soft that it’s almost otherworldly. I’ve never owned anything that was actually silk. But this is marked down to $27.99.
In the dressing room, I study myself in the three-way mirror. It’s only a blouse, but I still look impossibly sophisticated.
“That’s beautiful with your coloring,” the saleslady says.
“I’m thinking of wearing it to a business dinner,” I tell her. “What do you think?”
“Perfect. If you want to wear it out, I’ll cut the tags for you.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m approaching Sparks Steakhouse on East Forty-Sixth. I arrive exactly two minutes past seven. My new blouse feels like armor. I’m ready to play the role of the Girl Who Knows What She’s Doing.
“Reservation for Henry Kassman,” I say to the man in the bow tie at the entrance.
“Of course,” he says. “Henry has already arrived. Right this way.”
As we move through the dark interior, I’m glad I dressed up a little. This place is fancy, with white tablecloths and giant wine goblets under a rich red ceiling.
“Bess! Here she is, gentlemen.”
Three men stand up—my boss, as well as three young athletes. I shake hands with Ushakov and Bilka first. I’m saving Tankiewicz for last, I guess. But when I finally offer my hand, and look him in the eye, I feel a little stunned.
“Nice to meet you,” he says in a deep, rich voice, while he looks me over with an assessing green gaze. “My friends call me Tank.”
I smile suddenly, because I totally called that nickname. “I’m Bess.” I try not to sound breathy and weird. But, lord, the man is all that and a bag of chips. His broad shoulders are practically straining the seams of his crisp white shirt, which is open at the throat to reveal a strong neck and sun-kissed skin.
And those eyes. They smolder.
I suddenly realize the waiter is still standing beside
